THE REMAINS
OF THE LATE
MRS. RICHARD TRENCH.

Engraved by Francis Holl, from a picture by Romney,
in the possession of the Revᵈ. Frances Trench.

Published by Parker, Son and Bourn, West Strand 1862.

THE REMAINS
OF THE LATE
MRS. RICHARD TRENCH,
BEING
Selections from her Journals, Letters, & other Papers.

EDITED BY HER SON,
THE DEAN OF WESTMINSTER.

LONDON:
PARKER, SON, AND BOURN, WEST STRAND.
1862.

The right of Translation is reserved.

LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.

THE REMAINS
OF THE LATE
MRS. RICHARD TRENCH.

PREFACE.

It may wear an appearance of boldness, and even of pretension, to offer to the world the literary ‘Remains’ of one who had no name in literature. I must leave the step which I have taken to justify itself; as, if it does not do so, certainly no words of mine will justify it.

In making public this selection from my Mother’s literary ‘Remains,’ I am as far as possible from wishing to present these as materials of a life, or as contributions to one. It is only the fact, that the more valuable among them consist of letters and fragments of journals, such as naturally are best read in a chronological order, and indeed could hardly be presented in any other, that gives my book the remote appearance of such. Even this I would willingly have avoided, if it had been possible; for the adage, whether true or not in its first application, is certainly true concerning the English matron—Bene vixit, quæ bene latuit; so that it is only reluctantly, and by the necessities of the work in which I am engaged, that I at all disturb this sacred obscurity; as assuredly I have no desire to bring into public gaze any of those many incidents which, deeply interesting to the members of a family, can have no interest to any beyond. But without some few biographical notices connecting these letters and other papers, I must either have withdrawn many of them as unintelligible, or left them to be very imperfectly understood. I soon then felt, that only by doing a certain violence to a just feeling of reserve, could I avoid, in one of these ways or the other, serious injury to whatever interest the book might possess; even as in other respects also this feeling of reserve must up to a certain point be overcome. This, however, is the law and limit of the narration, that whatever is not absolutely necessary to elucidate, illustrate, or explain the published ‘Remains,’ is passed by.

Unfortunately, the materials which came two years ago into my hands, are very incomplete as compared with what they might have been; and it is now impossible for me to know by what accident they have mainly suffered. Of my Mother’s journals, especially of those kept during the earlier part of her life, very far the greater portion has perished, or, at any rate, gone hopelessly astray. The volumes, or, fascicles, consisting for the most part of loose sheets of paper, not very carefully sewn together, with or without covers, may seem in some measure to have provoked their fate. Yet this would rather explain occasional deficiencies than account for so sweeping a disappearance, leaving only here and there a fragment surviving. At the same time, the largest of these fragments contains her visit to Germany in 1799-1801, no doubt the portion having most novelty and interest; although even this is imperfect, and comes to an abrupt termination, leaving no record of the later months of her tour. Her journals of later years have all, I believe, reached my hands; but at this time they much less deserve this name than they did at an earlier date, containing only occasional entries, with no attempt at continuity.

As it is with the journals, so it is also with the letters. During the years, now nearly thirty-five, which have elapsed since my Mother’s death, all, or nearly all her cotemporaries, all her correspondents, whose deaths had not already preceded her own, have passed away, and the papers of most of them have been either scattered or destroyed. It has thus come to pass that I have only two or three series of letters at all approaching to completeness. Of her letters to some, with whom for years she maintained a lively correspondence—as, for instance, ‘the ladies of Llangollen’—I do not possess a single specimen; while of those to two others, the most intimate friends of her life, I should be equally destitute, if she had not in later years entered now and then in her journal, and as constituting a portion of this, copies in whole or in part of the most interesting. I suppose that much the same must always in such cases be expected; but to me my inability to recover more has proved a disappointment; for I have thus only remains of her ‘Remains’ from which to make my selection. In connexion with this matter, I will only say in conclusion how deeply thankful I should be to any who, possessing any of her letters, should be willing to entrust them to my care, to make such discreet use of them as to me might seem good, if hereafter opportunity of this should occur.

Westminster,
March 10th, 1862.

REMAINS, ETC.

CHAPTER I.
1768-1799.

My Mother, Melesina Chenevix, was the only child of the Rev. Philip Chenevix and of his wife, Mary Elizabeth, daughter of Archdeacon Gervais. Her father was the son (at his marriage the sole surviving child) of Richard Chenevix, Bishop of Waterford, Lord Chesterfield’s correspondent, and is often playfully alluded to as ‘the young bishop’ in his Lordship’s letters.[1] In a brief sketch of her grandfather’s life, it is explained how the familiarity and confidence, which breathe in every line of Lord Chesterfield’s letters to the Bishop, grew up between them. It is as follows:—

My grandfather was educated at the University of Cambridge, took holy orders, married Dorothea, of whom I only know she was the sister of Admiral Dives, and much beloved by Queen Caroline. On Lord Chesterfield’s appointment as Ambassador Extraordinary to the States-General at the Hague, in 1728, my grandfather was recollected at court as a person whose political information and accurate knowledge of the French language would make him peculiarly useful, while his high principles and scrupulous delicacy fitted him for an unlimited confidence. He was accordingly named chaplain to Lord Chesterfield, and during the embassy gained the esteem of all parties. The Prince of Orange treated him with peculiar distinction, and presented him at parting with his picture and those of his family, together with a massive silver cup, engraven with the Stadtholder’s arms.[2] So great an impression did his talents and conduct make in this situation, that the wife of the Hereditary Prince of Brunswick, who was born very many years after his residence at the Hague, spoke to me of him in 1800 as one familiar with his character, having often heard his eulogium from her grandfather and grandmother. Lord Chesterfield conceived the warmest friendship for him; and till the hour of his death paid him the respect of appearing to him a strict friend to religion and morality, insomuch that my grandfather was really acquainted only with the bright side of this dazzling but imperfect character. On Lord Chesterfield’s appointment to the Lord-Lieutenancy of Ireland, he recommended my grandfather to a bishopric, and enforced his recommendation, when he was answered that ‘the King wished he would look out for another bishop,’ by replying, that ‘he wished the King would look out for another Lord-Lieutenant.’[3] On this my grandfather was immediately appointed Bishop of Killaloe, and in a few months translated to Waterford. There he resided thirty-three years, and there, in 1779, he died, after a long life of primitive purity and continually active and often splendid benevolence; having survived two daughters, as well as Philip, his beloved and exemplary son, leaving only one grand-daughter, Melesina, writer of these memoranda.

Born in 1768, she had lost before her fourth birthday both her parents by death. I find among her papers, without date, but certainly belonging to later years, some brief recollections of her childhood, why, and for whom, written will be gathered from the introductory sentences:—

It is your desire that I should write some recollections of the past. Unaccustomed to order and precision in the use of my pen as I am, they will be incoherent and desultory, perhaps uninteresting. But I feel that compliance with your wishes is to me a sort of destiny; and therefore, however I may fail in the execution, since you desire it, I am compelled to make the attempt.

Whatever faults I may have, I do not inherit them from my parents. They were all love and gentleness, piety and benevolence; fondly attached to each other, and removed from this world by an early death, which seemed to have no terrors for either. Their separation was short, and I trust their reunion eternal. My paternal grandfather was one of those guileless, humble, benevolent, firm, affectionate, and pious characters, rarely seen, and never duly appreciated; particularly when a species of naïveté, which, for want of a better name, the world calls simplicity, is blended with these qualities. He was learned, active, and diligent, both in the performance of his duties and the cultivation of his mind, to the last hour of a life prolonged beyond the age of fourscore.

I have a dim recollection of my father in some playful scene; and of my mother conversing mildly with me, once taking from me some paper figures with which she found it impossible to please me by repeated alterations; and again, kneeling in her widow’s weeds, after my father’s death, and praying silently, at Clifton, where she went for the cure of that consumption she had caught in her tender and unwearied attendance upon him in the South of France.[4] It seemed as if her death, which soon followed his, interrupted the progress of my ideas, for I have then no distinct recollection of anything till that period of my infancy which found me with my paternal grandfather, my fondly attached nurse, Alice Cornwall, ‘the abstract and brief chronicle of the times;’ and a governess whom I thought old—I know not her age—with a very long face, a very long waist, and a stocking in her hand, which she knitted so perseveringly it seemed a part of herself; and a determination to rule by rigour, to pass nothing, to correct seldom, but then to do it with effect. The fear and distaste I had for her is indescribable. It was increased by the arrival of a large, coarse, furious-looking maid, who I understood was to replace my own Ally, the only remaining creature of the little group, all gentleness and joy, that I had been used to love. I shall not dwell on the cruelties I suffered, possibly from the best intentions; but they have impressed me with a deep horror of unkindness to the young, and of all that is fierce or despotic in every shape. My grandfather was deaf, and confined by infirmity to his chair. I had an aversion to complaint, and what is most singular, and to me now unaccountable, I never did complain to him; and I believe children suffer much rather than do so, partly from fear of worse treatment, and sometimes partly from generosity; they vaguely conceive their father’s house is all the world, and that the servant or governess dismissed at their instance, is dismissed to be an homeless wanderer for life. At least, this appears to me to have been the principal, perhaps the only, cause that restrained me.

My health, however, sunk under restraint, fear, and inflictions of every kind, combined with want of fresh air, and insufficient food. The two last privations were for the good of my health and beauty, both which they materially injured. The smooth, smiling cheek, affectionately remembered even now by those who cherished my childhood as being ‘round as an apple,’ grew pale and wan; the body delicate; the elastic step listless; and in all the useless and encumbering embonpoint of my present existence, I still shudder when I call to mind the thinness of my neck and arms.

I was the best little child possible. Happy had I been, if such dispositions as I then possessed had been cherished, and the faults which afterwards sprung up eradicated. I was obedient and loving, docile and lively, although timid. I do not remember the smallest disposition to falsehood or mischief, and I sympathized with every being that felt. I pined away so rapidly under the new régime, it was necessary to call in the physicians, and to recal my nurse. The symptoms of danger disappeared, and the physicians had the honour of the amendment produced by the good Alice Cornwall. Cure it could not be called, for I remained miserably thin; and the delicacy of my form, the brightness of my large black eyes, and the premature intelligence of mind and countenance produced by love and suffering, combined with early change of society and place, I am told gave something unearthly to my whole appearance. I remember those addressing me as a fairy queen, an Ariel, a sylph, who spoke to me in sportive kindness; but these were few; for I lived among the old, and old age was then less gracious, particularly to the young, than it is now.

Before I ceased to be a child, my good and kind, nay, doting grandfather, died. He had not made me happy, though he had tried to do so; nay, he had not prevented me from being miserable. But I felt he loved me more than all the world; and without knowing the value of deep and exclusive love, I regretted him, both from gratitude and from affection.

From him I went to my dear, ever dear Lady Lifford; my tender, kind, and constant friend. Once seen, she was ever known. She realized all the poetical delineations of feminine gentleness and sensibility; my heart clung to her from the first moment; and even now her dear idea mingles with my deepest and tenderest thoughts. She was the lovely mother of three affectionate children, whom she educated with suavity and apparent indulgence; but although we seemed to do as we liked, in fact we were doing all that she wished. How happy was the ensuing year, how full it appears when I look back; its bright rays set off by the dark hours which preceded and followed. I never heard the tone, or saw the look, of reproach; I cannot remember even that of the mildest reproof. What an enjoyment was the free air, and use of my own limbs, bounding along an extensive park, or inhaling and admiring beds of flowers. The woods, the garden, the deer, the peacocks, the sports of childhood, the voice of joy, even the cheerfulness of a well-regulated large English family, were all sources of joy. What a contrast to privation, severity, restraint, confinement; for I had never walked but in a walled garden, except when occasionally sent to the seashore to bathe. What a contrast to seeing none but the aged, the infirm, the severe, and being ever under the eye of a rigid governess. How delightful was it to me to find myself caressed, applauded. Applause was not quite so new a feeling as might have been wished; for I had been sent one night in my dear grandfather’s life, to a fancy ball, dressed as Sterne’s Maria, with my favourite little dog in a string, and I had drunk deep, fatally deep, of the intoxicating draught of delusive admiration paid to personal appearance. It was a dangerous experiment, and I can trace to it many of the tares which sprung up in my young heart.

My young affections entwined about Lady Lifford, and her children, Ambrosia, George, Elizabeth. All this dear group are vanished;

‘How populous, how vital is the grave.’

I was near a year older than the eldest; I had great influence over them; I was the leader in their sports, and each sought with eager competition for the largest share of my love. I gave it to George, yet, from instinct, I suppose, I sometimes teased him, though never his sisters. I would say, ‘George, you do not love me,’ and express doubts of his affection, till the large bright drops forced themselves from his mild hazel eyes, and then I would console him with the softest kindness, till I drew him from under the sofa, the place where he usually flung himself to hide his young sorrows. This strange exertion of feminine power over a child of nine by one three years older; was it instinct, or a species of coquetry awakened by having read in my grandfather’s study, Shakspeare, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Sterne, The Arabian Nights, an abundance of plays, and several works of imagination, which, describing the influence of female charms as invincible, excited an early desire to try their force? This childish exercise of power stands alone. I do not recollect any other instance of the slightest propensity to tyrannize; on the contrary, I did all I could to promote the pleasure of my companions, and even in points where I had any advantages over them, to be careful they should never feel it. I was their surest confidante, their most disinterested adviser, and in sickness their tenderest and most unwearied nurse. This looks too much like praising of myself, yet what can I do? The kindly qualities I have mentioned are compatible with a thousand faults, of which the germs were but slightly developed in these youthful days.

Some other fragmentary reminiscences of childhood, I do not know at what time written, but I am inclined to think of earlier date than those which have just been given, dwell with more fulness on the graces and virtues of the good Bishop; even as I can well remember that my Mother, in later years, loved often to speak of them. They leave, too, an impression of her own life under her grandfather’s roof, if not a happy one, nor one natural to a child, yet on the whole not so unhappy as the preceding notice would imply. It is in the very nature of such recollections of a distant past, that the colours which it wears should not always be exactly the same.

After my mother’s death I lived with my dear grandfather, the good Bishop of Waterford. I was the only remaining child of his once numerous family, and in me were centered all his earthly hopes and wishes. His domestic affections were uncommonly strong. They formed a solid and broad basis for his universal philanthropy. He often spoke of his lost children, of his departed wife, and of his revered father, who died on the field of battle.[5] Even his family pictures, a numerous collection, which he had carefully brought from England when he came to settle at his bishopric, were regarded by him with sentiments of greater tenderness and veneration than some appear to feel for their living friends. The education of his orphan grand-daughter became his favourite employment. She was to him as a ray of sunshine sent to gild the evening of his life. But she did not absorb the mild affections of that expanded heart, which looked on all the sons and daughters of affliction as its own. Inattentive to the voice of vanity, selfishness, or dissipation, and above all taste for luxury and splendour, his superfluity was exclusively devoted to acts of charity; and his idea of superfluity was that of a Christian bishop. To one who expressed fears of his injuring his family by his generosity, he replied, ‘No, no, I shall die scandalously rich.’ Prudent men accused him of being too lavish and indiscriminate in his bounty; and it was said that whoever awakened his feelings commanded his purse. But these were noble errors, and sufficiently punished by the occasional ingratitude he experienced. He proved by the whole tenour of his actions that his philanthropy was not the mere child of impulse; for he assisted numerous public charities with the utmost exertion of his vigilance and industry. In more instances than one he wrested from the strong grasp of power and affluence the portion of those who had none to help them; and saved from rapacious heirs the revenues of establishments, destined to last as long as our Constitution for the comfort of the widow and the fatherless.[6] He also sowed the first precious seed of many liberal endowments. Providence prospered his efforts, and those yet unborn may bless his name.

Would that I could do justice to his courtesy, his dignity of mind, his humility, his simplicity, his learning, his piety; but his setting sun only irradiated my path during my childhood. His habits I well remember. Till fourscore years of age he rose at six, lighted his own fire, was temperate even to abstemiousness, never tasting any but the plainest food; was strictly attentive to every religious exercise, public and private; was polite and hospitable, receiving frequently large companies, from whom he retired to his study when they sat down to cards; and on every Sunday inviting a numerous party of clergymen and officers to an early dinner, which admitted of attending divine service in the evening. He was always employed in his study in the intervals of meals; but though apparently engrossed by his pen and his books, never showed the slightest impatience of interruption, whether from the claims of society or of indigence. An airing, or a short walk to look at his pines, grapes, or melons, was to him sufficient relaxation; and, as his deafness precluded him from enjoying general conversation, he had peculiar pleasure in a private interview with those he loved or esteemed. His courtesy was specially that of Christianity, more solicitous to avoid offending the poor and low than the rich and great. I have seen him receive an old woman who asked alms in the street, and a young one who came to solicit a recommendation to the Magdalen Asylum, with all the politeness of a courtier, and all the respect of a supplicant. His green old age, always serene, and often cheerful, was wholly exempt from ennui, listlessness, or any dispiriting complaint.

