The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures, Bons Mots, Puns, and Hoaxes of Theodore Hook

by Theodore Edward Hook

THE INCONSISTENCIES OF CANT.

AN ILLUSTRATIVE HISTORY OF ONE DAY.

In order to carry herself gracefully, and turn out her toes in after times, the young pupil of the dancing-master is placed diurnally upon a board, so contrived as to keep her delicate feet extended at right angles with its sides; and, with her chest expanded, and her head erect, the dear little creature is made to stand for a certain period of every morning, Sundays excepted. This is all very well in early youth, and the pains endured in those days are amply repaid by the admiration she afterwards excites at Almack's by the gracefulness of her air and manner, the carriage of her body, and the symmetry of her figure. Wretched, indeed, would be the fair sufferer's case were she doomed from her teens to her death to stand in the same little stocks, and never enjoy the more liberal pleasures of her dancing days. Such is the melancholy state of a considerate "saint,"—and consider he must; for, if he considereth not, he sins. But to my history.

A gentleman, plain, pious, and excessively virtuous (such has ever been our aversion from mentioning proper names, that we decline saying who), resident, however, in a suburban villa, with a well-mown lawn in front, and charmingly-clipped evergreens standing thereupon, a bright-yellow gravel sweep to the door, a shining weathercock on the coach-house, a large dog in the yard, an old peacock on a rail, and a couple of enormous shells on either side of the entrance steps,—a gentleman, we say, resident in such a house, having descanted upon the horrors of slavery, lighted, last Tuesday evening, his bedroom candle, and betook himself to rest, his exemplary partner having preceded him thither after family prayers. To doubt the quiescence of such a couple, to imagine that anything could ruffle their serenity, or disturb their slumbers, would be to libel the fraternity to which our excellent friend belongs.

In the morning the exemplary man arose; and the first thing he did when he went down stairs, was to look into his hot-house, where he carefully examined a specimen of sugar-cane which he had planted some months previously, with a view to the cultivation of free sugar upon Dartmoor. He then sat down to breakfast with his lady.

"Dear Rachel," said the exemplary man, "how excellent this free sugar is. You get this, I presume, of William Heywood?"

"To be sure, my dear," replied the partner of his joys.

"It is gratifying to think," said the husband, "that no slave has been flogged to produce this."

Saying which, the mild and humane gentleman dropped a lump of it into a cup of chocolate, upon which excellent beverage, or the slave-labour required to cultivate it, he made no observation.

"I have but one fault to find with free sugar," said the lady, sighing.

"Name it," said the saint.

"It is fourteen-pence a pound, my love," said his spouse, "and we can get better anywhere else for ten-pence."

"That signifies little, my dear," said the saint, "provided we use nothing that has cost the slave torture." And then he blew his nose with a cotton pocket-handkerchief. "Confinement and slavery," continued the pious man, "are incompatible with humanity and feeling." Saying which, he walked up to the cage which held his lady's Jamaica parrot, and indulged the moping captive with a lump of Heywood's "free and easy."

At this moment his dennett was announced, and, rising from his bamboo-chair, he proceeded to leave ten guineas with his lady for a charitable donation;—he put on his hat and gloves, and his amiable partner having attended him to the door, as he stepped into the vehicle, expressed her tender fears lest the slightness of the shafts should endanger her exemplary husband's neck.

"They look very slight, dearest," said the "saint;" "but they are perfectly secure, they are made of lance-wood!"

Consoled by this intelligence, she waved her lily hand, and our pious friend went to attend a meeting of shareholders of the Anglo-Mexican Mining Company, where he paid up his instalments, without taking the precaution of considering what class of labourers must necessarily be employed in working the mines. He proceeded thence to the sale of East India produce, where he made several purchases, not troubling himself to inquire how indigo flourished, or rice grew; and, meeting on his way a director of the opulent Leadenhall monopoly, accepted an invitation to dine with him at the City of London Tavern.

Here he of course found an excellent dinner spread upon a table of mahogany; his chair was of the same material. He was helped to turtle and ate it with a silver spoon. To gratify his palate he drank ever and anon iced punch, sweetened he asked not how, and strengthened with rum. Over his turbot he sprinkled Cayenne pepper, and flavoured his cucumber with Chili vinegar. With a curry he called for hot pickles, and having in the dessert refreshed himself with some excellent preserved ginger, took a cup of coffee, and concluding with a small glass of noyeau, stepped again into his dennett, and reached his villa in safety, blessing the names of Buxton, Wilberforce, and Macaulay, and receiving the tender compliments of his affectionate wife upon the virtue of drinking nothing but free sugar.

And this is what five hundred persons do, under the guidance of the Liverpool speculators, and the leaders of apes and asses in this metropolis. Let us merely point out to such of our readers who like the followers of cant, and will not take the trouble of thinking for themselves, those inconsistencies which one day's adventures of our pious "saint" develop.

Had he acted upon principle instead of policy, this exemplary old body would have remembered that rum and coffee, as well as sugar, are the produce of slave-labour,—that his morning's chocolate and his afternoon's liqueur have the same origin; he would neither have ventured to trust to his lance-wood springs, nor have dared to blow his nose with his cotton handkerchief; neither would he in the morning after his hearty dinner, have been prevailed upon to take a little tamarind drink to cool his constitution, nor have allowed his apothecary to suggest an exhibition of castor-oil if his indigestion continued; but even if he had overcome these scruples, how would he have summoned sufficient fortitude to put into circulation his sovereigns and shillings, which, although our only circulating medium, are furnished by the labour of slaves, chained to their horrid work, lest they should risk the punishment of death by endeavouring to escape the toil and climate to which they are consigned.

It is with the slavery question as it is with the over-refinement of all other feelings,—it only requires to be looked into and analysed to be detected in all its flagrant folly and absurdity. Had our pious "free and easy" sugar friend followed up his own doctrine, he would long before this have quitted his villa, disposed of his dennett, and retired to some cave, where neither eating nor drinking, nor furniture dyed with fustic and logwood, were required, and have shown himself a sincere saint, an abjurer of all the good things of this world, and a man of ten thousand; but until we see the whole life of a man in the same keeping, and find him equally scrupulous upon all points, and not exhibiting his piety only where his mercantile prospects are implicated, we must beg to avow our opinion that the "free and easy" sugar system at fourteen-pence per pound, however profitable to the grocer, and gratifying to the East India proprietor, is neither more nor less than a contemptible absurdity, and a most unqualified humbug.

