“I have not been able to write to you, for the letters take up as much work of my hand as I am able to do . . . Longman has all the MS. of our two first volumes. He fears there

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is more than the public will care for, but says he will look it over and let me hear. He seemed pleased with the offer of the book. I’m doing now 1831; and am more than half through it. The letters to Miss Jephson are very uninteresting to any but the ladies themselves—particularly as their friend Mr. Cathcart* failed at Covent Garden, and afterwards at the Haymarket. He was not quite so bad as her other protégé, Mr. Fitzharris, who failed in ‘Othello’ at Covent Garden: but he was a miserable actor, who, in spite of a good deal of genius and passion, was perfectly incompetent for any but a very subordinate place at a London theatre—such as London theatres were forty years ago. I shall be very glad to see you again.

“The man alluded to in that note of Miss

* Owing to Miss Mitford’s partiality for Cathcart, Charles Kemble gave him a trial at Covent Garden; but after he had been acting for three nights, he refused to continue unless he received an engagement for the whole season. Miss Mitford requested Mr.

280

WAINEWRIGHT.

Mitford’s, as the prototype of a scoundrel in one of Bulwer’s novels, was named Wainewright. He wrote charming articles on art under the signature of ‘Janus.’ He was a friend of Barry Cornwall (Procter) Macready, Talfourd, and all that clique of artists and authors. Charles Lamb was very fond of him, and used to call him the ‘light-hearted.’ He was born to some inheritance, which he soon spent, and subsequently replenished his finances by murder. The first person he is supposed to have poisoned was his uncle, the proprietor of the Monthly Review, whom I knew, but whose name I can’t recall, nor shall I—till I don’t want it. They say that, first and last, he assisted at least eleven friends and admirers out of their miseries in this world; and, entirely free from any apparent depression of spirits, concluded his eventful and cheerful life as a very successful portrait-painter at Botany Bay. Ask me about him on Monday, and I may be able to tell you more of his story. A real account of the man and his character, such as Charles Lamb, or Procter, or Macready might have written, would present one of the most extraordinary psycho-

Harness to use his influence with Kemble on his behalf. “I cannot give an engagement,” was the manager’s reply; “Cathcart does well enough as Jaffier to my Pierre; but how would that little fellow look in a breeches part!”

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logical phenomena that ever was witnessed among mankind.

“I won’t tell you how often I complained of your silence! But your letter, when it appeared yesterday at dinner-time, appeased me; and I am at this moment writing, in my usual most complacent state of mind towards that intrepid seaman, the Rev. A. G. L’Estrange. I have done nothing about the book, except read and arrange letters. All my considerations by day, with the MSS. before me, and by night, as I think about them, have led me to this conclusion, that we must finish the book as fast as we can; read the first part over for condensation; and then publish the whole together.

“I am very well at present, and trust that I may remain so; but at seventy-eight (I was going to write eighty-seven) who, without infinite presumption, can depend on life or its faculties for a moment beyond the present? I shall, if Providence permit, leave town as early in the month as I can, after getting in my pew-rents and paying my house-rent and

282

‘DORA.’

taxes—the latter movement being contingent on the first.

“I have not done much since you removed from the metropolis, except dining out twice, giving a dinner on the anniversary of my niece’s wedding-day,* going twice to garden-parties at Holly Lodge, and seeing ‘Dora’ at the Olympic. This latter piece of dissipation took place on Monday last. I had heard the play so praised, that I was determined to see it; and so, taking two stall tickets, I asked Mr. Smith to be so good as to go with me and take care of me, which he most kindly did; and, after being bored with a preliminary farce, I poured out my fullest approbation in tears to ‘Dora,’ from the end of the first act till the green curtain dropped upon the last. I dine out to-day at the Dean of Armagh’s.