He was so attached to his diocese of Waterford, that when offered, while Lord Townsend was Viceroy, the Archbishopric of Dublin, he refused to leave ‘his children.’ In his diocese he was beloved as a father, and honoured wherever known. Dr. Woodward, on being made a bishop, went to entreat his blessing, received it with reverence, and often spoke of the feelings of that moment with tears in his eyes. Dr. Law, when Bishop of Killaloe, pronounced in the House of Lords an eloquent and animated eulogium on his virtues many years after his death.

His love for literature tinctured perhaps too strongly the system he formed for my education. He condemned ornamental accomplishments, lest they should seduce me from severer studies; and insensibly books became my business and my only pleasure. At seven years old, after reading Rollin as a task, I turned to Shakspeare and Molière as an amusement; and though debarred from most of the enjoyments of my age, was happy while in my grandfather’s presence. When absent from him, I longed for young companions, unrestrained exercise, childish sports, and fresh air; for I was deprived of all these from an excess of care and apprehension for my health. My grandfather’s having survived all his children and grandchildren, rendered him so timid with regard to my preservation, that his good understanding in this single instance had not fair play; and I was brought up with so much delicacy that nothing but naturally a strong constitution and uncommon high spirits could have saved my life. I was thus bred up in ignorance of all modern accomplishments—no music, no drawing, no needlework, except occasionally for the poor; no dancing, except the ‘sweet austere composure’ of the minuet, which was admitted as favourable to grace and deportment.

My grandfather, called to his rest and his reward while I was yet a child, left an impression of love and reverence never to be erased from the hearts of those who witnessed the daily beauty of his life; least of all from mine; and perhaps I owe to the strength of this first attachment a tenderness for declining age, a power of understanding its language, and a pleasure in anticipating its wants and wishes, which have accompanied me through life.

The Bishop’s death took place in 1779, when therefore the writer of these recollections was eleven years old. After that happy year spent under Lady Lifford’s roof, and already described, it was the wish of her maternal grandfather, Archdeacon Gervais, that she should reside with him; and this she continued to do till she had completed her eighteenth year.

Early in her nineteenth she was married to Colonel St. George, of Carrick-on-Shannon, Ireland, and of Hatley St. George, Cambridgeshire. Here, again, a fragment of considerable length has reached my hands, which I quote:—

On the last day of October, 1786, at the age of eighteen, I entered into the arduous duties of a wife. The moment the ceremony was performed we set out to Dangan, a seat lent to us by Lord Mornington, as neither Mr. St. George nor his father had ever lived on the family estate; consequently he had no country-house fit for my reception. The old mansion covered a large extent of ground, in the midst of a very fine park. Without, it had every appendage of ancient magnificence; within, every article of modern luxury. Here we lived for some time—I, in a kind of pleasing dream, which every particularity in my situation served to increase. My husband’s excessive fondness, a constant succession of young and gay society, the ‘chimera of independence,’ successive amusements, and late hours, left no moment for recollection. About two months after our marriage we invited, for a Christmas party, the Duke and Duchess of Rutland, with the suite that attended him as Lord-Lieutenant: Lord Westmeath, Lord Fitzgibbon, General Pitt, General Conynghame, some of the prettiest women, and a group of the gayest young men. I thought myself in Elysium for half the first week; but the charm was soon broken, and I grew weary of turning night into day for no obvious reason, as all hours in the twenty-four were equally free from interruption, of listening to the double entendres of Mrs. —— and Lady ——, and of playing commerce with a party of women impatient for the hour of eleven, which usually brought the men in a state very unfit for the conversation or even the presence of our sex.

Under these impressions I accompanied the same party to Lord ——’s, where I wrote a letter to Miss Chenevix, expressing my opinion of the society I was engaged in. This letter lay on the table while I retired to dress. —— —— and —— ——, who examined all my words and actions with the strictest scrutiny, each hinted a desire to know the contents. This inclination, in the more polished mind of the latter, would have died away, had it not been encouraged by the daring spirit of the former, who, collecting several of the female party, proposed as an agreeable frolic that action from which honour and principle alike recoil. The moment she obtained a half consent and a promise of secresy, she heated her penknife and raised the seal. Pause a moment and consider the group—agitated with a fear of discovery, conscious of being each in the power of the rest; one, mistress of the house, acting in direct violation of the laws of hospitality; another, condemned to read aloud the just censure of her own behaviour; a third, stung with resentment at a charge she could never refute without a confession of her own baseness; a fourth, in silent expectation of being held up to view in the light she deserved;—all trembling with apprehension, ill disguised under bitter smiles and affected indifference. As soon as they had finished reading, they re-sealed the letter, committed it to the post, vented their rage against its author, and reiterated promises of secresy. These promises were kept like most others of the same nature. One of the ladies confessed all to her lover—that lover betrayed her to his friend—that friend imparted the secret to Mr. St. George, and he disclosed it to me. I felt no great resentment, particularly when I recollected that the fault was attended with its own punishment, even in the moment of commission; and I ever after behaved to the fair culprits with distant civility, though I never renewed with any one of them the slightest degree of intimacy. From the public they met with less indulgence. They were blamed, ridiculed, and even lampooned.

From Dangan I removed to Dublin in the ensuing spring, and from Dublin to Cork, where Mr. St. George’s regiment was quartered. But these changes made no alteration in our mode of life. As I rose late, I never found an hour in the day unoccupied, either by his society, by dressing, visiting public places, consultations with the milliner, receiving company at home, or fulfilling my engagements abroad. Every study, every accomplishment were laid aside. I never opened a book except while my hair was dressing. I never touched a note, except when asked to play by St. George. On domestic arrangements I never bestowed a thought; what was our income, and what our expense, I was equally ignorant. Scarcely could I find a moment to write to those I most loved. Both my temper and my taste would soon have been spoiled by this disposal of my time. Nothing is so quickly lost as the habit of occupation, which, till now, I had always in some degree maintained; now it was totally extinct. The injury my taste received from a recurrence of frivolous pursuits and the absence of reflection was still more evident; for I saw the Lakes of Killarney about seven months after our marriage, with an indifference to its beauties I surely could not have experienced either before or since.

Soon after, however, an event occurred which awakened all my dormant sensibilities, and conferred on me the purest happiness I had ever tasted. I had not long attained my nineteenth year, when I became a mother. The delight of that moment would counterbalance the miseries of years. When I looked in my boy’s face, when I heard him breathe, when I felt the pressure of his little fingers, I understood the full force of Voltaire’s declaration:—

‘Le chef-d’œuvre d’amour est le cœur d’une mère.’

My other affections appeared to require food, and, if not supported by adequate returns, I was sensible might expire; but this attachment seemed a part of my existence which could neither be increased nor diminished by any outward circumstances. My husband’s delight in the birth of his son nearly equalled mine. My love for him, the father of my child, grew in strength, and I looked on myself as one of the happiest of women.

Alas! this was the pinnacle of my enjoyments, and from this moment fortune never ceased to undermine the basis on which I founded my future hopes. The gradual decline of Colonel St. George’s health, a series of circumstances concurring to check his prospects of worldly advancement, the immense difference between the poor realities of life and the splendid pictures drawn by my youthful fancy, the void occasioned by a course of dissipation and trivial pursuits, were all strongly felt by a mind so susceptible as mine; and my situation at the birth of my second son was a perfect contrast to that which saw me first a mother, though divided from it by little more than a year. My husband was in the South of France. We had sailed for Bourdeaux about two months before I lay in. The wind was contrary, and I was so ill that he apprehended I could not proceed without danger, so that after I had suffered six-and-thirty hours’ wretched sickness, being still in sight of the Irish coast, he prevailed on the captain to land us at Wicklow, and in two days pursued the voyage alone. My agitation on our parting, and remorse for having suffered any personal consideration to prevent me from attending him, affected my unborn child, who, nine days after his birth, died of inward fits. Thus I suffered all the pains of a lying in, without the comfort of my husband’s presence or my infant’s smiles, without a single female friend to cheer the hours of confinement, regretting the past, and apprehensive of the future. At this time I wanted five months of one and twenty.

Sad and slow the months passed on, and when I had nearly arrived at that age, Mr. St. George returned to settle some affairs which depended on my majority, and to take me with him to a more southern climate. Greatly was I shocked at the change of his appearance. His figure was shrunk and emaciated, his features sharpened, and his eyes had acquired a distressing keenness. Every day some new remedy was proposed and tried, some fresh physician called in and obeyed. From March to November I passed hovering round the couch of sickness, or preparing for a voyage to Lisbon, which I looked on as a certain means of recovery, and undertook with the most flattering hopes. My Portuguese journal will prove their fallacy. It breaks off seven days before Mr. St. George’s death.[7]

‘Long at his couch death took his patient stand,

And menaced oft, and oft withheld the blow.’

Yet the moment of his final dissolution shocked me no less than if it had been sudden and unexpected. To say the truth, to me it was so; strong affection will hope where reason would despair, and I never for an instant relinquished the expectation of his recovery. His last moments will never be erased from my memory, were I to live for ages. All the surrounding objects are likewise engraved on my brain, and can never perish while that endures. Even the orange tree which waved its branches across the window between my fixed eyes and that setting sun he had seen for the last time, is impressed with every leaf on my imagination. My friends, the Warres, in a few hours took me to their home, and neglected none of the offices of friendship. I required them all, for my mind was deeply affected. Sometimes I talked incessantly, recapitulated all the incidents of our courtship and marriage, then sunk into sullen silence. Sometimes I reproached myself vehemently for imaginary faults toward him, and formed wild schemes of expiating errors I had not committed. Sometimes I imagined all was a dream, from which I might yet awake. But my predominant idea was regret for not having shown him warmer love, more observant duty, more tender fondness. I wished that these ‘had been in every point twice done, and then done double;’ and whenever I was alone, used to address him in the language of contrition, and call on him with all the fervour of passionate attachment.

The day which completed my two-and-twentieth year, found my mind in this disordered state, and saw the remains of my husband placed on shipboard to be deposited at Athlone in the tomb of his ancestors. I soon followed those precious relics. The scene of my misfortune was hateful to me. The spring was advancing with charms of which a more northern climate had given me no idea; but I saw with displeasure beauties he could not enjoy, and longed to remove, as if I hoped to fly from grief. In vain did the Warres intreat me to pass the summer with them, and promise they would themselves conduct me to Ireland in the beginning of the autumn. Without motive or object, without even a home to return to, I felt a vague desire of wandering, and I sailed for Dublin about a month after my misfortune. As I crossed the bar, which half a year before I had passed with the gayest and most lively hopes, the large waves rolled solemnly toward the vessel, and I often wished it were possible that one of them might receive me into its dark bosom and all my inquietudes.

Contrary winds forced our vessel to take shelter in Cork harbour. There I landed, and was taken to an inn, and was put to bed more dead than alive. Next morning I arose to pursue my journey to Dublin, as rest was hateful to me. I longed to be with Mr. St. George’s nearest relations and dearest friends. A magazine lay on the table; I took it up, and mechanically turned toward the Deaths. There my grandfather’s name was the first I saw. At any time nature must have spoken to the heart of a child thus shocked with the intelligence of a parent’s loss; but in my position the incident was doubly affecting.

After a melancholy journey, I arrived at Mrs. Cradock’s. With her and Mrs. Marjoribanks I passed the first year of my widowhood. I suffered much both in mind and body; however, I recovered by the pure air of Broomfield, and the unremitting attention of those who loved me. In about fifteen months after my return, I resolved on visiting England, and invited Miss Chenevix to accompany me. At the commencement of that journey I began a regular journal, which I shall probably continue to the end of my life and faculties.

I gather from the handwriting of the above passage that it was written not many years after the events which it narrates, and during the widowhood of the writer. Of the journal, which in the last sentence she describes herself as keeping, and intending to keep, and which no doubt for a great many years she did keep, only a few fragments, so far as concerns the next seven years, have come into my hands. If they are fair specimens of the rest, it must have been kept with considerable fulness. I shall extract a few of these; but before this, I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of inserting, though it has properly no place in this volume, one letter, which I have found among my Mother’s papers, for the abiding interest of the events and persons to whom it refers. It is from Colonel Cradock, afterwards Lord Howden (he was half-brother to Colonel St. George), and written after a visit to the Duke of Brunswick’s head-quarters, and on the memorable day that the Prussian army entered France with the intention of marching to Paris, releasing the King, and putting down the Revolution. Honourable to the professional zeal of the writer, as no less in other ways, it is a slight but authentic glimpse of an epoch-making moment in the world’s history; though it may have needed at the moment a Goethe to discern, as it will be remembered that he did by the Prussian watch-fires after the cannonade at Valmy, all the significance which it possessed.

COLONEL CRADOCK TO MRS. ST. GEORGE.

Luxembourg, Aug. 19, 1792.

It is high time, according to promise, I should give you some account of ourselves, and how far we have accomplished our wild-goose chase. Our excursion furnished a proof de plus that nothing is so difficult in execution as in plan; for here we are, though in London we were told the project was impossible; and as we advanced, the account of obstructions increased; yet to this town and this moment we have proceeded without meeting one. We came by Dover, Ostend, Bruges, Ypres, Brussels, Namur, Luxembourg, still hunting the Duke of Brunswick’s army, in agony lest the delay of one hour should make us too late; for such was the tenor of our intelligence as we pursued our course. We arrived here on Tuesday evening, and to our inexpressible joy found the King of Prussia, the Duke of Brunswick, and the main army of 50,000 men encamped at Montfort, about four miles from the town. Colonel Manners, St. Leger, two other officers, and ourselves, composed the whole of the English, though taught to expect so many more, in the town. We went next morning to the camp, and were presented, at the time of giving orders, to the King of Prussia and Duke of Brunswick before their tents. The whole passed without the least ceremony, and had entirely the appearance of an introduction upon the parade to the commanding officers, such was the martial simplicity and modesty of everything around. The King’s tent was that of a field officer, and his two sons’, the Prince Royal and Prince Louis, those of captains, adjoining to his. On that morning arrived at head-quarters Monsieur and the Count d’Artois from Treves, with écuyers grands, &c., without number. The vain parade of people in their circumstances added highly to the scene; for who could behold the contrast without admiration and wonder—poverty and exile in the gay trappings of pride and vain-glory, and real power and dominion over thousands and ten thousands concealed yet augmented by the apparent moderation of its possessor?

I cannot too favourably express the flattering reception we met with from the King of Prussia and the Duke of Brunswick. To us English officers was allowed the peculiar privilege of riding throughout the camp wherever we pleased; and, if stopped by any sentry, we had but to explain who we were, and we met with no interruption. This privilege allowed us yesterday morning the happy opportunity of attending the breaking up of their camp, and accompanying their march twelve miles to Bellenburg, where they encamped upon an open plain of corn upon the very frontier of France. The ground was so advantageously situated that one could behold the column of cavalry and the three of infantry enter the plain at once, and take up their ground at the same time. A description would be tedious, and will better serve for conversation than correspondence; but still I must say, in the traveller cant, so magnificent a sight my imagination could not have conceived. The whole was performed with infinite regularity and expedition, and every person knew his business so well that not a direction nor scarce a word was heard. Yet something took place, considering the Prussian discipline, that surprised me. The men, even in sight of their officers, stepped from their ranks and loaded themselves with the corn, potatoes, &c., and at length appeared like a moving field. As permission to accompany the army had been refused to every person, of whatsoever situation, that does not belong to it, we English officers, fearful of exceeding our limits, were obliged to withdraw ourselves last night, and have bid adieu, with our best wishes, to the Duke of Brunswick. This day he proceeded to a place called Tiercelet, near to Longwy. Whether he will continue his route to Paris alone, or wait to be joined by the French Princes or M. de Clairfait’s army, no one can tell. His motions are so secret, that nothing but the past and present are known.

The Prussian army seems to be exasperated to a degree against every thing that bears the name of Frenchman; and patriot or emigrant appears to make but little difference of sentiment in them. The emigrants everywhere conduct themselves with so little good sense, and are so regardless of good-will and conciliation, that the world regard them and their cause with much indifference; and was it not thought that their cause would ultimately affect others, no one would stir a step in their behalf. The other day there had been a skirmish between some Prussian hussars and a party of the French, which ended in the defeat of the latter, without the loss of a single man on the side of the Prussians. About fifty wounded men and prisoners were brought into town, and passed before our windows, where we were at dinner at a table-d’hôte with some Frenchmen. They jumped up and ran out, and returned, after viewing the poor wounded people, crying out, ‘Que c’est charmant! comme les hussars les ont bien arrangés!’ We abhorred them. To-morrow the Princes and emigrants take up the former ground of the Prussians near this town. We shall go in the morning and meet them upon their march. I am really very anxious to see the three thousand officers doing the duty of soldiers and the common drudgery of the camp. Though a painful sight, yet it is interesting, and worthy of observation. We shall afterwards go to Arlon and stay a day or two with General Clairfait’s army, and enable ourselves to talk with discernment of the difference between the Prussian and Austrian soldiers.