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PRINCE PUCKLER-MUSKAU'S TOUR.[62]

It would appear that the German publishers are before even our own in the arts of the puff; at least we have not yet seen a "fashionable novel" of the Burlington Street manufactory ushered into public life with the trumpetings of a first-rate English author. This "celebrated tour," as the advertisements style it, has, however, the advantage of a preliminary flourish from no less a person than Meinherr von Goethe, who, among other things, extols the tourist for the accuracy of his descriptions of English scenery and society, particularly "the hunting-parties and drinking-bouts, which succeed each other in an unbroken series," and which "are made tolerable to us" (i. e. M. Goethe) "only because he can tolerate them." "The peculiarities of English manners," continues the puff, "are drawn vividly and distinctly, without exaggeration;" but how the sage of Weimar should have fancied himself qualified to form so decided an opinion upon the accuracy of his protegé, we do not presume exactly to understand; inasmuch as we have reason to believe that he has suffered eighty-three years of his youth to slip away without availing himself of an opportunity of judging of our peculiarities from personal experience.

"Like other unprejudiced travellers of modern times, (he proceeds) our author is not very much enchanted with the English form of existence—his cordial and sincere admiration is often accompanied by unsparing censure.... He is by no means inclined to favour the faults and weaknesses of the English; and in these cases—(what cases?)—he has the greatest and best among them,—those whose reputation is universal,—on his side.

"The great charm, however, which attaches us to his side, consists in the moral manifestations of his nature, which run through the book: his clear understanding, and simple natural manner, render him highly interesting. We are agreeably affected by the sight of a right-minded and kind-hearted man, who describes with charming frankness the conflict between will and accomplishment!" (What does the Patriarch mean?)

"We represent him to ourselves as of dignified and prepossessing exterior. He knows how instantly to place himself on an equality with high and low, and to be welcome to all;—that he excites the attention of women is natural enough—he attracts and is attracted; but his experience of the world enables him to terminate any little affaires du cœur without violence or indecorum."

We shall presently enable the reader to judge for himself as to some points of this eulogy. Meantime, we turn the leaf, and find a second flourish from—the translator of these wonderful letters.

"A rumour," says this cautious and disinterested critic, "has ascribed them to Prince Puckler-Muskau, a subject of Prussia, who is known to have travelled in England and Ireland about the period at which they were written. He has even been mentioned as the author in the Berlin newspapers: as, however, he has not thought fit to accept the authorship, we have no right to fix it upon him, though the voice of Germany has perhaps sufficiently established his claim to it. At all events, the Letters contain allusions to his rank which fully justify us in ascribing them to a German Prince."

After Goethe and the translator, or, in German phrase, oversetter, comes the editor!—who, in the midst of some would-be-pathetic cant, drops two bits of information, both entirely false; namely, that "the letters, with very few and unimportant exceptions, were written at the moment;" and, secondly, that "the author is dead!" The editor adds that there actually exist four volumes of this correspondence, but from "various circumstances, which cannot be explained, it has been found necessary to publish the two last volumes first;"—the pair, as yet unprinted, containing his highness's opinions and illustrations of London society, as these, now before us, exhibit the "manners and customs" of the provinces, and of Ireland.

As to the alleged demise of the author—Shakspeare mentions a certain class of persons who "die many times before their deaths;" and perhaps his highness may have thought it as well to feel his ground with our provinces before venturing upon what he calls "the grand foyer of European aristocracy." However—unless the whole affair is an impudent juggle—we are justified in fixing this performance upon the Prince Puckler-Muskau; and we only wonder how any English reviewer of the book could have hesitated about doing so, provided he had read as far as page 284 of the first volume, where we find our "German prince" at Limerick, in company with Mr. O'Connell, a relation of the great agitator.

"We quitted the church, and were proceeding to visit the rock near the Shannon, upon which the English signed the treaty after the battle of the Boyne—a treaty which they have not been remarkably scrupulous in observing. I remarked that we were followed by an immense crowd of people, which increased like an avalanche, and testified equal respect and enthusiasm. All on a sudden they shouted, 'Long life to Napoleon and Marshal ——.' 'Good God,' said I, 'for whom do the people take me? As a perfectly unpretending stranger I cannot in the least degree understand why they seem disposed to do me so much honour.' 'Was not your father the Prince of ——?' said O'Connell. 'Oh no,' replied I; 'my father was indeed a nobleman of rather an older date, but very far from being so celebrated.' 'You must forgive us then,' said O'Connell, incredulously; 'for, to tell you the truth, you are believed to be a natural son of Napoleon, whose partiality to your supposed mother was well known.' 'You joke,' said I, laughing: 'I am at least ten years too old to be the son of the great emperor and the beautiful princess.' He shook his head, however, and I reached my inn amid reiterated shouts. Here I shut myself up, and I shall not quit my retreat to-day. The people, however, patiently posted themselves under my windows, and did not disperse until it was nearly dark."

We make no apology for anticipating here the arrival of his highness at Limerick, because, by showing in the outset the mistake that Mr. O'Connell made between the titles of Prince de la Moscowa and Prince Muskau, we establish at once the identity of Goethe's "unprejudiced traveller," and a "right-minded" and "decorous" terminater of affaires de cœur—of whom many of our readers have had some personal knowledge—and whose imposing mustachios are still fresh in our own recollection. The cold nights of November do not more surely portend to the anxious sportsman in the country the approach of woodcocks, than do the balmy zephyrs of May foretell the arrival of illustrious foreigners in London; each succeeding season brings its flock of princes, counts, and barons, who go the ordinary round of dinners, assemblies, concerts and balls; yawn each of them one night under the gallery of the House of Commons; one day take their position on the bench at the Old Bailey; visit the Court of Chancery; snatch a glimpse of the House of Peers; mount St. Paul's; dive into the Tunnel; see Windsor; breakfast at Sandhurst; attend a review on a wet morning in Hyde Park; dance at Almack's; try for an heiress—fail; make a tour of the provinces; enjoy a battue in Norfolk; sink into a coal-pit in Northumberland; admire grouse and pibrochs in Scotland; fly along a rail-road; tread the plank of a steam-packet, and so depart,—"and then are heard no more."