“I have had a note from Bentley soliciting the publication of our book. I have told him that as soon as it is finished he shall hear of it, and be referred to; but that we can’t bind ourselves to publish with anybody till we know what terms may be offered us. I have been very much better these last few days, notwithstanding that I’ve been working like a horse. The letters of 1836 took me a long time, for several hours a day. Those for 1837 will be in Makeham’s* hands by the end of the week.

“So your little friend, Miss Orpen, (is not that the name of Lady Chatterton’s niece?) is married at last. She seems to be charmed with her condition, and I had a note from her, signed ‘R. D. Ferrers,’ which reached me the day after the announcement of the marriage appeared in the newspapers. She is living at Finchden, which is Lady Chatterton’s place, and which as she describes it (an old house of black and white timber, with seven antique and carved gables to it) must be in excellent keeping with its inhabitants. It seems that they are

* Mr. Harness’s amanuensis for five-and-twenty years.

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THE BELGIANS.

all going to live together, aunt and niece with their respective husbands, at the black and white house with its seven gables.

“Lady Chatterton has written a play—a tragedy—called ‘Oswald of Deria,’ which is to be bound in white in honour of Mrs. Ferrers’ marriage; and it is hoped that it will eventually be acted in the large drawing-room of Finchden, which has been re-constructed and enlarged by Lady Chatterton expressly for private theatricals. I am to have a copy of the play.

“We have had marvellous doings here with foreign visitors! Miss Coutts’s luncheon to the Belgians was magnificent! A beautiful thing to see the troops defiling before her and marching through the grounds to the banqueting tents—2,400 of them (men, not tents), and all finding their places and eating their dinners with the greatest goût, appetite, and decorum. They had a splendid repast, with grapes, pines, peaches, &c.; and one hundred and fifty-four dozens of champagne were dismissed before the dinner was over. The day—at least so much of it as was wanted for Holly Lodge—was just what one would wish. It was fair, with occasional gleams of bright sunshine, but never too hot. Archdale talked a good deal to the Belgians, and they all ex-

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pressed themselves in terms of wondering delight at the entertainment they had received. The Sultan says that ‘in Paris he saw what civilization was—in England he saw what it was that produced it.’

“Good-bye! God bless you! I can’t write long together. It fatigues my eyes; and so, with Mary’s love, believe me to be, my dear L’Estrange,

“We have moved from London at last to Scottowe with the Archdales, arriving all together last Wednesday. We left rain behind us and arrived in rain; but the fine weather set in on our arrival, and the glass is now at ‘fair,’ the sky clear,

286

ELY CATHEDRAL.

the wind in the east (which in Norfolk is an especial favourite), and the sun as hot and scorching as any human being could possibly desire.

“I had rather a dread of taking so long a journey at one heat; so I started on the Tuesday, slept at Ely, and proceeded to Norwich by a mid-day train the next day, in time to meet and accompany my sister and the Archdales to this place. I was perfectly delighted with Ely. I did not go to the Cathedral on the Tuesday evening, for I only arrived at my hotel (the ‘Lamb,’ a most comfortable house), in time for a late dinner; but I was up early the next morning, and spent several hours in the magnificent building. The restorations are not quite finished, but all that has been done is wonderfully well done, and though the funds do not come in so rapidly and liberally as at first they did, they are still progressing with the work. Nothing can be better than the taste and skill with which Styleman L’Estrange painted the ceiling, and the piece which he died before completing, and left Gambier Parry to do, is so well done that no eye could distinguish where the one left off and the other began. The duty was very well performed; but I hated the intoning till the Dean took it up at the Lord’s Prayer in the

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Litany, and finished the service. I then saw, or rather heard, that intoning might be made very agreeable, and that there is as much difference between the intoning of one man and another as between one man’s reading and another’s. I intend, if well enough, to go to Ely in late Autumn for a couple of nights—Saturday and Sunday nights—and have a full treat of the service. If you are good, I’ll ask you to go with me.