I have quite failed to obtain any letters, or discover any journals, of the next five or six years. It is only in the autumn of 1798 that I find a few loose pages of journal. I will make some brief extracts from these:—

Sept. 2, 1798.—Left London yesterday morning, and arrived at Colonel Sloane’s, Stoneham, at five. Colonel Sloane seems a sensible, polite, pleasing man; a good understanding and great mildness appear in his conversation. This house is situated on the river Itchen, which winds before the windows, and, with the addition of a single-arched bridge, and trees well grouped, forms a very pleasing view. A small lake, or rather pool, near the house, is excessively pretty; and nothing can be pleasanter than to walk on its margin under the shade of large plane-trees, whose branches arch over your head and dip themselves in the water; while on the opposite bank you see a rich variety of wood, which repeats itself in the clear dark surface. The scene is minute, but attractive; and the intermixture of weeping willows and trees of spiry forms among those of the more general shape, has a delightful effect.

Sept. 3.—Colonel Sloane, who commands the Hampshire Militia, received orders this morning at three o’clock to hold himself and his regiment prepared for going to repel the French invasion in Ireland.

Sept. 16.—Dined at Lord Palmerston’s. Broadlands is very beautiful, both from nature and from art; to the latter it is most indebted. The river winds just before the house, and the trees are luxuriant and well grouped; but its distinguishing feature is a species of rich unsullied verdure I have never seen but there.

Sept. 24.—This day closes my happy visit to Stoneham—spot ever to be remembered with grateful affection. Miss Sloane and Miss Dickenson kindly walked with me to Southampton, where I mean to pass a week, as my house in London is painting, and I have no engagement which it is convenient to me to fulfil till the 1st of October.

Sept. 29.—I have passed most of my time with Miss Sloane since my arrival at Southampton, and repent the misplaced delicacy and fear of intruding which hurried me from a place where I was so acceptable and so happy.

Oct. 3.—I arrived on the 1st at Lady Buckingham’s. La Trappe itself could not be more solitary than her habitation. The house is convenient, the walks retired and shady. She does not encourage visits, which pleases me, as solitude is preferable to the casual uninteresting society to be obtained in a villa near London. Lady Buckingham has engaged me for a month’s tête-à-tête. If our friendship survives this ordeal, it may be immortal.

Oct. 7.—Went to see Miss Agar, at Lord Mendip’s. She did not expect I would dine with her; was engaged out, and being in an empty house, had nothing to give me. She sent an excuse where she was expected, and we dined gaily on bacon, eggs, and porter. ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is,’ &c. The hour of parting came too soon.

Nov. 1.—Returned to town, after passing all October with Lady Buckingham. She is sensible, friendly, and pleasant; I am attached to her both by gratitude and choice; ‘mais mon âme ne se fond pas dans la sienne.’ The retirement we lived in was complete, and rather raised than lowered my spirits.

Dec. 1.—A long blank. I have been with good Lady Lifford and the pleasant Copes, and did not return to London till yesterday. London, as usual, agitates and disquiets me. It appears to me a gulf of splendid misery and attractive wickedness. ‘De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine,’ to be preserved from both. I this day saw only Lady Yarmouth and Henry Sanford; yesterday Miss Sloane,—all very affectionate. That I often inspire affection is one of the chief blessings of my life.

Dec. 3.—Went with Lord and Lady Yarmouth to a private box, to see Mrs. Siddons in Isabella and Blue Beard. I think Mrs. Siddons is less various than formerly, and is so perpetually in paroxysms of agony that she wears out their effect. She does not reserve her great guns, as Melantius[8] calls them, for critical situations, but fires them off as minute guns, without any discrimination.

Dec. 4.—Dined at the Duke of Queensberry’s. He is very ill—has a violent cough, but will eat an immense dinner, and then complains of a digestion pénible. Sheridan’s translation of the Death of Rolla, under the name of Pizarro, has brought him £5000 per week for five weeks. The sentiments of loyalty uttered by Rolla are supposed to have had so good an effect, that on the Duke of Queensberry’s asking why the stocks had fallen, a stockjobber replied, ‘Because at Drury-lane they have left off acting Pizarro.’

Dec. 7.—Saw poor Madame Ciriello, the picture of despair. The late revolution at Naples not only makes her feel miserable at the fate of her friend the Queen, but deprives her and her husband of all the comforts of affluence, at that advanced time of life when such a vicissitude is most irreparable and insupportable.—At Mrs. Walker’s masquerade we supped in the chapel. Some were shocked at this, who, when they heard it was a Roman Catholic chapel, felt their consciences perfectly at ease.

Dec. 17.—I have been, and still am, confused by a violent feverish cold. The solitude of my apartment is not disagreeable to me, but tranquillity and reflection strengthen my desire of living in the country, because I think I could there adopt a consistent plan of doing good, and see its effects. In town one may be of use in a desultory way, but not to the same extent, or with the same pleasure. One is divided from the objects one serves. Those times are past when everything I saw, every person I met, every employment I engaged in, amused, improved, or interested me. I no longer study character and seek friends; an indifference is creeping over me. I see all around me acting a part, pursuing they know not what, yet as eager in the pursuit as if eternal happiness depended on it. An anxiety to go everywhere, to know everybody, to associate with those above them in position, seems a marked feature of the polished inhabitants of London. Like flies caught in a bottle of honey, all are smothered in disgusting sweets, and all are trying to rise above each other, no matter how. The distinctions of vice and virtue are broken down. ‘Well-dressed, well-bred, well-equipaged,’ is a passport for every door. The affected lip-deep homage paid to virtue, while every knee bows to Baal, wherever he appears clad in purple and fine linen, spreads a varnish over vice, which only throws it out in stronger colours and darker deformity. I was made for a better life.

CHAPTER II.
1799-1801.

A large part of the chapter which follows was printed last year, under the title of A Visit to Germany in 1799, 1800, of which a good many copies were privately circulated. It excited more attention and remark than I was prepared to expect; and I am glad that it should be now placed within the reach of all. A few additional entries, but all of secondary interest, which were then passed over, have now found a place in the text.

Oct. 20, 1799, Yarmouth.—I left London on the 16th, with the consolation of feeling that all my friends parted from me as from a beloved child, mixing with their affection a degree of care that proved they quite forgot I was more than fifteen. I have been detained here since last Friday, waiting for a fair wind, and my imprisonment would have been comfortless enough, had it not been for the attentions of Mr. Hudson Gurney, a young man on whom I had no claims, except from a letter of Mr. Sanford’s; who, without knowing or having any connexion with him, recommended me to his care, feeling wretched at the idea of my being unprotected in the first stage of my journey. He has already devoted to me one evening and two mornings, assisted me in money matters, lent me books, and enlivened my confinement to a wretched inn by his pleasant conversation. Mr. Sanford having described me as a person travelling alone for her health, he says his old assistant in the bank fancied I was a decrepit elderly lady who might safely be consigned to his youthful partner. His description of his surprise, thus prepared, was conceived in a very good strain of flattery. He is about two and twenty; understands several languages, seems to delight in books, and to be uncommonly well informed.

Oct. 27, Cuxhaven.—Arrived yesterday—uncivil captain—wretched passage—a high wind—never able to quit my little miserable bed. I fancied myself a good sailor, because I tolerated my Portuguese voyage, when I had the whole vessel to myself, several attendants, all possible luxuries and accommodations, and every person on board occupied in sparing me the shadow of an inconvenience. I find that travelling under the protection of a husband who deifies one, and is profuse in all expenses that can promote one’s comfort, gives a very faint idea of the contretems of an economical and solitary journey. Saw Mr. Harward, agent for the packets, and Colonel Malcolm—both very kind. The former invited me to his house, and offered to conduct me free of all expense to Hamburg, if I would wait till the boat set off with the Government money. This offer for many trifling reasons I declined. Colonel Malcolm is a Scotchman, devoured by military ardour, who left Canada, where he was happily settled, because, unfortunately, it was a quiet country. He now commands a brigade at Tuam.

Oct. 28.—Mr. Harward, as I refused to suffer him to accompany me, offered me the society of his daughter, and we sailed up the Elbe for Hamburg in a fishing-boat, worked by two sailors. We were thirty-six hours on the passage. I slept on a bench in a den dignified with the name of cabin, wrapped up in blankets I had the precaution to bring with me.

Nov. 4, Ham, near Hamburg.—Arrived at the Stadt Petersburg on the 29th; a pleasant inn, as it looks upon a public walk. Here you have a regular dinner of several dishes for the same price that a chicken costs at a London hotel; but the beds and attendants are nearly as expensive as in Pall Mall. Baron Breteuil[9] called next morning, and overcame all my objections to making him a visit by proving it was as much the wish of his daughter as himself. She also called and reiterated the invitation. The Baron is rich as an émigré, having near 4000l. a-year. He has a delightful house, and entertains in a very comfortable way, without any pretension to keeping up his ancient style of magnificence. He sees not only his friends, but a various and extensive acquaintance. His daughter, Mad. de Matignon, has a certain share of wit, great pleasantry, the best manners possible, and unalterable cheerfulness, amounting indeed to what may be called uncommon high spirits. His grand-daughter, the Duchess of Montmorenci, is pleasing, lively, and well-bred, less clever than her mother in conversation, and excessively occupied with her toilette, but in so unaffected a way it rather diverts than fatigues you. The whole time of my visit she has employed herself in taking patterns of everything I possessed, and making up similar dresses with the ingenuity of a milliner or mantua-maker. The whole family vie with each other in proofs of civility to me, and in solicitations that I would prolong my stay. Last evening they accompanied me to the play, and in spite of the law which commands the gates of Hamburg to be closed at half-past five, we returned to Ham at ten. This is done by a little manœuvre, and crossing the river where it is shallow and narrow, an operation of about fifteen minutes. I saw it was an expedition which did not delight the Baron, though he undertook it on my account; and I am not surprised at his repugnance, as certainly in the month of November it was a party only suited to five and twenty. I met at his house Lady Edward Fitzgerald and her lovely little daughter, whose eyes and eyelashes are celestial.

Nov. 6, Soltau.—Left Ham yesterday, penetrated with Baron Breteuil’s unaltered friendship, which time and absence have had no power to diminish. Travelled but one post, crossed the Elbe, and slept in a small inn on its banks. You are not to expect any luxuries on a German road; small rooms, with sanded floors, no carpet or curtains, dark little beds in corners, and wooden chairs, were all I found here. I supped well on eggs and milk. “I must give you an idea of this day’s journey, not by way of complaint, but of narrative. Without delay, dispute, accident, or ever quitting the carriage, I have travelled from Hopen here, exactly at the rate of two English miles an hour, in a post chaise, but moderately loaded, and drawn by four horses. It is two posts, one of four, the other of three German miles, each of which you know is some four English. The roads are dreadfully bad, but from the flatness of the country, and the absence of either wall or ditch, not dangerous. Going so slow, in an occasional journey, does not signify, but I should be sorry to live where the difficulty of communication is so great. It would be a sad thing to think that if your child or best friend was in the most urgent distress at a hundred miles’ distance, you would be fifty hours getting to them even if you travelled night and day, which on these roads few constitutions could bear. The sterility and uninhabited appearance of the country is melancholy to excess. Imagine a dead flat, either absolutely naked, or slightly covered with a little starved heath, and sometimes extending three or four miles without an appearance of life, or trace of the hand of man. After driving for a couple of hours through a desert of this sort, you cannot imagine the pleasure with which I saw and heard three or four geese, which formed in my eye a most interesting group.”[10]

Nov. 8, Zell.—The second post of yesterday’s journey was more tolerable to the eye than any I have yet seen, as a river in one place, and here and there a few trees, broke the general appearance of sterility. Many of them were firs, whose deep green contrasted agreeably with the withered leaves of bright brown and yellow that were intermixed. This is a very small town, without trade or manufactures, and possesses no attractions of any kind; yet I remained here to-day, partly to rest, and partly to view at my leisure the castle where Matilda, Queen of Denmark, died in the bloom of her youth, after having expiated by three years’ confinement either her indiscretion or her crime, for history seems at a loss to decide whether she was guilty or only imprudent. It is a quadrangle surrounded by a moat, has once been whitewashed, but is now very dirty, and the outside has a gloomy appearance, increased perhaps by our associating with it ideas of banishment and a prison. The apartment once inhabited by Matilda is a suite of five rooms, terminating in her bed-chamber. They are all hung with tapestry, and her bed is of green damask. Though unsuitable to a youthful Queen, they are yet spacious, convenient, and have a certain air of dignity. Her mattrass and quilt, the one of white, the other of dark green satin, have been preserved untouched since her death. I also went to see the church, which is ornamented with painting and sculpture. A nervous person would have been startled at seeing in the floor of the chancel a large open space, discovering a flight of steps leading down to a vault, and on each side a man in black with a lighted taper. I was soon given to understand that the burying-place was here the chief object of curiosity. The coffin of the Queen of Denmark is the most ornamented, and not far from it stood that of Dorothea, wife of George the First. It was impossible to see their dust repose so near, and not reflect on the similarity of their fates. Both were accused of infidelity to their husbands; both ended their days in banishment and obscurity; no accusation was ever clearly proved of either; and the presumed lovers of each perished by a violent death.

Nov. 9, Hanover.—Another day of fatigue and two tedious posts have brought me here. The country has improved during this last day’s journey. There is a road edged with trees, instead of the miserable track, scarce discernible, through sand or heath; and here and there the eye is refreshed with a cultivated field and distant wood. I am not out of humour with German travelling, slow as it is. I have found all the people I employed, obliging, though not empressé, and there is a quietness in their manner that pleases. The postilions neither swear, nor beat their horses, and are satisfied with a very small gratuity, as are also the maids at the inns. Sixteen good groschen to the first, and eight or ten to the last, contents them. Two groschen is 3½d. of our money.

Nov. 11, 12.—So uneasy at not having received any letters either from my beloved Charles, or my other friends in England or Ireland, that these two days were a complete blank.

Nov. 13.—Received a visit from Mr. Tatler, one of Prince Adolphus’ household. Soon after he sent me a civil note and several books. He is about thirty; pleasing in his manners and appearance.

Nov. 15.—Prince Adolphus, who arrived last night, called on me this morning. His exterior is highly prepossessing. He is extremely handsome, tall, and finely formed. His complexion fair, yet manly; his features regular, yet expressive. His manners bear that stamp of real goodness, which no art can imitate, no other charm replace; and though he presents himself with suitable dignity, his address immediately inspires ease and confidence. His conversation is fluent, various, and entertaining.

Nov. 16.—Prince Adolphus called on me about twelve, introducing to me Mad. de Büssche, whose husband has a place at Court, and whom he has fixed on to accompany me in my round of visits. She is a beautiful grandmother, with irresistible manners. At six Mad. de Büssche called to take me to pay my visits; we only dropped tickets, and afterwards she introduced me, according to an arrangement of the Prince’s, at Mad. de Wallmöden’s. The Maréchal de Wallmöden is son to George the Second and the beautiful Lady Yarmouth. Our company only consisted of our host and hostess, the two Princes, an officer who played on the violin, some musicians, and Mr. Tatler, who educated the Princes Augustus and Adolphus, and now lives with the latter as a friend. It was a delightful evening, and Prince Adolphus sang with very good taste and a charming voice. He is extremely animated, and there is a frankness and goodness in his manner that pleases even more than his graces and his talents.

Nov. 18.—The Prince, who regularly sends me the newspapers, was so kind as to call on me at five in the evening with a French gazette; and afterwards Mr. Tatler, whose adoration of him is truly interesting, sat with me the rest of the evening. He enlarged much on his goodness, saying he never had done, and never would do, anything to give the King, his father, a moment’s uneasiness. He cannot speak of his father without tears in his eyes. He rises at six, and takes four lessons daily in different branches of study and science.

Nov. 20.—Dined at Court; an invitation dinner of about thirty persons. Prince Adolphus of course represents our King; but there is no ceremony, and the dinner does not differ from that at the house of any private gentleman, except in the number of attendants and the circumstance of every person’s being placed at table according to their rank. They rise from table in about two hours and a half, drink coffee, and separate between five and six. There is no particular court dress. When I least expected it the band played ‘God save the King.’ It was the first time I had heard it since I left England, and in addition to the feelings it usually excites, it awakened ten thousand fond ideas of home and all the dear friends I had left behind. It was a painfully-pleasing moment.