Such was this Prince Puckler-Muskau; and such were his qualifications and opportunities for depicting that

"strange insular life which" (according to the clear and consistent summary of M. Goethe) "is based in boundless wealth and civil freedom, in universal monotony and manifold diversity—formal and capricious, active and torpid, energetic and dull, comfortable and tedious, the envy and the derision of the world!"

His first letter, addressed, as all his letters are, to his "dear Julia,"—(that is to say, no doubt, his highness's consort, Princess Puckler, to his alliance with whom, we believe, he owed his princeship)—is dated Cheltenham, July 12, 1828; and the first observation which his highness is pleased to make upon his arrival at that popular watering-place is one of a mixed character, political, statistical, and philosophical, whence may be derived a tolerably fair estimate of his highness's accuracy and knowledge of "things in general." He is describing to his "dear Julia" the nature and character of the distress amongst the lower orders in England, and its causes and origin.

"The distress," says his highness, "in truth, consisted in this: that the people, instead of having three or four meals a day, with tea, cold meat, bread and butter, beefsteaks, or roast meat, were now obliged to content themselves with two, consisting only of meat and potatoes. It was, however, just harvest time, and the want of labourers in the fields so great, that the farmers gave almost any wages. Nevertheless, I was assured that the mechanics would rather destroy all the machinery and actually starve, than bring themselves to take a sickle in their hands, or bind a sheaf, so intractable and obstinate are the English common people rendered by their universal comfort, and the certainty of obtaining employment if they vigorously seek it. From what I have now told you, you may imagine what deductions you ought to make from newspaper articles."

This valuable information is followed by an anecdote:—

"Yesterday, 'entre le poire et le fromage,'"—(at what period of a Cheltenham dinner that might be, his highness does not condescend to explain)—"I received the twice-declined visit of the master of the ceremonies, a gentleman who does the honour of the baths, and exercises a considerable authority over the company of an English watering-place, in virtue of which he welcomes strangers with most anti-English officiousness and pomposity, and manifests great care and zeal for their entertainment. An Englishman invested with such a character has mauvais jeu, and vividly recalls the ass in the fable, who tried to imitate the caresses of the lap-dog. I could not get rid of my visitor till he had swallowed some bottles of claret with me, and devoured all the dessert the house afforded. At length he took his leave, first extorting from me a promise that I would honour the ball of the following evening with my presence. However, I had so little inclination for company and new acquaintances, that I made faux bond, and left Cheltenham early in the morning."

Who the master of the ceremonies at Cheltenham, thus uncourteously likened by his highness unto an ass, may be, we have not the advantage of knowing; but certain it is that, however derogatory such an office might at first sight appear, the characters and profession of some of the individuals filling it prove that it is not so considered; and it is, at all events, highly improbable that a gentleman, paying an official visit to a foreign prince, would force his society upon his illustrious host for a sufficient length of time to drink several bottles of claret; and still more improbable is it that any man—gentleman or not—could contrive to "devour all the dessert the Plough at Cheltenham afforded," at a sitting. If, however, the arbiter elegantiarum of Cheltenham did really conduct himself in the manner described, he followed the example of Hamlet with the daggers,—he spoke of ceremony, but used none.

At page 14, we reach Llangollen, where his highness is pleased to make an observation, which, coming from a prince, sounds strange. He tells his Julia that "where he pays well, he is always the first person!" "We represent him to ourselves (quoth Goethe) as of a dignified appearance;" but the landlords and waiters seem to have wanted such discrimination. He then informs us—

"that his appetite, enormously sharpened by the mountain air, was most agreeably invited by the aspect of the smoking coffee, fresh guinea-fowls' eggs, deep yellow mountain butter, thick cream, 'toasted muffins' (a delicate sort of cake eaten hot with butter), and lastly, two red spotted trout just caught; all placed on a snow-white table-cloth of Irish damask;—a breakfast which Walter Scott's heroes in 'the highlands' might have been thankful to receive at the hands of that great painter of human necessities. 'Je dévore déjà un œuf.'—Adieu!"

It is laid down by Hannah, in "Hamilton's Bawn," that a captain of a horse

"has never a hand that is idle;

For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle;"

and we infer, from the animated account given by his highness of his own activity, that he must have been either a dragoon or a hussar, for, while with one hand he is describing to the sentimental Julia the delights of his breakfast, he is, by his own showing, actually eating an egg with the other.—His notion of being served with guinea-fowls' eggs we presume to have arisen from the price which the innkeeper charged for them, for although eggs are plenty in Wales, princes are scarce; but what his highness means by describing Sir Walter Scott as a great painter of human necessities, is quite beyond us.—After breakfast, he impudently intrudes himself on Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, and quizzes them and their pretty cottage in a style which, all the circumstances considered, one might almost be tempted to call brutal. Those amiable spinsters are, however, no more—and we may pass on.

By a reference to page 27, we find that his highness slept "admirably," on the night of the 15th of August, at his inn in Wales, where he describes himself sitting at the window, looking at the sea, and the ships thereon. "On the landward"—whatever that means—he says, "rises a castle of black marble, surrounded by ancient oaks." And in this retirement he finds, "very unexpectedly,"—we should think so,—a "thin" friend of his, with "magnificent calves, elegantly dressed;" a gentleman who is "so good-natured and yet so sarcastic, so English and yet so German," etc., etc.; and this so delightful personage tells him a story, which, in order to fill up a certain number of pages, his highness is good enough to repeat, though it contains nothing worthy of notice, except an ill-natured slap at the poor Duke of St. Albans, who treated him with every mark of civility when he was in England.

His highness is tempted to visit the marble castle which he has seen from his window, and is "remarkably well received there."

"The bells of the various rooms," says his highness, "are suspended in a row on the wall, numbered, so that it is immediately seen in what room any one has rung; the sort of pendulum which is attached to each wire continues to vibrate for ten minutes after the sound has ceased, to remind the sluggish of their duty."