“The story of the dog is not quite exactly the fact. The dog was mine—given me as a puppy by Henry Hope. It was a clever, cunning, fawning, unamiable dog; and, as Mrs. Harris liked it, when she married I let her have it. Its beauty, in its youth, was so great that Prince Albert wanted to purchase it, and the man who rode up to my servant to negotiate the transaction offered £50 for her. But the last glimpse I had at ‘Fairy’ was through a photographic representation of her from Guernsey, in which all the beauty and grace seemed gone, and she looked like a drowned dog that had swollen a week in the water.

“I am come to a dead stop with the letters;

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there are only two or three dreadfully dull ones, for 1846 and ‘47. Some of the best, to Miss Barrett, are not there—particularly one on the ill effects of scenery in dramatic representations, which is excellent, and almost original in its notions.

“Memo: I have not the originals of the letters which are copied; and (as I never look at the copies, from having been so worried by the mistakes in writing the names of people) those letters are virtually absent. So that I have really nothing to go on upon but Mrs Jenning’s MS. We must have all the letters to Miss Barrett which we can fairly print, and make our abridgments in the beginning of the book: we can cut out plenty there.

“I’m better, but I feel that my principal ailment is old age. My sister desires her kindest regards and best thanks to Mrs. L’Estrange.

“I can’t write more than a few lines, to tell you of my whereabouts, for my eyes are dim with working ever since breakfast at Miss Gold-

290

LITERARY WORK.

smid’s letters. I have begun at the end, at poor Miss Mitford’s death, and am working back. I have done all the long MS. of Mrs. Jennings.

“There was a great deal to be cut out—things told in other letters, and some things actionable as calumny—viz.: ‘the account of the raffle for Southey’s copyrights.’ The dissensions of that family were very painful and very incomprehensible. In London, everybody was of Mrs. S.’s faction: at Keswick, everybody was of the children’s faction. I suppose, as in all family quarrels, everybody was a little right, and as much wrong as they could be.

“We hope to leave this and begin our return home on Monday. On getting home, I shall write to my acquaintance Appleton, the New York publisher, and negotiate with him for the publication of the book in America, as well as in England. It seems to me that Miss Mitford’s reputation there was greater than with us. There is a means of securing copyright in both quarters of the globe, but we must inquire what those means are.

“I am sorry to hear that the tranquillity of your mind has been discomposed by a landstorm about your yacht; as, from your father and mother having recovered themselves a little, there was a brighter promise of enjoying your visit to Clifton than your friends had anticipated for you. But what has happened? What is the delinquency of the captain? I’m quite nervous to hear.

“I have just been calling on Milman. He has been most seriously ill, but is a good deal better. He saw me, and told me rather an amusing anecdote. An Irish farmer, who had been corrupted by reading some liberal books, refused to pay his priest’s dues. ‘No, he wouldn’t; the Priest might turn him into mice, if he could, and said he would do; but he denied his power, and would not give him a six-

292

INDISPOSITION.

pence.’ The farmer remained contumacious and victorious. But still, triumphant infidel as he was, when night drew on, and they were preparing for bed, he said to his wife, ‘Biddy, don’t you think we had better lock up the cats?’

“I am a good deal better, but feel oppressed in my chest, and don’t expect to be altogether right and sprightly, as a youth in his seventy-ninth year ought to be, till the sun has had time enough to air the wind, and these occasional sharp fits of Winter have finally disappeared. However, I have been doing some work here (i. e. Council Office,) to-day; and I did some Miss Mitford before I left home this morning.

“In one of Mrs. Hoare’s letters there is, in very fair writing, the word ‘fritillaries,’—a plant, a wild plant; do you know anything about such a creature?

“The far-seeing world, who know what the Devil intends to do next, are all prophesying a ‘No-

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Popery’ cry. If it arise, the effects in Ireland and England will be terrible. In England, the sufferers will be the Ritualists; in Ireland, it will in all probability provoke a civil war.