Nov. 24.—An assembly at Mad. Bielwhal’s. Instead of the constant ingress and egress from ten till one, as at a London assembly, every one assembles at about half-past six and goes away about nine. I like this better; you are sure of meeting your acquaintances by going to the same place, which does not follow in London. The play here is so very low it really deserves its name, and no one can possibly make it a business.

Nov. 27.—At a supper at Mad. de Wallmöden’s met a countryman, Lord B——, whom I had always seen with great indifference at home, but whose appearance in a foreign country gave me great pleasure.

Nov. 30.—Went to Prince Ernest’s assembly. He has a pleasant house, belonging to our King, and has so furnished as to give it a very cheerful appearance. I am much pleased with Count Münster,[11] one of my new acquaintances, who appears to have information, taste, and talents.

Dec. 3.—A ball at Prince Adolphus’. He was good enough to begin it with me. His house is very beautiful, both as to taste and magnificence, and the former predominates just enough. The rooms are chiefly hung and furnished with Lyons silks, in compartments, and the ceilings, floors, doors, windows, &c., are painted in the most exquisite Italian style. The hall is lofty and well-proportioned, the apartments perfectly distributed, and there is a marble saloon and a boudoir lined with looking-glass, which more resemble a description in the Arabian Nights than anything one has seen in real life. The ball was gay and brilliant; many more men than women, which still surprises me, after having been accustomed to see seven women to one man in London. I never saw anything like the good-nature of the Hanoverian ladies—no malicious shrugs or whispers, no sarcasms under the mask of compliments, no satirical glances from top to bottom at one’s dress, no sign of displeasure at the Prince’s goodness to a stranger.

Dec. 4-11.—Our amusements have been varied by the arrival of Mad. de Wally, who gives herself out as an emigrée of distinction, and who supports herself by singing in public. She has infinite taste, skill, and knowledge of music. I have been fortunate enough to render her some slight services, of which she seems deeply sensible. She sung very well at a little concert which I gave to my most intimate acquaintance.

Dec. 18.—I have had a little cold, and have not been out in an evening since the concert at Court on the 9th, except once en famille to Count Münster’s. Count Münster has a charming collection of pictures, which he chose himself at Rome, when he was there with Prince Augustus. He paints himself in oils extremely well for an amateur. At his house I met Mad. Zimmerman, widow of the writer On Solitude. She seems a very intelligent and is a very pleasing woman. She is not admitted to any of the great assemblies of any of the first class, but may visit them in private. The distinction between the noblesse and the other classes is here kept up with a rigorous exactitude. At first it provoked me. On reflexion, I believe it contributes more to happiness than the mixture of ranks in London. Here every one moves contentedly in their own class; there all are struggling to associate with those above them; whence proceeds a vast share of envy, expense, and dissipation. Much of these evils is cut up by the roots, when it is impossible by any exertion to quit the society of equals for that of superiors; and as this rule only extends to large societies, it does not break asunder any endearing ties; for who would not rather see their friend in a society of six than of sixty persons? Charlotte, in Werther, is a character drawn from life, and passed some time here. She was likewise of the second class, but not remarkable for beauty.

Dec. 21.—An assembly given by Prince Adolphus to the Duke of Altenburg, who came here to beg his Royal Highness and General Wallmöden would use their influence with the English Minister to obtain his release from the obligation of furnishing troops and money towards the present Continental war. They declined to interfere.

Dec. 24.—I this day saw the little fête of Christmas-Eve, so interestingly alluded to in Werther. Mad. de Wallmöden knew it was a scene that would please me. On that evening all the children and young people in a family receive from their friends a variety of presents, called les étrennes. They are arranged with taste upon tables highly illuminated, ornamented with boughs and shrubs, natural and artificial. Here you see, in agreeable and studied confusion, shawls, ribbons, flowers, pelisses, ornaments, toys, sweetmeats, books—everything, in short. One table was spread for the Countesses de la Lippe, two wards of the Field-Marshal, and one for each of his children and grandchildren. When all is arranged the young people are admitted, and nothing can form a greater variety of pleasing pictures than the delight of the children, their unstudied expressions of gratitude, and the pleasure of the parents in witnessing the delicious sensations of that bewitching age. I was sensibly affected by this scene, and equally interested by Mad. de Wallmöden’s deep but unobtrusive sensibility, and the lively expression of happiness in the looks and gestures of Mad. de Kielmansegge, a beautiful little woman, whose animation in the embraces of her children is contrasted by a certain indifferent nonchalance on other occasions. The Field-Marshal retained his usual appearance of strong sense, and conscious, but not unpleasing, superiority, which gives him rather the aspect of an observer than an actor in every passing scene. I sung several English songs, which pleased by their novelty those who had never heard them before; and the Prince de la Lippe’s tutor observed that he was quite surprised at finding the English language could be so well adapted to music. As it is much softer than German, the remark added to the long list I have made in proof that nothing English is appreciated by foreigners. They willingly overrate the individual, but almost always underrate the nation.

Dec. 26.—On the day of les étrennes I laid these lines on the table of Mad. de Büssche, with some muslin worked with white flowers (I must observe that the custom of giving presents is not confined to parents; it is a day for a general exchange of souvenirs):—

While friends long loved, long tried, entwine

Fresh garlands for Louisa’s shrine,

Trembling, a timid stranger dares

To blend her little gift with theirs;

Framed in her lonely pensive hours,

These colourless, insipid flowers

By no bright hues attract the eye,

No radiant tints of Tyrian dye.

Thus simple, unadorned, and plain,

Louisa might the gift disdain,

If art could add a single grace

To all the wonders of her face.

Dec. 27.—A day of leave-taking. The Prince gave me a map of Germany for my tour, and sent me a kind note, enclosing a letter of recommendation to the Duchess of Brunswick.

Dec. 28.—At five o’clock bade adieu to Hanover. My host, hostess, children, and family, were all up to see me depart; had prepared spiced wine, and showed me every little mark of attention. It was of course quite dark when I set out, and the day seemed to dawn from earth instead of heaven, in consequence of the ground being covered with snow. I travelled eight German, or thirty-eight English, miles with the same horses, rested an hour, and arrived about six at Brunswick.

Dec. 29, Brunswick.—This evening saw Mr. Loftus, eldest son to the General. As I did not think of staying here, even for a day, or being presented, I brought no letter except that I received from Prince Adolphus, which I did not know the etiquette of sending. Fortunately, Mr. Loftus, whose father and mother I am well acquainted with, can assist me in this and other particulars.

Dec. 30.—Sent to inform the Duchess’ maid of honour I had a letter for her Royal Highness. The reply was an invitation to wait on her at six to-morrow evening.

Dec. 31.—At six went to the Duchess’s casino, so they call an undress ball and supper. She received me with the most winning condescension. It is impossible not to be delighted with the ease, good humour, and familiarity of her deportment. She has great fluency in her own conversation, and is very attentive to that of others, evidently showing her approbation when anything is said that strikes or pleases her. There are few ways in which a great person can encourage or gratify more than this, and yet it is not common in the very highest class. She is a fair, well-looking woman, with what we call a very good countenance, and I think when young must have been handsome. She is now a great deal too large, and her dress made her appear more so, being a thick buff-coloured satin chemise, with long sleeves entirely lined, as she told me, with fleecy hosiery. The Duchess invited me to sup at her table with a party of about ten, and placed me by her. I should have enjoyed the conversation and her civility much more if she had not, after many other inquiries, extracted from me my age, which I had determined to keep secret while here, as people have thought me much younger than I am; and as so few tell truth on that subject, those that do are always given a few years more than they really have. Her exclamations of surprise and declarations that twenty-four was the utmost any one could give me, did not console me for having been brought to confession. The Duke of Brunswick is a tall military-looking man, with a fine penetrating countenance; his manners polite, but imposing and dignified even to a degree of stateliness.

Jan. 1, 1800.—Dined and supped with the Duchess, and sat by the Hereditary Prince each time. At dinner he was wonderfully affectionate, considering we had not been acquainted twenty-four hours. At supper, when time had improved our knowledge of each other sufficiently for such a confidence, he assured me I was the most interesting person he had ever met, and that nothing could make him so happy as being able to prevail on me to stay at Brunswick. This was accompanied with many sighs, doux yeux, and exclamations, to all which I answered with low bows and audible expressions of gratitude. I could not refrain from this malice, as everything of the soft kind was said in so very low a whisper that I saw nothing could be more unwelcome, or more likely to stop such declarations, than thus making them public. In the course of the evening I was presented to the Dowager Duchess, a wonderful woman of eighty-five. She is grand-daughter to George the First, whom she says she remembers seeing when she was eight years old, and grandmother to the Princess of Wales, so is doubly connected with England. She is sister to the great Frederick, whose pictures she resembles, has great sharpness in her eyes, and peculiar animation in her remarkably small features. Her address is pleasing, and there is a neatness, a purity, if I may so express myself, in her whole appearance, that one contemplates with satisfaction.[12] I played Commerce at her table, putting a florin in the pool, a strong contrast to the high play of London. I had been presented the night before to the Hereditary Princess, a lively little woman, about twenty-nine. She has a remarkably good carriage and address, walks and dances well, and has a certain quickness in her looks, speech, and motions, that gives an idea of great natural vivacity.

Jan. 2.—Dined with the Hereditary Princess—no other woman but Lady Findlater, who appears sensible, lively, and talkative. In the evening went to a concert at the reigning Duchess’s. I do not find an atom of that form I was taught to expect in all German Courts. Not only the Duchess, but the ladies who played raco with her, worked in the intervals of the game. At another table there was a large party employed in knotting, netting, embroidery, and even the homely occupation of knitting stockings; while the Hereditary Princess, and those idlers who had no regular work, were busy making lint for the hospital. The Duchess was extremely kind to me, and I again supped at her table, and she obligingly desired me to dine with her next day, if I was invited nowhere else.

Jan. 3.—After dinner the Duchess pressed me to stay some time at Brunswick, at least till the arrival of Lady Minto, to whom she said she would introduce me. She dwelt on the inconvenience of my going to Vienna a perfect stranger; and said that a woman of my age and appearance, who travelled in that way, had ‘tous les préjugés contre elle.’ We were alone, and she enlarged most affectionately on the subject, ending by kissing my cheek, and assuring me that, despite of this disadvantage, every one in Brunswick was excessively partial to me, which she kindly said gave her great pleasure. I supped with the Dowager Duchess. She conversed with me after she rose from supper: ‘Vous n’aimez pas beaucoup en Angleterre le Roi de Prusse?’ I frankly owned to her we did not. ‘But,’ said she, ‘il n’est pas assez riche pour faire face aux dépenses d’une guerre contre les François, et d’ailleurs il ne pourroit pas s’unir avec l’Empéreur. Les François ont bien voulu lui donner Hanovre, mais il l’a refusé.’ She expressed great regret at not having learned English. ‘Vous avez de grandes écrivains en Angleterre; j’aime infiniment Pope; je le trouve au dessus de Voltaire.’ She then reverted to politics, extolled Mr. Pitt, and said every Englishman should wear him in his heart.

Jan. 4-9.—Every morning has brought me a regular invitation from the reigning Duchess to dine and sup at Court, except when she knew I was engaged to the Hereditary Princess or the Dowager. She has behaved to me with real affection, and once said to me with the utmost kindness, ‘I think you will love me at last.’ Indeed I should be very ungrateful if I did not. The only day on which she went out to a private party she took me with her, and presented me to the lady of the house, Mad. Munichhausen, a pleasing little woman, but in a bad state of health. The ceremonial of the dinner at Court on the ordinary days is as follows:—you go about three, dressed as you like, except that you must not appear in a hat, bonnet, shawl, or muff. You find the Duchess standing at the door of an inner apartment, her maids of honour being in the next. The whole company stand till dinner time (the Duke and Duchess never sit except when their company can do so too). The chamberlain announces to the Duchess that it is on the table, and hands her out. She makes a low curtsey to the Duke and the company. The ladies follow, also curtseying to the Duke, according to their rank; except foreigners, who, even when untitled, take place of all others, going in and out of the rooms, and also at table. At dinner the Duchess sits at the middle of one side, and the Duke opposite to her. This situation, as far as I have seen, answers to the head and foot in England. The ladies are all ranged on one side, and the gentlemen on the other, excepting princes, who are allowed to mix with the ladies. The Prince de Salm generally fell to my lot, and once Prince George. The Prince de Salm is rather above par in address, appearance, and understanding. At dinner there are every day forty people, and the conversation, of course, is seldom general. Once only it turned on politics. Some of the company expressed their expectations that monarchy would be re-established in France. ‘Je le désire,’ said the Duke, ‘plus que je ne l’espère.’ He speaks well, in the subdued voice of good sense, and has a stoop which takes nothing away from the dignity of his appearance. I have never seen him converse with a woman. There is an apparent coldness in his manner to the Duchess, and in hers to him a degree of constraint which it is evident she tries to conceal. (Her rival, a woman of birth and fashion, is lodged in the palace, and he dines with her on a fixed day in every week.) Some time after dinner the company all remove to the drawing-room, where tea and coffee occupy a few minutes; no one sits down. The Duchess takes leave of her company about half-past five; the ladies curtsey to the Duke, and return home, even though they may be engaged for the evening party which begins at a little after six. The Duchess one evening invited me to retire with her at this time to her private apartment, which is a particular favour. She spoke with great gratitude of the affection the English had shown to her daughter, and with great delicacy of the Prince of Wales, yet in a manner which showed she felt his conduct. I dined twice with the Hereditary Prince. There the dinners are more cheerful, about ten people at a round table, and men and women are intermixed. On n’y fait pas trop bonne chère, but that is to me of no consequence whatever. The Duchess Dowager’s dinners are more in the style of her son’s; she has near thirty people every day, so that the three Courts, except when the family happen to dine together, entertain daily near eighty persons. This dear little old woman is just like a mummy; she is mere skin and bone in the highest preserve. On the 9th I had a private audience to take leave, and she gave me a letter of recommendation, with some very kind expressions. She has the talent of accommodating her conversation to the age, situation, and country of those she speaks to in a high degree. Indeed, her address is pre-eminently good. I supped with the reigning Duchess the last evening. She kissed me with the utmost sensibility at parting, and the whole family took leave of me as if I were an old friend. The Princess Abbess is most caressing. She is easy, lively, and clever; but I hear she is very false, extremely gallant, and that she entirely governs the Duke, which I should think difficult.[13]

Jan. 10.—Left Brunswick for Berlin, 127 English miles; engaged four horses for ten louis. Just before I set out, the dear Duchess sent me a letter of introduction to Prince Augustus at Berlin. Travelled twenty-five miles through an unvaried expanse of snow, bounded at a great distance by a few rows of trees, which looked like dark lines across the horizon. It appeared as if one was in the midst of a wide sea of snow. Slept at Helmstedt, still in the Duke of Brunswick’s dominions. It is said to be one of the oldest towns in Germany; and I saw nothing in its appearance to contradict the assertion. After a journey in England, where all is busy and populous and animated, one through this country conveys a strange idea of privation and non-existence.

Jan. 11.—To-day’s journey was monotonous and melancholy as that of yesterday. Slept at Magdeburg. On entering his Prussian Majesty’s dominions, the precautions at the gates of every city are much increased, and hurt the pride of an English traveller, who is accustomed to pass unquestioned and unmolested. You are required to write down your name, condition, whence you come, where you go; and this paper is afterwards verified at the inn, where the host makes the same inquiries, and signs a duplicate.

Jan. 13.—As well as I can judge while the ground is covered several feet deep with snow, the prospect improves as one advances to Brandenburg, a small town, built with more regularity and appearance of comfort than any I have seen since I left England.

Jan. 14.—Slept at Potsdam. The gradual improvement of the country from the moment you enter the King of Prussia’s territories is visible to the most careless observer. Roads, plantations, neat cottages, pleasant country seats, well-built towns and good inns, take place of the appearance of poverty and depopulation so strongly marked in that of Germany I have hitherto seen.

Jan. 15.—A dull road to Berlin, where I arrived early, and was settled immediately in the Russian Hotel. The superiority in cleanliness and accommodation of the Prussian to the German inns is very great.

Jan. 16.—Sent to Prince Augustus a letter of introduction given to me by the Duchess of Brunswick; received a very civil answer, offering to arrange my presentation at Court, and regretting that his illness did not allow him to visit me. It is said he is perfectly well, but confines himself to avoid meeting the French Ambassador.

Jan. 17.—Drove about this very beautiful town, which abounds in public buildings of great magnificence, that all seem at their ease, instead of being crowded up like ours in London.