"The females of the establishment," continues his highness, "have also a large common room, in which, when they have nothing else to do, they sew, knit, and spin; close to this is a closet for washing the glass and china, which comes within their province. Each of them, as well as of the man-servants, has her separate bed-chamber in the highest story. Only the housekeeper and the butler have distinct apartments below. Immediately adjoining that of the housekeeper, is a room where coffee is made, and the store-room, containing everything requisite for breakfast, which important meal, in England, belongs specially to her department.... Near the butler's room is his pantry, a spacious fire-proof room with closets on every side for the reception of the plate, which he cleans here, and the glass and china used at dinner, which must be delivered back into his custody as soon as it is washed by the women. All these arrangements are executed with the greatest punctuality. A locked staircase leads from the pantry into the beer and wine cellar, which is likewise under the butler's jurisdiction."

Of the cordiality of his highness's reception at the marble castle we have no doubt; but he leaves us in the dark as to whether he had been the guest of the housekeeper or the butler, though we confess we rather incline to the former, not only because, according to his guarantee, the author of the "Sorrows of Werter," he attracted women and was attracted by them, because he refers, with something of a regretful feeling, to the "locked staircase" of the wine-cellar: had the butler been at home, there is every reason to hope that his highness would not have found it closed against him, but, like another Archer, would have been kindly welcomed by the Cambrian Scrub.

His highness next visits a slate-quarry, over which he tells us it "took him a considerable time to take even a hasty glance." He then gives us the average of casualties which happen annually, and breaks off into a profane medley of nonsense, impiously entitled "Reflections of a Pious Soul," upon which we decline commenting, lest we should be compelled to extract even the smallest portion of it.

In his highness's account of Carnarvon Castle we are favoured with an historical fact so interesting and so new withal, that we must extract it bodily, from page 77; which page is moreover ostentatiously headed, "Origin of the Prince of Wales's Motto."

"On descending, my guide showed me the remains of a vaulted chamber, in which, according to tradition, Edward II., the first Prince of Wales, was born. The Welsh, in consequence of the oppressions of English governors in the earlier times of partial and momentary conquest, had declared to the king that they would obey none but a prince of their own nation. Edward therefore sent for his wife Eleanor in the depth of winter, that she might lie-in in Caernarvon Castle. She bore a prince; upon which the king summoned the nobles and chiefs of the land, and asked them solemnly whether they would submit to the rule of a prince who was born in Wales, and could not speak a word of English. On their giving a joyful and surprised assent, he presented to them his newborn son, exclaiming in broken Welsh, Eich dyn! i.e., 'This is your man!' which has been corrupted into the present motto of the English arms, Ich Dien."

It seems hardly worth while detailing the true history of this motto, since every child knows it—yet to prove, on the spot, the deplorable ignorance of this pretender, every child does know that the distinguishing device of the Prince of Wales (having nothing to do with the English arms), viz., the plume of three ostrich feathers, with the motto Ich Dien, which, in Prince Puckler's own mother-tongue, signifies 'I serve,' was assumed by Edward the Second's grandson, the Black Prince, in memory of the death of John, king of Bohemia, the lawful owner of the said device, in the battle of Cressy. One might have expected a little heraldry at least from the Château of Thonderdentronck.

Ten pages of stupid blasphemy bring us to page 88, where the baser propensities of his mind give place to its overweening passion—personal vanity. The hero of "moral manifestations" thus confides to his dear princess the conquest he has made of a bar-maid at Bangor:—

"I had read thus far when the little Eliza appeared with my breakfast, and with an arch good-nature bid me good morning 'after my long sleep.' She had just been to church, had all the consciousness of being well dressed, and was waiting upon a foreigner; three things which greatly incline women to be tender-hearted. She accordingly seemed almost embarrassed when I inquired about my departure early the following morning.... After dinner I went, under her guidance, to visit the walks round the town. One of these is most romantically placed on a large rock. We saw from hence Snowdon, in almost transparent clearness, undimmed by a single cloud.... After this pastoral walk, tender mutton closed the day."

Who is not inclined to exclaim with the Welsh, according to his highness's version, "Eich dyn!" This is your man!

Skipping some more blasphemies, we find ourselves at Kennell Park, the seat of Colonel Hughes.

"Towards evening," says his highness, "I arrived at the house of my worthy colonel—a true Englishman in the best sense of the word" (from being a Welshman, we presume). "He and his amiable family received me in the friendliest manner. Country gentlemen of his class, who are in easy circumstances, (with us they would be thought rich,) and fill a respectable station in society; who are not eager and anxious pursuers of fashion in London, but seek to win the affection of their neighbours and tenants; whose hospitality is not mere ostentation; whose manners are neither 'exclusive' nor outlandish, but who find their dignity in a domestic life polished by education and adorned by affluence, and in the observance of the strictest integrity; such form the most truly respectable class of Englishmen. In the great world of London, indeed, they play an obscure part; but on the wide stage of humanity, one of the most noble and elevated that can be allotted to man. Unfortunately, however, the predominance and the arrogance of the English aristocracy is so great, and that of fashion yet so much more absolute and tyrannous, that such families, if my tribute of praise and admiration were ever to fall under their eye, would probably feel less flattered by it, than they would be if I enumerated them among the leaders of ton."—Pp. 137, 138.

Little did his highness think that a few short months only would elapse before the brow of his "worthy colonel, filling a respectable station in society," would be encircled with a baronial coronet; little did he imagine that his "country gentleman," who "played an obscure part" in London, was so soon to be converted into one of the "leaders of ton," from amongst whom he had so flatteringly excluded him; little did he think that his hospitable friend was destined so soon to adorn the British peerage as Lord Dinorben.

On the 5th of August he walked, while all the rest of the family were yet in bed, "with the charming little Fanny, the youngest daughter of the house, who is not yet out."—"She took me," says his highness, "round the park and garden, and showed me her dairy and aviary." His highness then describes the dairy, which, we presume, from a laudable desire of the "worthy colonel" to bring the article into fashion, is surrounded with lumps of copper, forming "a gorgeous bed for rare and curious plants." His highness enumerates the comforts of the colonel's cocks and hens, and the ducks and the pigeons—he feels at the sight thereof a fit of "pastoral sensibility" come over him, and "turns homewards to get rid of his fit of romance before breakfast:"—"Miss Fanny," he adds, "exclaimed, with true English pathos,

'We do but row,

And we are steered by fate.'"