“We must shorten the early part of Miss Mitford’s life to bring it into proportion with the latter part. This can easily be done by leaving out some of the poetry, and cutting shorter her letters to Sir W. Elford; or rather abridging those epistles into letters.

“Riddle:—I give you £100, and you are to give me one hundred animals. The cows cost £5, the pigs £1, and the hens one shilling each. How

294

HEAT OF THE WEATHER.

many of each kind will you send me in return for my cheque? I must have one hundred animals for my money.”

“I have been all last week at Holly Lodge, doing the only thing that I was capable of, in such intense and continuous heat—sitting out of doors in the shade, with my mouth a-jar to catch the little air that was moving, and ready for talk with anybody that happened to pass by. I did not return till Saturday morning; and, I suppose, I shall soon go back again. I certainly shall, if the weather be as it has been. Yesterday (a sad breach of the Sabbath, but really the day excused it) I gave way to a kind solicitation of Mrs. Disney, and drove out with her from four to six to see if any air could be found on Barnes Common and Putney Heath; for there was none to speak of—a mere sufficiency for the sustenance of a gasping existence—to be had in London. We succeeded in our exertions, and finding a breeze under the shade of a tree on the Barnes road, we stopped the carriage, and sat nearly an hour in the placid enjoyment of it.

“I have done nothing with Miss Mitford, nor

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till the weather is cooler shall I attempt it. I have not strength to untie the parcel. To reduce the Life to one volume, is re-writing the book and making a Biography of my friend—which I never intended, and now have not the strength to undertake. It would have been, at first, less trouble than the assorting her letters and making them tell her story. I am glad to hear your mother is so much better; keep her out of doors and amused.

“Thank you, my dear L’Estrange, for your kind note of this morning. I was, and am, a good deal affected by poor Milman’s death. We had been friends ever since 1802; and the death of one whom I have known so long, and who was so near my own age, seems like the pulling

296

DR. MILMAN'S DEATH.

up the young roots of one’s life from the ground. I was at his funeral, which was very solemn and very affecting to those who were as much attached to him as myself.

“Yesterday, and I believe to-day, there is a pair

‘THE BEGGAR GIRL.’

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of artificial second-hand legs on exhibition at an auction-room in Bond Street. It is not said whether they are on sale or not. But the exhibition of them is very disgusting to my mind. They were the legs worn by Sir Thomas Trowbridge, and more respect was due to them as having been worn by that excellent man and distinguished soldier.

“I’m reading a novel written by Mrs. Coventry’s grandmother, which I read (almost the first full-grown book I ever did read) in the year my sister was born, 1811. I have never seen it since. ‘The Beggar Girl;’ there are eight volumes of it. I have almost read the first volume, and seem to have a dream-like remembrance of what is to come. It’s different from novels of the present day, and contains some occasional bad English; but it’s very clever. She was a great beauty, as well as an authoress—a Mrs. Bennett—and also the mother of old Mrs. Scott Waring, who died last year at the age of 102, and whom, I dare say, you may remember to have seen at church.

“Many thanks, my dear L’Estrange. for your present, with which my brother and I opened our dinner yesterday. They are excellent and most acceptable.

“I don’t understand about zoophytes; you must teach me. I was very much shocked to hear of poor Delawarr’s death. He was an excellent and charming person. Considering that he always looked delicate and consumptive in early life, it was a marvel that he lived to be so old. He and I were, great friends once; but I never could be at the trouble of keeping up noble friendships, unless the coronet did two-thirds of the business.

“I believe there was no actual quarrel with

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Byron. It was simply a case of incompatibility. The ardour of B. was more than D. could adequately meet. But I must be off to read the Chief Justice’s charge anent the nuns; and I have very little time to do it in, as I must go and see poor Dyce, who is very ill indeed. Mrs. Disney is dead. The Dean is in deep grief.

“My sister’s kind remembrances.