Jan. 18.—Saw Mr. Garlike and Dr. Brown, the only English gentlemen to whom I had brought letters. Received from them every offer of assistance and civility. Dr. Garlike is Secretary of Legation, Dr. Brown physician to the King. Had the most polite notes from the Ladies of Honour of the Princess Ferdinand, and Princess Radziwill. I had been recommended to the former by the Dowager Duchess, to the latter both by the Hereditary Princess and the Princess Abbess.

Jan. 21.—Was persuaded by Mr. Garlike to go to an Italian opera in order to see the Queen. It was the first of the eight given by the King to the public at the time of the Carnival. The house is fine, and properly lighted. The royal box is in front, very wide, and reaches from the ceiling to the pit. It is also more lighted than the other boxes, which, added to its size and situation, enables every individual in the house to have a perfect view of the royal family. To this box are admitted no women except those of royal blood and their Grandes Maîtresses. But beside the King and Princes, it is open to many officers of the Court, all strangers, and the foreign Ministers. The King is a well-looking man, the Queen extremely beautiful. She is tall, finely-formed, her neck and shoulders particularly well-shaped, her hair light, and her features small and agreeable. She is about five-and-twenty. The prominent traits of her character, as I am told, are the most entire complaisance to every wish of the King, and the most excessive passion for dress and for dancing, particularly the waltz. She did not converse, but read the opera book all the evening. She was dressed in a purple satin round gown, drawn in the front like an old-fashioned chemise, with a flat back and long sleeves; nothing on her head but two or three bandeaus, and her hair lightly powdered.

Monsieur de Burrau, Minister from I forget what Court, accompanied me. I was engaged to go with his wife, but her illness prevented it. Two other ladies made acquaintance with me. The one was Madame de Grotthaus, a prettyish, talkative, silly woman, who addressed me in good English, and whose obligingness was as prompt as the confidence she chose to place in me; for in about five minutes she offered me, with many compliments, letters of recommendation to Vienna, and told me her particular fondness for the English arose in part from her having had ‘an inclination’ for a young man of that nation: ‘J’étais toute-prête à l’épouser; il était fort aimable, très lié avec le Prince de Galles, très riche; il a une belle terre près de Londres, son nom commence par un G—; mais enfin j’ai épousé un autre, ce militaire que vous voyez là, bon homme, tout-à-fait, qui fait tout ce que je veux.’ The opera is but indifferent; the scenery alone is to be admired. The singing and dancing are not above mediocrity. I did not, however, hear Marchetti, the first female singer, who is indisposed. The music did not do honour to the King’s taste, who is the person that chooses it. It was the Semiramide of Himmel, a German, and had been hissed at Naples. To me, who had heard that of Bianchi, it was particularly tiresome. The frequenters of the opera are doomed to hear it four times; for there are but two spectacles represented during the Carnival. There is no Italian opera except during these eight nights, so music, I suspect, cannot be very highly cultivated at Berlin.

Jan. 22.—Just as I was going to dinner, Madame de Haugwitz, the wife of the chief Minister, who introduced herself to me last night by an encomium on my dress, sent her tailor for the pattern of my gown, begging that this person, whom, in a note he showed me, she calls mon ami, would engage me to put it on, that he might see what a good effect it had. I think this intolerably free and easy, considering I am a perfect stranger.

Ten P.M.—I have just had a visit of two hours from Prince Augustus. He is taller and larger than Prince Adolphus, and much resembles the Prince of Wales. His hair is too scientifically and studiously dressed to be very becoming, but on the whole his exterior is to be admired. He appears to have a fund of conversation, and great fluency. His vanity is so undisguised that it wears the form of frankness, and therefore gives no disgust. I mentioned to him that I had heard of his excellence in singing, and he agreed that he possessed it without the least hesitation, adding, ‘I had the most wonderful voice that ever was heard—three octaves—and I do understand music. I practised eight hours a day in Italy. One may boast of a voice, as it is a gift of nature.’ Yet his vanity is so blended with civility and a desire to please, that I defy any person with a good heart to dislike it.

Mad. de Ritz, mistress to the late King, amassed a fortune of about eighty thousand louis. She was a woman of very mean birth; but induced the King, about a year before his death, to ennoble her,[14] and then appeared at Court, which gave great offence. The King had not been dead a quarter of an hour, when she was arrested, hurried to a fortress, there to be confined for life, and all her fortune, except an allowance of four thousand crowns a-year, confiscated and given to the poor. All this without a trial! I listened, and blessed dear England.

The Lutheran religion, which is that professed here, allows a man to marry two or more sisters in succession; and of this permission people often avail themselves, as well as of obtaining a divorce, if either party complain of incompatibility of temper, a most convenient and sweeping cause of separation. At this moment a pair, in the very first circle, are on the point of obtaining a divorce, to enable the lady to marry a young officer, and the gentleman his wife’s younger sister. A woman may retain an unimpeached character after an unlimited number of these separations. Yet the King and Queen give the best example possible.

The King of Prussia is supposed to be remarkably economical. When he came to the throne in 1797, there was not a guinea in the treasury, and it is now supposed that in five years it will be as full as at the death of the great Frederick. In a few years more, according to a calculation made, it will absorb all the current coin of the country.

Prince Augustus offered me a letter to the Duke of Weimar. He stayed so long that Mr. Arbuthnot, his gentleman in waiting, came to tell him the supper he was engaged to was just over.

Feb. 18, Dresden.—The fatigues of my journey, added to a violent cold, have left a wide chasm in my diary. Left Berlin for this the 23rd of last month. In driving to Potsdam I had the opportunity for the first time of observing that a fine, clear winter’s day in these northern climates possesses more charms than we usually imagine. Sheets of snow, strongly reflecting the rays of the sun, often remain undissolved on the plains, when completely melted under the groves of fir, whose deep green softens its excessive brilliancy. Under these circumstances the snow frequently assumes the form of a lake, surrounded by wood; and gives more beauty than it takes away. The hardships and dangers of this journey were various. I one night ran a great risk of being lost in the snow, the postilions having missed the track in an extensive forest of fir trees. I was forced to keep Fitz from falling asleep from the effects of intense cold, which I knew to be certain death, by giving him repeated glasses of brandy out of the carriage windows. A distant light at last directed us to a cottage, where we obtained a guide. I slept in the most wretched hovels, once was without a bed, and two days without any food but eggs and coffee. At one of the post-houses the master thought it his duty to keep me company while my servants supped. He was a young man, above six feet high, covered with furs, l’air fier, et même un peu farouche, with something terrific in his whole appearance. He seated himself opposite to me, smoked his pipe, laid his great paws on my work, and began a conversation. I tried to hide a vague sort of fear under the appearance of insouciance and civility, but at last took courage to say I was sleepy, and would wish him good night. The servant girls at these wretched inns seem half savage. Undoubtedly cultivation, arts, and sciences, lead to luxury and its attendant evils; but without them man is even below the beasts that perish.

Mr. Elliot,[15] our Minister at Dresden, is a very pleasing man, about forty; his style of conversation and tone of voice are highly captivating. He has a large family of little cherubs, and a charming daughter who marries Mr. Paine this week.

March 10.—The society here possesses many very charming individuals, but is not what the French call montée sur un ton agréable, a phrase as easy to comprehend as difficult to translate. I think I see, and am sure I feel, a certain constraint, which destroys all enjoyment. I have scarcely ever been less at my ease than in the company I have frequented since my arrival. Yet I have not wanted that encouragement which is usually all that is necessary to inspire confidence. Mr. Elliot in general makes me a daily visit, and when he omits it, apologises as for a breach of duty. I have constant invitations to his house, where I always find a small party and a little sociable supper. Mad. Münster, my most intimate female acquaintance, forgets nothing which can contribute to my amusement. I have gone with her to morning exhibitions and evening assemblies. Among the latter, that of Madame de Loss, wife to the first Minister, was most brilliant—as much so as any I have seen in London. A numerous suite of rooms, furnished with taste; a very large society, dressed with more magnificence, though not with as much elegance, as in England; and a hostess whose address and appearance would dignify any situation. She is near sixty, but still a very fine woman, her looks English, her manners French.

I have also been at a concert, where I heard an Italian, Mad. Paravicini, play delightfully on the violin. She has infinite expression, and imitates the graces of the voice better than any one I have ever heard. She manages the instrument well, and avoids all the grotesque which one annexes to the idea of a female fiddler. An assembly at the Hanoverian Minister’s, with a few evenings passed in very small family circles (to which it is a great compliment to admit a stranger), have filled up all my afternoons, except one, which I passed at the opera, where I saw Axur, by Salieri; the music is very pleasing, but the plot absurd, and the hero kills himself in a moment of pique from causes very inadequate to the effect. The orchestra is the best I ever heard. That of Munich alone, in Europe, disputes the palm.

I saw a good collection of pictures at the Comte de Hagendorn’s, where I breakfasted. A St. Sebastian, by Raphael, was the most remarkable piece. I did not think a martyrdom could be so pleasing. I forgot the arrow in his breast because he seemed to have done so himself, and, like him, I was too much absorbed in the thought of his approaching beatitude not to be insensible to the idea of mere bodily pain. It is a wonderfully fine picture. At the first glance you approve, after a moment’s examination you admire, and from admiration you pass to that state in which the whole soul is concentrated in the eyes; you cease to approve or admire, you only feel, and, having totally forgot the artist, identify yourself with the object he has created.

Yesterday I was presented at Court. Here it is an evening assembly without any form. Women are never invited, but pay their respects on Sunday evenings, as often as they please. The Electress has the greatest good humour, ease, and condescension in her manner. Her pearl necklace is the finest I ever saw. The Elector has something fixed, glassy, and embarrassing in his eyes. Their only child is a fine young woman, about seventeen. The whole family, I need not say, receive strangers with the utmost politeness, for this seems to me so universal in Germany, it ceases to be the object of a remark. The Elector is said to be a good and a religious man; even those who seem to dislike him, do not contest this point. The Electress said she now gave no balls, because the Elector disapproves of such pleasures while Europe was in its present unhappy state. The Court never mix in society. When the Elector’s uncle was at Dresden, dying, for several months, none of his family visited him, as he was not within the walls of the palace, and it would have been a breach of etiquette. At Mad. de Loss’s, Alexis Orloff was presented to me, and I was introduced to his daughter. He does not look like the frontispiece to his History. His figure is colossal and massy, but his air is not savage, and his countenance is rather mild than otherwise. The recollection of the atrocities that he had committed embarrassed me so, that I retain no very distinct idea of his person and address.[16] He does not speak French, but we conversed a little in Italian. His daughter has a pleasing address. She is pale, sallow, and delicate in her appearance, with a gentle, modest demeanour, and fine expressive dark eyes. She wore no ornaments except rows of the finest pearls. Her diamonds are valued at £40,000. Orloff adores her, and declares she shall marry whomsoever she pleases. She conversed in very good French, and speaks English wonderfully well in proportion to the time she has learned it. Her father wears the picture of Catherine the Second covered, instead of crystal, with a single diamond.

March 12.—Dresden is filled with foreigners from all parts, chiefly Poles and Russians. Of the latter Mr. Elliot told me two horrid anecdotes. He was invited to dine with a Russian major; and one of his servants, a recruit who had been thought too sickly to serve in the army, laid the cloth rather awkwardly. His master beat him furiously, first with a stick, next with an iron bar. ‘Good heavens,’ cried Mr. Elliot, ‘you will kill the man.’ ‘Why,’ replied the Major, ‘it is very hard that I have killed seven or eight, and never been able to make a good servant yet.’ At another time Mr. Elliot dined with a gentleman who talked of the aversion the Cossacks had to the Jews. ‘Now, I dare say,’ cried he, ‘this little fellow behind me,’ turning to a Cossack of about thirteen, ‘has dispatched them by the score. Come, tell me how many did you ever kill at once.’ ‘The most I ever killed at once was eleven,’ answered the young savage, with a grin. ‘Impossible!’ said Mr. Elliot, ‘that boy could have killed eleven men!’ ‘Oh yes,’ answered he, ‘for my father bound their hands, and I stabbed them.’

March 14.—The Princess Fürstenberg and Mad. Münster increase their attentions daily. I have been confined by a cold in consequence of a round of visits paid to the wives of the different Ministers previous to being presented. I did not expect to be admitted, and was not prepared in my dress for going up and down immense flights of stone stairs in frost and snow. My indisposition has given these amiable women an opportunity of showing me unceasing kindness (I wish, however, it did not display itself so much in writing notes). The Princess heard me wish one evening for the translation of a German poem, and sat up till three o’clock next morning to accomplish it, that I might receive it the moment I woke.

March 15.—Mr. and Mrs. Greathead and their son are persons whom I regret leaving. They seem to have excellent hearts, and possess many talents and acquirements. He is author of The Regent, and said to be extremely well informed. She seems a lively, frank, decided, hasty, clever woman, with a ready flow of ideas and copiousness of diction.

March 16.—Last night I was invited to a supper at the Prussian Minister’s. The company were chiefly Russians; five English were asked, and Lavalette, the French Envoy, and his wife, were also of the party. It has caused great sensation here, as it is said that it was highly improper for a person in that line to invite either Russians or English to meet Lavalette. I did not go, but I have seen him and his wife at a public ball. He is unpowdered, mean, squat, and dirty. She is prettyish, and very becomingly drest, but without much attention to decency. Her arm is quite bare, from the bottom of her sleeve, about an inch below her shoulder, to the top of her glove, about an inch above her elbow. Any exposure one is unused to, offends.

March 20, Prague.—Left Dresden for Vienna, and slept last night here. The road is very interesting in the commencement of this journey, particularly from Aussig to Leitmaritz, where it winds through a romantic range of hills by the side of the Elbe. After you part from the river, the country becomes in general a dull flat. Prague, as you approach it, has an appearance of grandeur. It is, however, though spacious, a dirty, ill-built town, with very high houses, and very narrow streets. You cannot take a step without being reminded you are in a Roman Catholic country; it is so peopled with Madonnas and saints. I was so fatigued, I remained to-day at the inn (Rothes Haus) where Suwarrow lived three months of the last year. He rose every day at two hours after midnight, dined at eight, and went to bed at three. ‘He is a great bigot and a great hog,’ the waiter told me, of whom I asked two or three questions about him, but was soon obliged to desist. He was afraid I did not understand what was the species of company Suwarrow associated with; and after long seeking a French word to explain it, found out that of coquette, which he seemed to think a perfect translation of the coarser expression he had used in German.

March 22.—Dined and slept at Iglau, a neat-looking town. How much exaggerated is the account I have heard of the discomforts of a German journey. The post-boys are civil, and not in the least importunate. They seldom ask for more than they receive; a simple denial silences them, and what we call in England grumbling, I have never heard in this country. Even the beggars (and in Bohemia they abound) ask with mildness, and desist at the first refusal.

March 26, Vienna.—Arrived here two days ago, after making in six days a journey usually very much dreaded, without a single inconvenience or the smallest fatigue. I travelled about fifty miles daily, after leaving Prague, and with facility, as the roads are good. I set out usually about seven, and reached my gîte long before dark. Vienna, I fancy, cannot be a healthy residence; the houses are so high, the streets so narrow, and the population so disproportioned to the size of the town. One can walk round the walls in an hour; yet it contains 53,000 inhabitants. The best shops are far inferior to those even in the obscure parts of the city in London. Saw the Comtesse de Wayna, who returned my visit in less than an hour. She is very polite, empressée, and conversible; a very handsome woman, and still young.

March 28.—It grieves me to find travelling contribute so little to the improvement of my mind. A variety of causes operate to prevent the possibility of a woman reaping much benefit from a journey through Germany, unless she totally gives up the world. A certain enlargement of ideas must imperceptibly follow, and she corrects some erroneous notions; but she finds infinite difficulty in making any new acquirements. The multiplicity of visits, not confined to leaving a card, as in London, but real substantial, bodily visits, and the impossibility, without overstepping all the bounds of custom, of associating with any but noblesse, may be reckoned among the greatest obstacles. To make travelling subservient to improvement, it must be undertaken on a different plan from my present journey. I believe there is no undertaking whatever, in which the first attempt is not condemned to many gross and obvious imperfections. No foresight, no reflection, no sagacity, and, I had almost said, no advice, can supply the want of experience, even in situations where it appears least necessary. It is a melancholy consideration that we only know how to live, when the chief pleasures of life, those attendant on youth and youthful spirits, are vanished for ever.