"Yes, indeed, thought I," says the prince, "the little philosopher is right—things always turn out differently from what one intends, even in such small events as these." What "the little philosopher" meant by her pathetic exclamation, we cannot, of course, divine; nor what his highness alludes to as an event; but the story, as his highness has here printed and published it, may serve as a caution to Lord Dinorben how he suffers the familiar visits of princes, and subjects himself to the jokes of such illustrious personages as feel themselves privileged, in return for the honour they confer upon him by their presence, to laugh at his "want of ton," and ridicule the kindnesses which "people of his class" are so apt to bestow.

After dinner the prince tells us that he mounted the colonel's horse—"unwearied as a machine of steel,"—(copper would have been as fair a simile):—he gallops over the stones, up hill and down,—

"leaps with undisturbed composure over the gates which continually intercept my way across the fields and tires me long before he feels the least fatigue himself. This, to me, is the true pleasure of riding—

But will it be believed, notwithstanding the comfort, the good cheer, the aviary, the dairy, the untireable horse, etc., etc.,—the prince, although he had promised to stay with the "worthy colonel" for some weeks, gets amazingly bored, and "therefore took leave;" and had been, as he intimates, so genêd by Kennell Park, that, proceeding from it to the house of "another gentleman who had invited him," he makes his visit "of some hours instead of days."

This grateful recipient of Cambrian hospitality is presently discovered at the seat of Mr. Owen Williams, where he is obliged to amuse himself "after dinner with reading the newspaper." This slur upon the gaiety and conviviality of Mr. Williams's table must be as groundless as is an assertion which he also hazards, that there was nothing for dinner but fish—and that after dinner oysters formed the dessert. But whether it be true that his highness felt dull and was driven to the newspaper, or not, glad we are that he has said he was; for he favours us with an extract from the journal, whatever it might have been, which affords a new and convincing proof of the universal correctness of his highness's information and remarks:—

"In this vast desert [the newspaper] I met with only one thing which I think worth quoting to you. The article treated of the speech from the throne, in which were the words 'The Speaker is commanded to congratulate the people on their universal prosperity.' 'This,' says the writer, 'is too insolent; openly to make a jest of the miseries of the people.' It is indeed a settled point, that truth is never to be expected in a speech from the throne; and if ever a king were mad enough to wish to speak the real truth on such an occasion, he must begin his speech, 'My knaves and dupes,' instead of the wonted exordium, 'My lords and gentlemen.'"

That no such words appeared in any king's speech as those which his highness is pleased to comment upon, we need not take the trouble to say; but it is rather strange, since we have already recorded his highness's view of the real causes of popular distress in this country, that he should so entirely coincide in the vindictiveness of the supposed newspaper upon the fictitious expression.

We next find the prince visiting Colonel Hughes's copper-mines; and, while he is standing by the furnace, he receives an invitation from the colonel's brother, the major-commandant of the loyal Chester local militia, to dine with him. His highness not only declines the invitation, which he was quite at liberty to do, but sneers at the hospitality which was offered him; and forthwith starts from Lord Dinorben's copper pots for Holyhead, to embark for Dublin; where, after a dose of sea-sickness, he arrives in good preservation. He says—"As I knew not what else to do—(for all the notables who inhabit the town are in the country)—I visited a number of show-places; and among the first was the theatre,—a very pretty house, with a somewhat less rough and obstreperous audience than in London!" Eich dyn!

The descriptions which the "attracting and attracted" prince gives to "Julia" of his little adventures during his rides upon the horses of his friends are edifying. In Wales he discovers a sylph weeding in a field, half naked, but "shy as a roe, and chaste as a vestal." In Ireland he meets with another interesting female, whose personal and mental qualities he thus details to his "beloved soul:"—

"The scene was yet further animated by a sweet-looking young woman, whom I discovered in this wild solitude, busied in the humble employment of straw-plaiting. The natural grace of the Irish peasant-women, who are often truly beautiful, is as surprising as their dress, or rather the want of dress; for though it was very cold on these hills, the whole clothing of the young woman before me consisted of a large very coarse straw hat, and literally two or three rags of the coarsest sackcloth, suspended under the breast by a piece of cord, and more than half disclosing her handsome person. Her conversation was cheerful, sportive, and witty; perfectly unembarrassed, and, in a certain sense, free; but you would fall into a great error if you inferred from that any levity or looseness of conduct. The women of this class in Ireland are, almost universally, extremely chaste, and still more disinterested."

Truly, indeed, does the illustrious Goethe say, that this prince knew how to put himself on a level with the highest and lowest. We are, however, compelled to quit this rustic, half-clad Venus for brighter scenes and more intellectual pleasures. On his return from his ride, his highness proceeds to call on Lady Morgan, who receives him with much grace and urbanity.

"I was very eager (says the distinguished stranger) to make the acquaintance of a woman whom I rate so highly as an authoress. I found her, however, very different from what I had pictured her to myself. She is a little, frivolous, lively woman, apparently between thirty and forty, neither pretty nor ugly, but by no means disposed to resign all claim to the former, and with really fine and expressive eyes. She has no idea of 'mauvaise honte' or embarrassment; her manners are not the most refined, and affect the 'aisance' and levity of the fashionable world, which, however, do not sit calmly or naturally upon her. She has the English weakness, that of talking incessantly of fashionable acquaintances, and trying to pass for very 'recherchée,' to a degree quite unworthy of a woman of such distinguished talents; she is not at all aware how she thus underrates herself.

"She is not difficult to know, for, with more vivacity than good taste, she instantly professes perfect openness, and especially sets forth on every occasion her liberalism and her infidelity; the latter of the somewhat obsolete school of Helvetius and Condillac. In her writings she is far more guarded and dignified than in her conversation. The satire of the latter is, however, not less biting and dexterous than that of her pen, and just as little remarkable for a conscientious regard to truth."