“I am already better—more alive—for the change of air. It really is a delightful thing, having nothing to do. The cottage is so small that my servant is always hitting his head against the doors, and says the rooms were only made for little people; but it is a great pleasure to

300

COUNTRY RETREAT.

move about from one room to the other, and then to sit awhile in the little hall with the door between the two, and enjoy the fresh air of the Hampshire hills, brisk from the sea, and unadulterated by any metropolitan mixtures.

“This is our life: breakfast at nine, luncheon

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at one, tea at five, dinner at seven, coffee at nine, bed at half-past ten. Every meal exact to time, except tea at five; that varies, as Arthur drives Coe and me out in a basket-carriage after luncheon, and we very often don’t get back from our excursion so soon; indeed sometimes we are so late as not to have any tea at all.

“You now know the whole course of my life; and when you have heard that between whiles I play with the dog, or doze over Crabb Robinson’s “Journal,” I don’t think you have any more to hear of the present doings of W. H.

“I have just had a letter from Miss Skerrett; it is, strange to say, legible. She claims the fulfilment of a promise that, should any of Miss Mitford’s letters to her be printed, proofs of the MS. should be shown to her, and not published without her consent. I have written to assure her that her wish shall be complied with; but, as far as I recollect, no letters to her are given.

“I don’t know whither to send this. I must try Dover. My sister is gone to Norfolk, on her way to Lincolnshire, and I think of following her in about a fortnight. How the time does fly when one is happy and in good air!

“I hasten to answer your question as well as I can. ‘The Revenge’ is a very popular tragedy, by Young (Edward, I think), and the principal character is Zanga. The ‘Bellario’ you want I can’t tell. There are at least fifty Bellarios in the old English Drama; but I can’t guess, from the slight hint you give me, which this alluded to by Miss Mitford may be, unless it be the young lady in disguise who is the heroine in ‘Philaster,’ a celebrated play of Beaumont and Fletcher’s. George Darnley wrote two plays, very good, on English history, about thirty years ago. I have them both, but can’t remember the names of them. He was a very studious literary person, and well nigh stone-deaf. I could help you, if I could see the text in full and had my books at hand; but here, except scientific books, we have nothing but ‘Crabb Robinson’s Life’ and a few novels.

“About ‘Clarissa’s’ work I can’t make a guess. I suppose it has some reference to Mademoiselle D’Arblay’s novel. You must not forget to put a note on Hugh Pearson when you insert his letters from Miss Mitford. He is a very able and accomplished man, and from the time of

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being appointed Rector of Sonning, which happened when he was quite young in orders, a kindred taste for literature attracted him to the companionship of Miss Mitford, to whom he eventually became a most invaluable friend. If you look his name out in Crockford’s Clerical Guide, you will find the dates of his preferment.

“Nothing has happened since I came back, except the arrival of Mr. Archdale in town, who has been driven from Norfolk by the bitterness of the cold. I was very happy at Sherborne. I like living in a school; it is so regular in the hours, and the meals are so ample and plain and good. To be sure I felt very much as if I was a pupil, and subject to the laws of the school, from which, when I transgressed them by appearing too late at breakfast or dinner, I was only absolved from the punishment by some illogical and partial exception.

“When shall you be back? I am told to go to the sea for a few days, and intend being with

306

REV. MR. CRAKE.

Crake at Battle from Monday till Saturday. I hope the sea-air will carry away my cough before it gets fixed for the Winter. I’m very old; and at that age in which keeping alive seems to be the sole object of living.

“I have heard nothing of Miss Mitford nor of Miss Austen; the life of the latter I’m looking for with great anxiety. In the meantime, I’ve been spending my evenings on the dullest of books, with clever things in it—Noblesse oblige.

“Our poor dear old friend Harness is no more. He fell down a flight of stone steps at the Deanery last night, and was instantly killed.

“Poor Miss Harness and Miss Archdale have been here, but have returned home. The funeral takes place here on Monday afternoon.