Last night I went to an assembly at Lord Minto’s; the only difference between this meeting, and one of the same kind in London, was that here I saw infinitely less beauty, particularly among the men, less elegance of dress, and less of those abstractions of different pairs from the rest of the society, which I must call ‘flirtation,’ spite of the vulgarity of the term. Steibelt[17] played exquisitely on the pianoforte. So interesting a performer I never heard. After he had executed a delightful capriccio, he gave some jigs, in which his wife accompanied him on the tambourine; and these miserable trifles, in which he was quite subservient to her playing, and sacrificed himself to cover her little inaccuracies in point of time, were more admired than his scientific delightful compositions. Accompanying a fine pianoforte player on the tambourine is like daubing rouge over a Madonna by Raphael; but it shows a pretty woman to advantage, and suits the frivolous false taste of the age. The preference of all which is either frivolous or exaggerated to what is really excellent grieves me. I blush for my cotemporaries even in the moments when I most profit by their ignorance, and when they mistake my own superficial attainments for real talents.

The coarseness of the German language, and the patchwork made use of to conceal its poverty in some instances, displease me. Its beauties are said to be considerable. More study will lead me to a knowledge of them, but a little suffices to enable one to discover faults.

March 29.—I walked and drove in the Prater, that great boast of the Germans, who think those who have not seen it, have seen nothing. As far as I went to-day, I was on a straight wide road, shaded with trees, that led through an extensive plain, moderately wooded, and perfectly flat. In summer it must be very pleasant, but a complete flat excludes in my mind all ideas of pre-eminent beauty. I could as soon think in the living countenance that fine colours or features could be beautiful without expression, as that any verdure, any trees, or any river could make amends for the want of inequality of ground.

April 9.—I must correct my judgment of the Prater. The fashionable alley there is uninteresting; but when the whole is considered as a wood of near eight miles in length, commencing almost in a great city, it acquires respectability.

April 13.—Before I had been a week here, I had so many engagements I was only embarrassed in the choice of them. The pleasantest hours I have spent were at Lord Minto’s, Prince Schwarzenberg’s, and the Hanoverian Minister’s. There I sat by the famous General Bellegarde, to whom it is said the Archduke Charles is chiefly indebted for his most brilliant successes.[18] He is highly agreeable in conversation, polite, lively, pleasing, the best ton possible, and the most rational way of thinking. They say he is the person most in the confidence of Thugut, the Minister. He is about fifty, and his appearance gives a favourable impression of him. Lord Minto is very pleasing, when he does converse; but, like a ghost, will rarely speak till spoken to, unless to his most intimate friends. He is criticised here for not representing with sufficient dignity, and for confining himself to a small circle, composed chiefly of Poles and French. He is extremely absent. The Empress gives him audiences, and he forgets the day. He accepts invitations to formal dinners, invites company for the same day, and thinks no more of his engagement. A person here painted very happily in one sentence his absence, and his want of those manners in his own house which ought to distinguish him as the master of it, by saying, ‘Il se fera présenter, quelque jour, chez lui.’ On the whole, he is censured for his conduct in trifles; and of his political career I have heard no opinion, for politics are a subject scrupulously avoided. This is commanded by the laws, and they seem in this point exactly obeyed. Deep regrets for the loss of Joseph the Second are all that ever escapes, which has the most remote tendency that way. Yet many here think that he did much harm as well as good; that his spirit of improvement led him to risk too hasty innovations, and that he was so ardent in his desire de faire le bien, he did not give himself leisure de le bien faire.

At Prince Schwarzenberg’s I heard Haydn’s famous Creation, a very pleasing oratorio, but which I think is applauded here much above its merits. The Duchess of Giovine, authoress of several estimable works which display great learning and uncommon application, has distinguished me in a very gratifying way. I have met likewise with a very amiable woman to whom the Countess Münster recommended me. She is a Berlinoise, and the widow of Prince Reuss, but is received in very few of the first circles here, on account of her birth, her father having been a merchant. She was originally a Jewess. I went to Mad. Arnstein’s with her, which I fear was a breach of etiquette, Mad. Arnstein being a banker’s wife, and of the second class of noblesse. However, I found there a pleasant society, and an easier ton than in most houses at Vienna. She keeps open house every evening to a few women, and all the best company in Vienna as to men. She is a pretty woman with an excellent address. I supped once at the Prince de Ligne’s, whom I was prepared to fear and admire as a most aimable roué, plein d’esprit, et de talens. I have yet seen in him no resemblance to any part of this picture. In general, conversation at Vienna seems to me but meagre; little events are magnified, as in a small town; politics never, and literature very seldom, mentioned.

April 14.—The Ridotto, a very large fine room, well lighted, most people in their usual dresses—no brilliancy of dress, or whimsicality, or variety of character. Those who masque, merely disguise themselves, without assuming any particular costume.

April 17.—Breakfasted at Lady Taaffe’s, to see the Emperor pass by to St. Stephen’s, in honour of the citizens of Vienna, who, on the anniversary of this day four years ago, rose en masse, and took arms to oppose Buonaparte. The occasion of the fête made it interesting; dazzling it was not, for the Emperor, who is averse to all unnecessary parade, was in a plain coach, without guards or any outward sign of royalty. All the citizens who took arms, marched in a body, with their officers at their head, and military music. The spectators made a most pleasing part of the spectacle; not a beggar, or ragged or dirty person to be seen. All were well clothed, and had the appearance of enjoying habitually the comforts of life. The Emperor is easy of access, and two days in the week may be approached by the meanest of his subjects. He is averse to all pomp, lives in his own family, and is attached to his own wife, which in Germany is a singular thing, as a mistress is almost considered here a necessary part of the establishment of a married man. He appears at the Prater in the plainest carriage, driving the Empress, who scarcely ever leaves him. She is not beautiful, but possesses, I am told, a thousand graces; is highly accomplished; mistress both of the theory and practice of music, and an excellent mineralogist. I dined to-day at Prince Esterhazy’s, one of the greatest among the Hungarian noblemen. He has a million florins a-year, but is greatly in debt. He was not at home, but the Princess is a charming, unaffected, pretty woman about thirty.

April 20.—Dined at Prince Colloredo’s. His wife, though very civil, could not conceal her joy that I was soon to go to England, because I was to be succeeded by a gold muslin, which I have promised to buy for her. The abundance of pearls and diamonds worn here is absolutely dazzling. I am told they are all entailed.

April 21.—Passed the evening with the Duchess of Giovine. The oftener we meet, the more I admire the extent of her information, the clearness of her understanding, and the vivacity of her ideas. The learned languages, history ancient and modern, and the various branches of natural philosophy, especially mineralogy, seem familiar to her. She has reflected deeply on education, politics, and manners; and owned to me that she had hoped to have a place about the Empress, which would enable her to direct the education of the Archduchesses.[19] No woman could be more fit for such a situation; but court intrigues, and particularly the influence of the Marquis di Gallo, the Neapolitan Minister, and of the present grande maîtresse, prevented it. That the first should oppose her was the more extraordinary, as she is highly favoured by the Queen of Naples. An unhappy marriage, bad health, and a natural taste for mental improvement, all co-operated to promote her present retired and studious life.

April 25.—A thé at Comtesse Worzell’s, a Polonaise. Lord Douglas, a late arrival, was of the party. He looks like a public singer, and is devoted to music, but is easy and well-bred. Saw the real dress of a Polish nobleman. It is becoming, and is a sort of tunic of two colours, with sleeves puffed at the top, and a girdle. The colours are blue and grey.

April 26.—The opera of La Virtu in Cimento, a charming piece on the canvass of Patient Grizzle; the music by Paer. His wife sings in it remarkably well.

May 2.—The public walks about Vienna are delicious, particularly the Augarten, where no carriages or horses are admitted, and which, if less a garden peigné, would be perfect. I have dined three days this week at the houses of the Ministers. This is no compliment, being a matter of course. There are about forty persons present at these entertainments. The dinners do not appear superlatively good, and would not, I believe, content an English epicure. They all begin at three, end before five; coffee and cards succeed; one retires about six, and, if one chooses, returns at nine to an assembly in the same house.—Among the modes here, I chiefly dislike the use of running footmen. It is so cruel, and so unnecessary. These unhappy people always precede the carriage of their masters in town, and sometimes even to the suburbs. They seldom live above three or four years, and generally die of consumption. Fatigue and disease are painted in their pallid and drawn features; but, like victims, they are crowned with flowers, and adorned with tinsel. Dwarfs as a piece of pageantry also pain me, though I do not well know why.

May 4.—Drank tea at a house Mad. de —— possesses in the Prater, a delicious little spot; and the moving, animated, and varied spectacle it offers of people of every description and almost of every nation, apparently happy and entertained, is wonderfully amusing—for a few moments. The inhabitants of Vienna may certainly be called the Sybarites of Europe, and their love of diversions proves an obstacle to the cultivation of intellect, art, or science.

May 7.—Was presented by the Baroness de la Vallaise to the Emperor and Empress. He receives quite alone, she with two ladies of honour; so in fact you merely pay them a morning visit. He has a mild countenance; she has as much gentleness in her expression, with more animation. Both are extremely gracious, and it appears nature, and not art. They place themselves on a level with you, and do not remind you that they descend. She is not handsome, but very pleasing. She was well dressed, in white silk; in her hair, which seems very fine and was dressed with powder, she wore a row of emeralds, each set flat, and surrounded with diamonds. A trimming on the front of her gown, and her necklace and ear-rings, were all of the same kind.

May 11.—Supped with Mad. Divoff. Cardinal Albani accompanied very well on the pianoforte Mons. ——, a banker, who had passed his youth in Italy, and who sung charmingly. Madame de Kalitschoff, the Russian embassadress, a lively pretty woman, was so impatient for the pattern of my combs, that she pulled them out of my head, without the least reluctance to discompose my toilette, and put them into her own. The women here possess little taste in their dress. The manner in which they mix every colour, not merely in the rainbow, but in all nature, and the variety of showy ornaments they heap on one another, is incredible.

May 12.—Saw the Hungarian Guard in gala, a most beautiful sight. Seventy-two young men, the flower of the Hungarian nobility, magnificently and tastefully dressed, mounted on white horses, finely shaped and full of spirit. The costume is rich, yet so well fancied that it adds to personal dignity, which most splendid dresses diminish. It is composed of a scarlet vest and trousers, made to the shape, with green belts, scarfs, and yellow half-boots, all richly trimmed and embroidered with silver. A tiger’s skin is fancifully disposed on the back, and covers part of the left arm. A very lofty fur cap, ornamented with green and silver, is completed with a heron’s feather. Upon the whole it is rich, yet not heavy; splendid, yet not gaudy; and while every part is ornamental, none seems to impede the exertion of strength or activity.

May 13.—Saw Count Lambert’s collection of pictures—an excellent choice. My favourite, a storm and shipwreck by Loutherbourg, much superior to his usual style of colouring, very transparent, beautiful, and expressive. The Etruscan vases are numerous, and he supposes them coeval with the Creation, as he declares them six thousand years old.

May 14.—Saw the porcelain manufactory. It is said the mass is not so fine as that of Dresden, of which the white is beautifully clear and transparent, somewhat like a plover’s egg. It is, however, eminently beautiful; but the biscuit figures are not in such good taste, nor so well proportioned, as those of Dresden. A plateau, designed as a present from the Emperor to the Duchess of York, cannot be enough admired. The biscuit figures in the middle represent the story of Cupid and Psyche. It costs twelve thousand florins.

May 15.—Went to a breakfast at the Prater. I went at one, hoping the violence of the breakfast would be over, as I do not love sitting long at table. Unfortunately others do. This social meal had begun at twelve, and lasted till three, when dancing began. It is the custom to dance a country-dance and a waltz alternately; but those who only dance the former are treated unfairly; for, as the waltz is the favourite, and there is no reason it should ever finish, a vast deal more time is devoted to it than to the country-dance, which has a stated progress. The waltz is so passionately beloved by the German women, that numbers of all ranks fall a sacrifice to it; and every Carnival is usually fatal to one or two individuals of the first society.

May 16.—Found the Princess Rosamoffska at home in a delicious country-house, or, as they call it here, garden—very like Richmond. I find her extremely pleasing. She is one of the daughters of Madame de Thune, the Madame de Sévigné of Vienna. Her husband was a ci-devant Russian Minister, and I see she has a large share of the general antipathy to the Emperor. She asked me if I had seen two excellent caricatures of him. In the first he writes with one hand Ordre, with the other Contre-ordre, while on his forehead is written Désordre. In the second, Peter the Great is represented with a torch he appears to have just lighted; Catherine the Second has a pair of snuffers to make it burn still brighter, and poor Paul an—extinguisher. I left Madame Rosamoffska much pleased with her conversation, and the prévenante vivacity of her manners.

I found the following verses on a loose sheet of paper, quite separate from the journal, and without any date; but if my Mother made actually, and not merely in imagination, a visit to the famous shrine at Mariazell—which is in Styria, and some seventy miles from Vienna—it must have been during this, her only residence in that city. I am quite ignorant whether she is here recording an incident in her own travels, or in those of another; but the description of the scenery in the earlier lines appears like that of one drawing on her own experience. The story is a touching one, and may help to remind that there are other forms of human life besides that highly artificial one in which at this time the writer was moving.

MARIAZELL.

I joined the crowd that from Vienna streamed

As pious pilgrims to Mariazell,

Where stands the Virgin Mother’s holy shrine;

And trod with them the steep romantic paths

That wound by rushing waters, and through vales

No sunbeams ever pierced. Full many a dale

Seemed by the lofty mountains sternly closed,

Until the narrow path had reached its base,

And then a sharply sudden turn displayed

O’erhanging rocks, young groves, and rivulets,

That sparkling cheered the wanderer’s weary way,

Till at the last the summit’s airy height,

Crowned with its antique cloister, was disclosed.

Chanting their simple hymn the pilgrims rise.

Then long bright tresses are unbound, to float

Like hers—the Magdalen, by Guido drawn—

Denoting penitence, meek humble prayer,

And recklessness of earthly ornament.

I rested by a fountain near the top,

And saw a father, mother, and their son

Slowly ascend the hill. The boy was fair,

The woman calm, courageous, and resigned;

So in her features did I read her soul.

But he who should have been the guide of both,

With looks of helpless, all-confiding love,

Received support from them—for he was blind.

Around his neck a rosary was hung;

His fingers told the tranquillizing beads,

While in a soft and melancholy chaunt

His wife recited the accustomed prayers,

That fell like balm upon his wounded heart.

For the last time the wonder-working stream

Refreshed his weary lips. The days prescribed,

Three anxious days of prayer and hope, were past,

Each altar visited, each vow fulfilled.

Though poor in worldly treasure, they were rich

In purer wealth—a family of love.

Their distant home in green Bohemia lay,

Where a fair daughter in ripe womanhood

Hung like a mother o’er the little band,

Who watched with longing eyes a sire’s return.

Ere darkness fell on him, he sat and sang,

Plying the shuttle with unwearied skill;

And labour, like a ceaseless fountain, flung

Around his rural home the green delight

Of rustic plenty. But, the light withdrawn

From those sad eyes, by slow degrees his day

Became a sleepless night, and poverty

Assailed him like an armèd man. At last

He formed the difficult resolve to save

A pittance for a journey to these shrines.

Then all was spared that nature did not need,

And while the customary fruits were laid

On the loved father’s board, his faithful wife

And cheerful offspring shared the coarsest food:

He knew it not, nor ever would have known,

But for the prying humour of a neighbour.

She told this simple tale, and rose to go.

No ray of light had visited his eyes,

Yet he was half consoled, and pleased to think

He had fulfilled his duty to his children:

And though he had not found the boon he sought,

He was resigned, and blest the will of Heaven.

May 28.—Dined with the Count de la Gardie, Swedish Minister. The Hanoverian and Prussian Ministers were of the party. The gentlemen, according to the Swedish custom, were called into the ante-room a moment before dinner to drink brandy and eat bread-and-butter. At dinner, the conversation turned on Italy. Count Divoff, a Russian, said, ‘L’été prochain j’irai en Italie; alors les rois seront tous sur leurs trônes, et l’ordre rétabli.’ Count Keller, the Prussian Minister, said with an air of persiflage—at least, I thought it such—‘Il est vrai que c’est un espoir auquel il ne faut pas renoncer.’ One assigned cause for Sir Charles Whitworth’s disgrace with the Court of Russia is curious. The Emperor had given orders no empty carriage should pass a certain part of the palace. Sir Charles, ignorant of this, had left his coach to speak with a workman, and desired it might drive on and meet him at a distance. The sentinel stopped the carriage; the servants insisted on driving on; a scuffle ensued. The Emperor, ever on the watch about trifles, inquired into the cause of the dispute, and, on learning it, ordered the servants to be beat, the horses to be beat, and the coach to be beat (Xerxes lashing the sea!). Sir Charles Whitworth, by way of washing off this stain, ordered his servants to be discharged, his horses to be shot, his carriage, after being broken into a thousand pieces, to be thrown into the river. The Emperor, indignant at this mark of offended pride, insisted on his recall.