Now is this fair?—is this gallant?—is it princely?—is it gentlemanlike?—hunted, followed, worshipped, and besought as his highness was by Lady Morgan; dogged, baited, ferreted out, and fêted as he had been, was it to be expected that he would denounce his kind hostess as frivolous, affected, a liberal and an infidel,—(and he too, of all men in the world)—with more vivacity than taste, and no regard for truth!—and, worst of all, "neither pretty nor ugly!"

He does, indeed, slily drop one lump of sugar into his bowl of gall, and thinking he knows her ladyship's mind to a nicety, no doubt believes that the one sweet drop will "property the whole." "She is apparently between thirty and forty." Miss Owenson, however, was an established authoress six-and-twenty years ago; and if any lady, player's daughter or not, knew what she knew when she wrote and published her first novels, at eight or nine years' of age, (which Miss Owenson must have been at that time, according to the prince's calculation,) she was undoubtedly such a juvenile prodigy as would be quite worthy to make a "case" for the Gentleman's Magazine, and as fit to fill a show-waggon at Bartholomew Fair, as her ladyship's namesake who was born with double joints, and could lift a sack of corn with her teeth when she was only six years old.

His highness now determines to explore County Wicklow, and starts for Bray,—"a town twenty miles from Dublin!"—having "left his carriage and people in town."—Of this carriage and people we are often told much, and they seem to give him no more trouble or inconvenience in the management of them than his hat or his gloves,—when he wants them he has them,—when he does not, they vanish into thin air. What did he do with his "carriage and people" while he was flirting with the barmaid at Bangor? When did they cross the water to Ireland? for we have seen he came quite alone through Wales; and we shall see presently that he made all his excursions in Ireland in noddies, jingles, jaunting cars, and went back quite alone through England upon the tops of coaches. But, not to dwell on such trifles—for we suppose one might, without much injury, say, both of "principality" and of "people," de minimis non curat Prætor—let us attend his highness (or, to give him the exact title which the Germans bestow on princes of this calibre, "his thorough-illustriousness,") to his supper-table at Bray.

"I supped with a young parson of good family, who made me laugh heartily at his orthodoxy in matters of religion, interspersed with talk, which was by no means remarkable for severe decorum of virtue. But such is the piety of Englishmen (qu. ?)—it is to them at once a party matter and an affair of good manners; and as in politics they follow their party implicitly, through thick and thin, reasonable and unreasonable, because it is their party;—as they submit to a custom for ever because it is a custom; so they regard their religion, (without the least tincture of poetry,) in exactly the same point of view: they go to church on Sundays, just as regularly as they dress every day for dinner; and regard a man who neglects church, just in the same light as one who eats fish with a knife."

We may afford to despise this infidel's sneer at English piety. As for his ideas of English manners, the secret of his "thorough-lustre" on that head now begins to peep out. He had evidently been studying the poor puppyisms of what has been well enough called "the silver-fork school of novelists." In the genuine spirit of the doctors of this precious "sapientia," he says,—

"The common people in England put the knife as well as the fork to their mouths. The higher classes, on the contrary, regard this as the true sin against the Holy Ghost, and cross themselves internally when they see a foreign ambassador now and then eat so;—it is an affront to the whole nation."

This specimen of his highness's "decorum" is sufficient. With reference to his highness's horsemanship, we leave the following exploit of the succeeding morning to the consideration of the reader:—

"About a mile and a half farther on, the path suddenly ends in a ha-ha, over which my horse utterly refused to leap. As the wall was on my side, and the turf below very soft, I hit upon a new expedient; I tied my handkerchief over the eyes of the refractory beast, and pushed him down backwards over the wall. He was very little frightened, and not at all hurt by the fall, as I had expected, and grazed peaceably blindfold till I rejoined him. This manœuvre saved me at least five miles." (No doubt German miles.)

We presume this experiment was performed upon a friend's horse. In the execution, however, of his "new expedient," he had, it appears, dropped his purse: and we give the account of its restoration to its owner in his highness's own words, in order to show the opinion his highness entertains of the numerous fools who were civil enough to make "feasts for him" while he was in this country.

"Scarcely had I rested myself at table (at Avoca), when I was told that some one wished to speak to me. A young man, whom I had never seen, was shown in, and presented to me a pocket-book, which, to my no small astonishment, I recognized as my own; containing, besides other important papers which I always carry about me, all the money I had taken for my journey. I had, Lord knows how, dropped it out of my breast-pocket; and had, therefore, no small reason to congratulate myself on so honourable and obliging a finder. In England I should hardly have had the good fortune to see my pocket-book again, even if a 'gentleman' had found it; he would probably have let it lie in peace,—or kept it."

Whatever we might have been likely to do by his pocket-book, we may, on this particular occasion, allow his highness's tour-book to "lie in peace."—He proceeds to exhibit his intimate knowledge of the "insular life:"—

"A really poor man, who is not in a situation to contract debts, can on no terms be a 'gentleman.' On the contrary, a rich scamp, who has had what is called a good education, so long as he preserves his 'character' (reputation) dexterously, passes for a 'perfect gentleman.' In the exclusive society of London there are yet finer 'nuances.' A man, for instance, who were to manifest any timidity or courtesy towards women, instead of treating them in a familiar and 'nonchalant' manner, would awaken the suspicion that he was 'no gentleman;' but should the luckless man ask twice for soup at dinner, or appear in evening dress at a breakfast which begins at three in the afternoon and ends at midnight, he may be a prince and a 'millionaire,' but he is 'no gentleman.'"

Had his highness named none of his English (and Welsh) associates, one might have found a charitable apology for the above: as it is, we are bound to express our cordial agreement with one of his observations—viz., that a man "may be a prince" without being a gentleman. His highness now threads the Dargle; a coarse attack, full of blasphemous allusions, upon Lord Powerscourt, follows; and we then are carried to Donnybrook fair. A description of the bestialities of that festival is given, which concludes with an account of a flirtation, to call it by the gentlest name, between a pair of lovers "excessively drunk,"—the whole of which is introduced merely to usher in this remark:—"My reverence for truth compels me to add, that not the slightest trace of English brutality was to be perceived." We hope the Lady Janes and Lady Marys, who waltzed and gallopaded with this "thoroughly illustrious" prince—their fathers, whose wines he drank—and their brothers, whose horses he rode,—will not forget this passage, in case his "noble and prepossessing aspect" should again chance to enlighten our "insular gloom."

Once more safe in his quarters at Dublin, our Prince lays down as an axiom that "nobody eats soup in England." "This," says his highness, "is the reason, by-the-bye, for which my old Saxon left me; he declared that he could not exist any longer in a state of barbarism—without soup." Now, that his highness's "Saxon" should have quitted "his ground" on this score seems odd,—inasmuch as his highness himself has just before told us, that "the luckless man who asked for soup twice at dinner" could be "no gentleman;" in other words, that such is an usual mark of what our superfine novelists call "vulgarity!" For the rest, his highness appears to have lived much more in coffee-houses than anywhere else; and, as everybody knows, whole seas of soup—black, grey, red, and green—are daily and hourly bubbling and smoking in all such quarters. Of one of these same coffee-houses, after denying the existence of soup, and explaining that the Irish boil their potatoes "in water," his highness thus continues his description:—

"But now follows the second stage:—the table-cloth is removed; clean plate, and knife and fork laid, wine and wine-glass, and a few miserable apples or pears, with stony ship biscuits are brought: and now the dinner seems to begin to enjoy tranquillity and comfort. His countenance assumes an expression of satisfaction; apparently sunk in profound meditation, leaning back in his chair, and looking fixedly straight before him, he suffers a sip of wine to glide down his throat from time to time, only breaking the death-like silence by now and then laboriously craunching his rocky biscuits.

"When the wine is finished, follows stage the third—that of digestion. All motion now ceases; his appetite being satiated, he falls into a sort of magnetic sleep, only distinguishable from the natural by the open eyes. After this has lasted for half an hour or an hour, all at once it ceases; he cries out, as if under the influence of some sudden possession, 'Waiter, my slippers;' and seizing a candle, walks off gravely to his chamber to meet his slippers and repose."

It appears to us very odd that the gallant prince should have, in this luculent sketch of "insular life," suppressed all mention of his "attracted" friends the chambermaids. He proceeds,—

"Englishmen who do not belong to the aristocracy, and are not very rich, usually travel without a servant by the mail or stage-coach, which deposits them at the inn. The man who waits on strangers to the coach, cleans their boots, etc., has the universal appellation of 'Boots.' It is, accordingly, 'Boots' who brings your slippers, helps you to pull off your boots, and then departs, first asking at what time you will have, not, as in Germany, your coffee, but your hot water to shave. He appears with it punctually at the appointed hour, and brings your clothes cleanly brushed. The traveller then hastens to dress himself and to return to his beloved coffee-room, where the ingredients of breakfast are richly spread upon his table. To this meal he seems to bring more animation than to any other, and indeed I think more appetite; for the number of cups of tea, the masses of bread and butter, eggs and cold meat, which he devours, awaken silent envy in the breast, or rather in the stomach, of the less capable foreigner. He is now not only permitted, but enjoined (by custom his gospel) to read. At every cup of tea he unfolds a newspaper of the size of a table-cloth. Not a single speech, crim. con., murder, or other catastrophe, invented by the 'accident maker' in London, escapes him.

"Like one who would rather die of a surfeit than leave anything uneaten which he had paid for, the systematic Englishman thinks that, having called for a newspaper, he ought not to leave a letter of it unread. By this means his breakfast lasts several hours, and the sixth or seventh cup is drunk cold. I have seen this glorious meal protracted so long that it blended with dinner; and you will hardly believe me when I assure you, that a light supper followed at midnight without the company quitting the table."—Pp. 209-212.

The correctness of this picture is striking; but we do not exactly trace the sequence of thought within his highness's illustrious breast which conducts him from this analysis of coffee-house breakfasts, through a few more uncalled-for insinuations of contempt for the individuals at whose houses he had been visiting, to the grand reflection with which it pleases him to close, p. 234, viz., "Nevertheless, the English nobleman, even the least of the lords, in the bottom of his heart, thinks himself a better man than the king of France." This, written A.D. 1828, appears to be gratuitous malice; though, as to being a better man than the king of France, if there be truth in Hennequin, we certainly hope there is hardly an Englishman, whether great lord or little gentleman, amongst us—liable as we are to the charge of stealing pocket-books from living princes,—who would, in January, 1832, be ambitious to change characters with the actual occupant of the Tuileries.

At page 218, this exemplary advocate of Popish emancipation in Ireland, lets slip the following simple and natural observations:—

"I returned to Dublin just at the moment of a meeting of the 'Catholic Association,' and alighted at the door of their house: unfortunately, however, neither Shiel nor O'Connell was present, so that there was no great attraction. Heat and bad smells ('car l'humanité Catholique pûe autant qu'une autre') drove me out in a few minutes.

"In the evening I was better amused by the performances of some other charlatans—a company of English horse-riders who are here."

This is complimentary, and quite consistent with what will be found in the sequel.

The prince now starts for the south of Ireland—visiting and ridiculing a variety of families on his route. On one particular household he is especially jocose, and instances, in illustration of the state of their domestic information, a "long and patient" search which was made "in a map of Europe, for the United States!" (p. 221.) He adds,—

"The occasion of the search was, that the old gentleman wanted to show me Halifax and B—— town, which latter takes its name from him."