June 4.—At Count Keller’s, the Prussian Minister’s, heard Marchetti, the first woman singer at Berlin. She has a very powerful expression, too powerful, perhaps, except for the stage, and a very brilliant execution, too much ornamented, perhaps, for the generality of her hearers. Her voice has, upon the whole, more strength than sweetness, though it is said some of her low tones resemble Marchesi. Supped with the Princess de Lorraine, once the most beautiful woman of her time. She retains, though past sixty, very splendid remains, and has an uncommon share of grace and dignity. From the pension of 12,000 florins allowed her by the Emperor, she supports several of her friends, relations, and even acquaintances. She gives suppers four times a week, composed of the best society among the emigrants, intermingled with a few Germans and foreigners.

June 6.—I passed this morning with Mad. de la Gardie, wife to the Swedish Minister. She is very kind to me, and I have at her house that easy ingress and egress which I prefer to formal invitations. We went together to see Füger’s paintings.[20] He is a fine artist, and a sincere enthusiast. I believe he ranks very high in the first class of historical painters. His ‘Death of Virginia’ is a beautiful performance. Her father has just stabbed her; Appius, who is elevated on the tribune from which he had given sentence, remains petrified in the posture into which he had thrown himself from the involuntary motion by which we mechanically attempt to save an object in danger, even when we know and feel our help comes too late. The expression, ordonnance, and colouring of this picture are all charming. I also saw his drawings from Klopstock’s Messiah—wild, fanciful, expressive. The dream of Judas, suggested by Satan, who appears with his hand on the culprit’s heart, while his guardian angel mournfully retires, particularly struck me; as did the restoration of one of the fallen angels, who has repented, is forgiven, and recovers his pristine dignity and beauty. Füger is a tall, well-looking man, about forty, his countenance is placid, his eye is open, clear, and attractive—I mean, invites you to look into it, and to repose your soul on his. I have seen this in but few eyes, and they generally belonged to persons who combined genius with simplicity. After he had explained to me the subjects of his drawings from Klopstock, and regretted I could not understand him in German, he took down an Italian translation of a few favourite cantos, and began to read it to me. Mad. de la Gardie became impatient to go; however he went on. At last she tore me away; but not till Füger put the book into my hand, exclaiming, ‘Lisez, lisez; cela vous tournera la tête, et vous échauffera le sang.’ In the evening went to Lady Minto’s and Mad. Arnstein’s.—It is said Cesario, the resident Chargé d’Affaires here from Berlin, had orders from Haugwitz to carry on a negotiation with Thugut without the participation of Keller. Cesario had borrowed from the latter some maps; in returning which he sent him by mistake a letter from Thugut, that discovered their secret intercourse. Keller, enraged, wrote a remonstrance to Haugwitz, which, it is also said, has procured his recall. This story is denied by La Gardie, the friend of Keller, who affirms that Cesario, a confirmed Jacobin, attempted to intrigue, without being authorized by his Court, and is to be himself recalled. Keller, La Gardie, and La Vallaise live much together; Lord Minto extremely apart from all the foreign Ministers. Query, if this is good policy in his Lordship?

June 7.—On coming home last night from Mad. Arnstein’s, I saw by the light of the moon a poor female peasant with a load of wood at her back, praying before a crucifix, placed on one side of the road under a few trees, with a lighted taper before it. It was a pleasing picture. There labour and poverty forget their care, and there only exists a momentary, but a real and consoling, equality. What can those soi-disant philosophers, who endeavour to extirpate religion from the hearts of men, offer to the poor and the wretched in its place?—Supped at the Prince de Ligne’s.

June 11.—Various symptoms of peace are observed to-day. Thugut is rayonnant with delight. He has always, it is said, been favourable in his heart to the French, and his estates in France have never been confiscated. The Emperor is supposed to be wholly guided by him. The Empress is averse to this Minister, but, spite of her influence in politics, cannot displace him. The Emperor has done everything within the bounds of decent respect to prevent the Queen of Naples from coming; but cannot succeed.

June 12.—I forgot to mention having dined in the course of last month with Count Cobenzl, who desired me to make my own party, and devoted a day to showing me his delightful grounds. He is a farmer as well as an embellisher of nature, and has such a cowhouse, &c., as I have never seen in any country. I also dined last month at Dornbach, and saw the villa of Maréchal Lacy, where nature has performed her part in the most exquisite manner, but where art has been impertinently busy. Great are the beauties of both these places; Count Cobenzl’s, however, displays a purity of taste which is not to be found at the Maréchal’s.—Saw this day from the windows of Baroness Spielman the public adoration of the Host by the Emperor and Empress. The procession which appears in honour of this day, the Fête Dieu, is the most splendid and brilliant Vienna ever displays. The Emperor and Empress, Grand Duke of Tuscany, Palatine, ladies of the Court in gala dresses, friars of the different Orders, children maintained by charitable institutions, vicars of all the churches with painted banners, German and Hungarian Guards, officers of those regiments who rose en masse to oppose the French, &c. &c., all proceed to church. The Emperor, Empress, &c., go in state coaches, but return on foot, preceded by the Host, to which they kneel for some minutes in different streets. He was dressed in uniform, with the Order of Maria Theresa; she in a silver muslin gown, her hair dressed somewhat à l’antique, powdered and ornamented with roses and festoons of pearls. The ceremony would, in my opinion, have been much more impressive with a mixture of martial and religious music.

June 15-17.—Three days at Baden, a small town two posts from Vienna, celebrated for its warm sulphureous baths. They appear convenient and well attended. In the largest, men and women of the best society bathe together, and appear very much to enjoy the amusement. The gentlemen are in shirts and trousers; the ladies in their usual white morning dresses, and on their heads caps, handkerchiefs, laces, and ribbons, fancifully and becomingly disposed. It is the triumph of real beauty and freshness, as no rouge can be worn or paint of any kind. The bath opens a vast field for coquetry. A becoming dishabille, graceful attitudes, timidity, languor, and an affectionate confidence in your conductor, may here all be displayed to advantage. The lover leads his mistress, and has perhaps a secret satisfaction in finding himself with her in a new element; for Mad. de Genlis observes, I think with truth, that to those who really love every new situation in company with the beloved has a certain charm. Many of those who have no lovers obtain, however, half a conductor, as every man who is not devoted generally gives each arm to a different lady. The old, the plain, and the neglected sit round on benches, as it is dangerous for women to walk about in the bath without a guide. Spectators are admitted, who view the scene from a little gallery. To them the heat and sulphureous smell is very unpleasant. The situation of this village is agreeable, among hills, which, though minute, are of a romantic character. An écluse, in a very wild spot, at about ten minutes’ distance, has been made to receive the wood which has floated on the river from the mountains. It mingles ideas of industry and ingenuity with those of peace and retirement, a contrast that always pleases.

June 19.—Dined yesterday at Prince Staremberg’s, where I saw Count ——, just returned from Russia, who told a thousand strange stories of the Emperor’s frivolity, punctilio, and pride. He now fears he shall see the ghost of Catherine (a sublime apparition!); and one night under the influence of this apprehension leaped out of bed, and threw down the chairs and tables in his haste to take shelter in the chimney. The Empress, who slept near his room, terrified at the noise, arose, and not finding the Emperor, called his attendants. They examined the apartments, and discovered the place of his retreat. He was so ashamed of the ridicule he felt conscious of having incurred, that he put the Empress under arrest, with strict orders never to come uncalled into his chamber. Count —— also said it was not allowed to invite half a dozen people to dinner without permission from the police; and if this permission was too often asked, the person became suspected. I mentioned the conversation of yesterday at the Count de la Gardie’s, where I dined to-day. ‘Ce Monsieur,’ said he, ‘fera fortune à Vienne, où c’est la mode de médire de l’Empereur de Russie.’

June 27.—Dined at Maréchal Lacy’s—a large party—his invitation was in the spirit of ancient chivalry, begging ‘l’honneur de me servir à diner.’ This delightful old man does the honours of his house perfectly. He seemed quite grieved at parting from me, and pressed my hand most affectionately as he put me into the carriage. In the evening went to see a firework in the Prater. The emplacement is perfectly convenient, the view beautiful, and the representation extremely amusing. Those spectators who choose to pay a florin are seated on a stage, exactly opposite, where there is no crowd, and where they are perfectly at their ease. The difference of colour in the fire, some being perfectly white, and some bright yellow, has a good effect, and there is a degree of perspective obtained, beyond what I thought possible. The performance represented the taking of Genoa, and at one moment displayed a warrior, who waved his sword, and had a noble yet satanic appearance, which reminded one of Milton’s fallen archangel. At the close were a range of trophies, surmounted by a long wreath of laurel, suspended at intervals and formed into festoons by eagles in different postures, who held it in their beaks.

June 30.—Dined with Count Erclädy, and in the evening went to a concert at Dr. Franc’s. He is a physician, who is supposed to have great skill in his profession. His son’s wife sings remarkably well, and with some other amateurs performed the opera of The Horatii and Curiatii—the words Metastasio’s, the music Cimarosa’s—the former very poetical and affecting, the latter brilliant, pathetic, and expressive. Paer also sung charmingly; he is a maître de chapelle, and a very agreeable composer. I find the noblesse can sometimes wave etiquette, and sacrifice their dignity to their amusement, for the auditors were chiefly of the first class.

July 1.—Breakfasted with the incomparable Duchess of Giovine, who gave me in the most graceful manner a pair of opal ear-rings and a cross to match. She hoped their colour might be emblematic of the unspotted felicity I should enjoy during the remainder of my life. Dined with Mad. de la Gardie.

July 2.—Mrs. —— made many inquiries whether I saw Mad. de la Gardie frequently, and ended by assuring me she was extremely jealous. I am certain she is as far removed from jealousy as he is from giving her cause. Accompanied her this morning to the gallery of Count Truchsess, a valuable collection. There are above eleven hundred pictures, chiefly by Flemish and Dutch masters, some by Germans; among which Füger’s are conspicuous, particularly one of Stratonice and Antiochus, a charming subject, exquisitely treated.

July 3-7.—Dined one day at Prince Staremberg’s, whose garden is much admired here, and would be thought very tasteless in England. He is, I see, delighted with a little muddy rivulet, flowing a very short but serpentine way through two heaps of stones piled on each side, and ending to the left in a small pool, with an island in it, about the size and shape of a plate, and to the right in a cascade that falls about ten feet down five or six regular steps. ‘Cela va toujours,’ said he triumphantly, ‘et cela m’a couté trente mille florins.’ I dined also again with the Arnsteins, who I see hate the Austrian government. She is a Prussian, and, according to the late cant phrase, ‘that accounts for it.’

July 8.—Went to see Prince Lichtenstein’s collection of pictures, which fills fourteen rooms. We have no idea of such numerous collections in England. His pictures are chiefly Flemish and Dutch. In these consist the riches of most of the Vienna collections. Pictures by Italian masters are comparatively rare. Van Huysum’s flowers, and Sebold’s extraordinary representations of nature, in which not a hair or pore but is distinct, were to me the greatest novelties. The latter in the course of a long life painted but twelve pictures, all, I believe, heads. His own portrait and that of his daughter, who is still living, are in Prince Lichtenstein’s gallery.

July 10.—The nobility here do not disdain any branch of commerce or mercantile speculation, not even usury. Prince Staremberg, Maréchal Kinski, and the Prince de Paer are the chief usurers. The Duchess of Giovine was employed by the Queen of Naples to negotiate a loan of four millions, and had recourse to the latter, who modestly asked twenty per cent. interest, saying to her, ‘Madame, quant à l’argent, je vous déclare je ne suis pas délicat; je suis tout à fait marchand. Je suis accoutumé à prêter mon argent à 20 pour 100, et je ne puis le faire à moins.’ The great people here also make a practice of selling wine in as small a quantity as five bottles, or a florin’s worth, at a time. Prince Staremberg will even consent to sell a single tree out of his favourite garden, if any one offers a sufficient price for it.

July 11.—A ball at Mödling, a water-drinking place, about four miles from Vienna. Went with the Count and Countess Wickenburg. He is Minister for Bavaria, and a friend to peace, as are La Gardie, Keller, and La Vallaise; all, indeed, except Lord Minto. Danced with Ferdinand Count Palffy, director of the mines, an excellent dancer and an agreeable little man, but of too finical and foppish an exterior. Supped with the two Princes of Wurtemburg, beaux frères of our Princess Royal. Conversed much with him who is tall, of a dark complexion, and about five and twenty.

July 12.—Received a visit from Count Truchsess. He is averse to peace. He proposes sending his collection to England next year, in order to sell it. Every one at present is anxious to turn a capital of that sort into money, having the fear of the French before their eyes.

July 14.—Was presented at Duke Albert’s, where I thought myself in England; his looks and manners so much resemble those of an Englishman of high fashion. He is son to the late King of Poland. Mad. de Menée, a lady who is not related to him, was grande maîtresse to his late wife, lives in his house, and presides at his parties. This is not thought singular here. At the Duke’s, which appears incontestably the pleasantest house at Vienna, saw the Duchess of Riario, his niece—a fine woman, between twenty and thirty, extremely advantageously dressed, with a tolerably handsome face, and great ease, nay, even confidence, of manner.

July 18.—Dined at La Gardie’s—read Les Mères Rivales aloud, while she made a couvre-pied for her approaching confinement; her mother worked a cap for the babe, and he sat down to his netting; it was a black shawl for his wife. A fine tall man, a soldier, too, with a very martial appearance, netting a shawl for his wife, amused me—Hercules and Omphale! I leave Vienna to-morrow.

Desultory Remarks.—Upon the whole, Vienna is no place of gay dissipation, except in the Carnival. The spectacles are but indifferent, the assemblies but little frequented, there are few concerts and no balls. Married women, or if one happens to be a chanoinesse, which confers the same privileges, go about to all places without a companion of their own sex. Those who are of notorious bad character are received in all societies with as much empressement as those of the very best conduct. The few really virtuous women do not make a class apart, but associate indiscriminately, and even form friendships, with those who are most notoriously otherwise. Yet a certain respect is shown to a good character; for, though gallantry is never blamed, a uniform life of virtue is often praised. Attentions are reciprocal between the sexes. The women do not exact homage, and therefore do not receive it. I was seldom more surprised than on being congratulated by a lady on the attentions of a young Pole, who distinguished me particularly on the evening of my first appearance, as in general such congratulations are offered to the man whose homage is suffered, and not to the woman who receives it. Scandal is a vice totally unknown; its most general object among women is here not disgraceful, so hardly ever made a topic, and, when mentioned, spoken of without censure or enlargement. The best feature in the character of the society at Vienna is a universal appearance of good nature. The young Germans do not associate much with women, and, as the various subjects of political information which are necessary to an Englishman are merely matters of speculation under a despotic government, one great motive to study which exists among us is here cut off. Classical knowledge is not thought essential to the education of a gentleman; study, in general, not a favourite pursuit; and reading scarcely considered as an amusement. Consequently the young Austrians do not excel in the art of conversation, nor do they even possess what we call small talk, from mixing so little with women of fashion. They dance and ride, but I believe the variety of sports and exercises which give a graceful exterior, is quite unknown to them. They have little grace, and scarcely any beauty.

Upon the whole, however, I love the German character. Calmness and mildness are its most prominent features. Cruelty is a vice here totally unknown, with all its attendants, roughness, brutality, oaths, loud speech, &c. As to importunity and servility, they are alike banished from the land. The begger asks charity without whining or clamour, and if not immediately relieved, desists without reproach. There arises from this universal calmness of soul a certain dignity more easily felt than described. I would advise every one who has irritable nerves to reside in this country. He will see none of those melancholy objects who awake pity, and hear none of those atrocities which excite horror. Safe under the guardianship of a mild but vigilant police, he may travel over unfrequented heaths at all hours of the night, and may lie down and sleep in full security, without even the precaution of locking his door. He may walk about the streets in any costume without being insulted, and he may carry his whole fortune about him without any danger of losing it by the dishonesty of others. C’est défendu acts in this country with the force the most violent penal laws do not possess in England. At the play a lady said to me, ‘On ne siffle plus au spectacle; c’est défendu.’ The general wish for peace is strongly expressed; and as the Emperor has neither men nor money to carry on the war, he must desire it as much as his subjects. Gold is scarcely ever seen. I did not see one piece of coined gold during the four months of my residence at Vienna.

Upon the whole, the facility which strangers who are highly recommended find in establishing themselves in good society, the variety created by the concourse of people from all parts of the world, those points of national character I have already stated, and the extreme beauty of the country, make Vienna a delightful residence. It is also, when compared to London, extremely cheap. A person may live in the same manner as in London, as nearly as the difference of each town will permit, for about one-third of the expense.

July 20, Prague.—The road from Vienna here is very agreeably diversified with hills, vineyards, hop grounds, and abundance of corn-fields; but, alas! literally the harvest is plenteous and the labourers few. I scarcely saw a peasant, and in one field reckoned thirteen women at work, with only two men.

July 22, Carlsbad.—Two fatiguing days have brought me here. The situation of these baths is charming. A variety of hills, covered to the very top with different species of fir, sweep around and play into one another in every direction. A small river runs at the bottom, and an appearance of dignity, repose, and seclusion is the general expression of the scene.

July 23.—Became acquainted with the Countess Brühl, a woman whose character seems to command universal respect, and whose manners please me extremely. I preferred seeing a beautiful country with her to dancing with the gayer part of the society, and was well rewarded for my choice by her conversation. Though I had no recommendation to her, she has offered to introduce me here, and presented me in the same evening to the Princess Radziwill and Duchess of Courland. The former very graciously told me that I was still regretted at Brunswick.

July 25-28.—Lived chiefly with an English society composed of Colonel and Mrs. ——, Sir Thomas and Lady ——. Early tea drinking and late supping consumed the evenings; and the mornings were wasted in visits and shopping, with all their tiresome accompaniments. The conversation ran chiefly on the decided superiority of England in all points, and comparisons of different places abroad in point of cheapness, and stale anecdotes of ourselves and of the English world. The improvement small, and the amusement less.

August 4, Töplitz.—Remained at Carlsbad till the second. The situation is charming, the ton perfectly easy, the lodgings tolerable, the hours convenient, and the manner of living extremely agreeable. Two days have brought me here. The situation has not the divine romantic beauty of Carlsbad. I have seen no part of it so agreeable as the Wiese where I there lodged, and I much regret the change. Went with the Princess Clary to a thé given in that part of her garden open to the public by the Princess Dolgorouki, a Russian. The locale made it a pleasing fête, but somehow or other I was not amused. In the evening was admitted to the Princess Dolgorouki. As she rose at my entrance I did not perceive her previous situation; and was a little surprised when I saw her throw herself upon a mattress, covered with the same calico as her sofas. There she lay along, dressed in a very dirty, huddled dishabille, and wrapped up in a Turkish shawl. The room was small, low, and mean, like most of the lodgings here; but was ornamented with pieces of chintz, calico, and muslin hung round in festoons; the like were suspended from the ceiling; prints, unframed, were hung about in various places; orange-trees were in the four corners, and the stove was veiled with drapery of various kinds. The lady and the room gave me an idea of Bedlam, yet every one admired, and cried out how enchanting her taste. In Germany be extraordinary, grotesque or absurd in a new way, and you will surely be applauded. Conversed chiefly with a wounded officer, the Prince Tour and Taxis, who gave me a horrid account of the fatigues and sufferings of the Austrian army during the last campaign. He was left ten hours on the field of battle, ‘où je serois mort,’ added he, ‘si le caporal de mon régiment n’avoit bouché les trous de mes plaies avec de la terre. J’aurois été heureux de mourir, car cela m’auroit épargné bien des souffrances.’ All seem dissatisfied with the conduct of the war, particularly since Prince Charles resigned the command.

August 11.—Long airings with the Princess Clary (to whom Töplitz belongs) fill up my evenings very agreeably. I have been in two of the carriages of the country. The first holds four, of whom two only can be defended from the weather. The second holds eight; it is a long plank covered with a cushion, with a footboard on each side, and on one a sort of narrow resting-place, which at will may serve for your back or arms, as you can turn yourself either way. It has four wheels covered with cases of strong leather to prevent the branches from entangling in them, and is excellent for going through woods and narrow roads. It is heavy to the horses, and requires six in a long drive.

August 13.—Went to a thé given by Vicomte Anadia, the Portuguese Minister, and afterwards saw Le Sauvage, a very ugly dance, which I mean to take to England, where novelty sometimes supplies the want of every other charm.

August 22.—The last four days have been cheered by the society of my friend Mr. S——. How delightful to meet a friend and countryman in a foreign land. He travels with his eldest son, who has passed near a year at M. de Mounier’s academy in Weimar. He went there merely a pretty-looking, insignificant young man, devoted to fashion, full of vanity, and anxious to think on all subjects with those who lead in the ton. Mounier has enlarged, refined, and liberalized his ideas, given him just notions of politics, a general taste in literature, and cleared his mind of the prejudices acquired in the round of fashionable life in London.—Conversed with the Count O’Kelly, who confirmed all I have heard of the Empress’s unbounded influence over her husband, her devotion to her mother, and her dislike of the Archduke Charles, which has produced fatal effects—whole troops at the battle of Marengo having surrendered without firing a shot, saying, ‘Why should we suffer ourselves to be massacred for those who have taken our father from us?’

Aug. 24.—To-morrow I leave Töplitz. There is one point in which it differs materially from an English water-drinking place; the expense may be rated at about one-seventh. I am in a wretchedly comfortless, but not disgraceful lodging, for which I pay but two florins a night, and had I taken it by the week or month, it would have been still cheaper.—Yesterday evening I saw a play represented in the open air. The piece, Graf von Walthron, is military, and founded on a true story. An inferior officer, who insults his colonel, is condemned to die, and receives a pardon at the place of execution. Nothing, as far as what I saw of the pantomime enabled me to judge—for it was a play only to the eye, as it was impossible to hear a word—appeared new in the details. A wife, who arrives in great spirits to see her husband in camp, receives the news of his condemnation with a fainting fit, who kneels, implores, weeps, embraces, attempts to shoot herself, and, according to custom, suffers the pistol to be forced from her with great facility, is what we have all seen a thousand times. I was chiefly employed in reflecting what astonishing art the ancients must have possessed to give effect to a piece in the open air. Here nothing could be worse. I sat in one of the best places, yet heard not a word; and the mere spectacle did not strike the eye, as I expected an exact reality would have done. At one moment only the representation appeared to gain by its perfect truth; it was when a number of horsemen gallop forward with repeated cries, and produce the pardon of Graf Walthron. Extreme haste to further a benevolent purpose has always a good stage effect. Count Waldstein’s horses were the performers. Among the spectators was Mad. de Cachet, who commanded 22,000 men in the war of La Vendée, was wounded in several engagements, wishes to be thought daughter to Louis the Sixteenth, and is really not unlike the portraits of the family. She also resembles the Margravine of Anspach. I think her about forty, rather well-looking, her hair d’une couleur un peu hardie, and very long; her complexion good, and not tanned; her throat well-turned, and very white, and her manner of carrying her head beautiful. She is of a middle height, rather fat and massy, her dress without taste, but not without pretention—a black gown, with a white muslin chemise thrown over it, fancifully made and trimmed, a white muslin on her head, and a great display of hair, one tress of which hung down from the top of her head, where it was puffed, to the bottom of her waist in front. Her confidante abused the privilege which confidantes possess of being hideous. Some one proposed to remove her chair a little further back, and she turned to Mad. de Cachet, saying, ‘Je dirai comme vous, je ne suis pas faite pour reculer.’ Her friend smiled at this citation with great complacence.[21]

August 27, Dresden.—I have just seen Mr. Elliot, agreeable as ever. His conversation—‘The Emperor of Russia is a wild beast. I consider him a greater Jacobin than Robespierre. He has made more Jacobins. A person of whose veracity I have no reason to doubt, told me the following story. “I was travelling lately in Russia, and saw one of the carriages used in transporting prisoners, and sealed, according to custom, with the Emperor’s seal. I heard a faint voice call for water, and I asked who was within. The guide desired me to look through a small grated window. I did, and saw two human figures fastened together by a chain passed through their cheeks, and secured by a padlock. One of them implored the conductor, in accents faint and indistinct, for God’s sake to release him from his fellow-prisoner, who was become a corpse. The guide said that it was contrary to the Emperor’s orders, and that he dared not open the carriage till it arrived at the destined spot.” One would willingly go to Petersburg, for the sake of shooting such a monster,’ In the evening I met Lord and Lady Holland at Mr. Elliot’s. Her manner is pleasing; she is tall and embonpoint, with fine eyes, and an agreeable countenance, rather well-looking than handsome. Her husband is agreeable, and they both possess that vivacity of conversation and mildness of manner, the union of which forms the cachet of the Devonshire society.

Aug. 31.—Dined with Lady Holland. Mr. Marsh, Dr. Drew, and Lord Dungannon formed the circle. The latter is a very promising young man, natural, civil, conversible, and good humoured.

Sept. 1.—An assembly at Mad. ——’s. On attempting to return home, fell into a strange perplexity. I removed this day from the inn to a lodging, but did not know the name of the street; yet having more dread of ennui than fear of losing my way, would not wait at the assembly for my footman, but got into a chair, and desired the men in bad German to take me to a lodging opposite the Golden Angel—rather an indefinite direction, as it might apply to a dozen other as well as mine. However, I trusted to the good luck which follows me in trifles, and depended on chance for leading me to the right one. Alas! I find myself on a staircase quite different from mine, and the chairmen do not comprehend they have made a mistake. A stranger (Count Romanzow, as I afterwards learned) politely asks if he can be of service, and desires to know where I wish to go. ‘Indeed, sir, I cannot tell.’ He wishes to know at length whence I came. That I cannot tell either, as Mrs. Elliot’s carriage brought me, and I never asked the name of my hostess. He must have thought me mad. At last, as my most natural resource, he ordered the chair, at my desire, to Mr. Elliot’s house in town, where Lord and Lady Holland are lodged. I there supped with them. Mr. Elliot remarkably amusing; no one has so much small talk, or parries better by a jest an opinion he disapproves, but does not choose to refute. He has so much wit, originality, and knowledge of the world, his caprice rather increases than diminishes his powers of pleasing. He says the Princess Radziwill (mère) is like a high priest in an Italian opera. Those who have seen her will appreciate the comparison.

Sept. 2.—At Mad. Divoff’s. Her husband amused by assuring me how often the painters who worked here at the Gallery, profited by his advice. All the artists I have heard speak on the subject, laugh at him; and the taste he has shown in his collection of prints is execrable. But riches, omnipotent riches, procure to their possessor all the pleasures attendant on the consciousness of taste and talents. Every one fancies he possesses them, and the rich man ever finds that deference paid to his opinion, which tends to maintain so pleasing an error.

Sept. 3.—Drank tea with Mad. de Hoenthal, a very small party, made for the reigning, or rather the ci-devant, Princess Tour and Taxis, who was forced to quit Ratisbon on the arrival of the French. She has travelled four nights, yet is as fresh as possible, and betrays not a symptom of languor or weariness. She is a woman of about thirty, tall, well-made and graceful, her face agreeable, though her features irregular. Her deportment and countenance bear some resemblance to those of our Queen, her aunt. She is on her way to visit her sister, the Queen of Prussia. Her address is pleasing, and the character I have heard of her is amiable. Her anxiety to see every work of art worth observation, which has been strongly marked since her arrival, speaks in her favour. She is attended by her brother, the Prince of Mecklenburg. His features are good, and with expression might even be called handsome.

Sept. 4.—Breakfasted with Mad. d’Ahlefeld at a public garden called The Little Osterwiese. It was a very small party given to the Princess Tour and Taxis. Afterwards we saw the palace of Prince Max,—very mediocre; and his garden, where the ornament that we were desired most to observe, because it contributed most to the Prince’s amusement, was a pipée, or contrivance for catching birds in a net. I cannot describe it. There was a building, several walks, and a great deal of apparatus connected with it. It is the Prince’s principal occupation. Poor man! We then went to the Gallery, where the picture that most struck me was a Raphael representing the Virgin standing on a cloud, with the infant Jesus in her arms, the saints on either side in the act of adoration, and at the bottom of the picture two of the loveliest heads of cherubs I ever saw. The Virgin’s face is divine. The Child, who appears about a year old, has more the expression of the King, than Saviour of the world. There is a beautiful haughtiness, mixed with disdain, in his features. Mad. Wissenberg passed the evening with me, and oppressed me with her tenderness. She has been educated in a convent in France, which I should have guessed, had she not told it to me.

Sept. 6.—Saw by torchlight Mengs’ selection of casts in plaster of Paris, from the chef-d’œuvres of Italy. They are lighted by a single torch carried by the Director, and are supposed to appear more soft, yet more prononcée, more dignified and less glaringly white, than by the light of day. In some measure cela les vivifie.

Sept. 7.—Dined at Mr. Elliot’s with the Hollands. Her Ladyship’s manner to her husband is too imperious; it is not the tyranny of a mistress or a wife, but of a governess to her trembling pupil.

Sept. 8.—Dined with the Hollands. She has a mixture of imperiousness and caprice very amusing to the mere spectators. Her indolence is also remarkable, and she lies in a very easy posture on a sofa, with screens between the lights and her eyes, in all the dignity of idleness, employing every individual who travels in her party, without apology or intermission. Her husband has the honour of being fag-in-chief, but she likewise entirely occupies a humorous clergyman, a peevish physician, and a young lord. There is besides a boy (Mr. Dickens) who comes occasionally, like those who attend servants in great families, to do jobs; but he has found out that she dislikes the trouble of repeating her orders, and often evades them by affecting not to hear.

Sept. 9.—This was a busy day to me. At ten I saw the magnificent Picture Gallery. Pictures which struck me most were an Abraham preparing to offer up Isaac, imitated from the Laocoon—the finest painting on this subject I have seen, and the only one that ever pleased me;—a Magdalen renouncing the pomps and vanities of the world, a discipline in her hand. She is perfectly beautiful, pale, touchante, and in an attitude expressive of the most perfect abstraction and abandon; the soul which informs that lovely form seems to dwell wholly in the eyes; the rest of the person has already ceased to exist. The Princess Dolgorouki has ordered a copy of the Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife—a strange choice!

Supped at the Princess Dolgorouki’s—her egotism and vanity excessive. ‘J’ai donné une fête au Roi de Pologne, qui l’a presque rendu fou. Madame de Brune avoit arrangé des groupes que nous répresentions sur un petit théâtre derrière une gaze—entr’autres la famille de Darius—moi, j’étois Statire aux pieds d’Alexandre. Après, la toilette de Vénus; trois des plus jolies femmes répresentoient les Graces; moi, j’étois Vénus, et il avoit un petit Amour en tricot qui me chaussoit.’

Sept. 18.—Arrived at Count Münster’s. He lives at Königsbruck, where he possesses a large and convenient château, which he has rendered cheerful by his taste in the disposition and furniture of the apartments. The family do not assemble at breakfast here as in England. Countess Münster rises at six, and does not establish herself in her drawing-room till about twelve. Their life is extremely retired; and I believe it is not so much the custom to receive company in a German château as in an English country-house. We dine at two, sup at half-past nine, and retire long before eleven.

Sept. 28.—Left Königsbruck, where I had passed a few very pleasant and retired days. Countess Münster is a warm partizan of the philosophy of Kant, who says perfectibility, and not happiness, should be the object of human researches. Mad. Münster has adopted this idea, and considers all revealed religion as priestcraft, and Christianity as depraving our hearts, because it founds our virtues on a selfish hope of future bliss, and contracting our understandings, because it substitutes faith for reason. She thinks truth unattainable, but that there is a degree of relative truth to which each understanding may arrive, in proportion to its strength and efforts. She is not the most formidable opponent to the Christian religion it has yet encountered; and I doubt if she perfectly understands herself on these subjects, which she seeks with an eagerness that denotes a perfect conviction of her own strength. A lofty contempt of those who do believe, and great bigotry to her own system, render her conversation on such topics unpleasing. She has some imagination, extensive reading, but little tact, and a great deal of vanity; yet she is altogether superior to the general class of females, and neither wants sensibility nor elevation.

Sept. 30.—From the Museum went to the collection of porcelain under the same roof—eighteen chambers full of the finest specimens of every kind of Japan, Chinese, and Saxon porcelain. The value of this collection is incalculable. I saw the Saxon dragon china, which is only permitted to be manufactured for the Electoral family—the dragons are in shades of crimson; perfect imitations of the brown and gold, or black and gold, japan; exquisite biscuit, in imitation of the antique; heaps of valuable, but by me unvalued, mandarins; a whole room full of Egyptian idols; all sorts of old-fashioned figures in glazed and coloured china; fine dressed ladies with hats on one side and crooks in their hands, shepherds with pink ribbons and yellow feathers kneeling at their feet, the dog and the sheep partaking in the general smirk; coloured bouquets, insipid, but curiously accurate; hundreds of such jars as have singly formed the happiness of many a respectable dowager; the coarse pottery painted by Raphael when he was in love with the potter’s daughter; and, in short, a profusion which I had never expected to behold. I then went to Graff’s, an excellent portrait painter. He is famous for catching the expression of the countenance, but he leaves nature pretty much as he finds her, without attempting to obtain as much ideal beauty as is consistent with the resemblance.[22]