For one moment we must beg leave to stop his highness; no Englishman, or Irishman, ever talks of the United States; we always speak of America; and as, unfortunately for his highness, America is the distinctive appellation of one quarter of the globe, no Englishman, or even Irishman, would ever expect to find America in a map of Europe. If, indeed, it had been a question about Puckler-Muskau, or any such place, if place it be, we should, in common with all the rest of the world, the prince himself perhaps excepted, have hunted with the greatest alacrity to find it. But why was this old "country squire" so anxious to find the two American towns, which, by his anxiety, it is clear he thought his illustrious visitor knew nothing about? Why? Why, because he "laid the first stone of both during the American war, in which he commanded seven hundred men, and loves to recall those days of his youth and importance." In the preceding page he tells us that his host "is seventy-two years old, and hale and vigorous as a man of fifty." Now, mark:—Halifax, the capital of the province of Nova Scotia, was founded in May, 1749, being exactly seventy-nine years before the year 1828, in which his highness had the good fortune to meet with its "hale" founder, anno ætatis seventy-two, in Ireland, he having, according to his highness's account and calculation, commanded seven hundred men, and laid the first stone of a city, exactly seven years and four months before he was born. Whether this "vigorous" personage waited for the accouchement of his respectable mother to begin operations at B——, we cannot determine—the initial (so delicate!) baffles us; but we ought to be contented with his early exertions in the public service at Halifax.

These innocent, or rather imbecile, blunders or fictions are followed by another blasphemous satire upon our Church service—coupled with the remark, that Ireland is "debased by the stupid intolerance of the English priesthood," and that, therefore, out of a party of twenty persons, nobody knew where Carlsbad or Prague was; they did not even know where Bohemia was; in short, "everything out of Great Britain and Paris was a country in the moon." All this is at Limerick,—where the sexton of one of the "Catholic churches" told him they had rung the bells as soon as they heard of his arrival, and begged ten shillings as a gratuity; though we strongly suspect, that in 1828, the "Catholic churches" had no bells; where his highness is offered the order of the Liberators, which he declines, and compounds for dining with the Agitators; and where also occurs that scene of his being mistaken for young Ney, which we took leave to transpose to the earlier part of our observations, in order to identify the author.

The great object, however, of his highness's Irish excursion was, as might have been anticipated, to visit Mr. O'Connell; and accordingly he gets a horse (a friend's, of course) to ride to Derrinane, by a route which man on horseback never went before. On the journey a "soft rain began to fall," and his delicate highness (who, be it remembered, always prefers, or, at least, adopts the fashion of "travelling outside") writes thus:—"As I am seldom in the way of enjoying such a bath in the open air, I waded with a great feeling of satisfaction and pleasure through the streams, throwing myself in some degree into the pleasurable state of mind of a duck. Nothing of that kind is, as you know, impossible to my mobile fancy." What are we to make of this? His "thorough-lustre," the Prince Puckler-Muskau—the "dignified," "prepossessing," all-accomplished, admired of Goethe, the frank and favoured correspondent of Julia, and the personal friend of Lady Morgan,—to be able to throw himself into the pleasurable state of mind of a duck! and then appealing to his "beloved soul" to bear public testimony that he is capable of such an exertion. But perhaps the translator is in fault, and "duck" is not the right word.

In his progress to Derrinane, a series of Munchausen adventures await his highness:—he contrives to keep his seat in the saddle six miles after having broken his saddle-girths—he subsequently saddles himself, and leads his horse, (his carriage and people not being there)—and at length, after fording bottomless torrents, ascending inaccessible hills, and avoiding various inevitable accidents, the least of which would have been mortal, he reaches "the Abbey," and, after much thumping and ringing, obtains admission. As many of our readers may never have had the honour of inspecting this distinguished interieur, we must let his highness speak:—

"The tower clock was striking eleven, and I was, I confess, somewhat anxious as to my dinner, especially as I saw no living being, except a man in a dressing-gown at an upper window. Soon, however, I heard sounds in the house; a handsomely dressed servant appeared, bearing silver candlesticks, and opened the door of a room, in which I saw with astonishment a company of from fifteen to twenty persons sitting at a long table, on which were placed wine and dessert. A tall, handsome man, of cheerful and agreeable aspect, rose to receive me, and apologized for having given me up in consequence of the lateness of the hour, regretted that I had made such a journey in such terrible weather, presented me in a cursory manner to his family, who formed the majority of the company, and then conducted me to my bedroom. This was the great O'Connell!

"On the whole, he exceeded my expectations. His exterior is attractive; and the expression of intelligent good-nature, united with determination and prudence, which marks his countenance, is extremely winning. He has, perhaps, more of persuasiveness than of genuine, large, and lofty eloquence; and one frequently perceives too much design and manner in his words. Nevertheless, it is impossible not to follow his powerful arguments with interest, to view the martial dignity of his carriage without pleasure, or to refrain from laughing at his wit. It is very certain that he looks much more like a general of Napoleon's than a Dublin advocate. This resemblance is rendered much more striking by the perfection with which he speaks French, having been educated at the Jesuits' College at Doual and St. Omer. His family is old, and was probably one of the great families of the land. His friends, indeed, maintain that he springs from the ancient kings of Kerry,—an opinion which no doubt adds to the reverence with which he is regarded by the people. He himself told me—and not without a certain pretension—that one of his cousins was Comte O'Connell, and 'cordon rouge' in France; and another a baron, general and chamberlain to the Emperor of Austria; but that he was the head of the family. He is about fifty years old, and in excellent preservation, though his youth was rather wild and riotous....

"If he should succeed in obtaining emancipation, of which I have no doubt, his career, so far from being closed, will, I think, only then properly begin. The evils of Ireland, and of the constitution of Great Britain generally, lie too deep to be removed by emancipation. His understanding is sharp and quick, and manners, as I have said, winning and popular; although somewhat of the actor is perceivable in them, they do not conceal his very high opinion of himself, and are occasionally tinged by what an Englishman would call 'vulgarity.' Where is there a picture entirely without a shade?

"Another interesting man, the real, though not ostensible, head of the Catholics, was present, Father L'Estrange, a friar, and O'Connell's confessor. He may be regarded as the real founder of that Catholic Association so often derided in England, but which by merely negative powers, by dexterous activity in secret, and by universally organizing and training the people to one determinate end, attained a power over them as boundless as that of the hierarchy in the middle ages; with this difference, that the former strove for light and liberty, the latter for darkness and slavery. This is another outbreak of that second great revolution, which solely by intellectual means, without any admixture of physical force, is advancing to its accomplishment; and whose simple but resistless weapons are public discussion and the press. L'Estrange is a man of philosophical mind and unalterable calmness. His manners are those of an accomplished gentleman who has traversed Europe in various capacities, has a thorough knowledge of mankind, and with all his mildness cannot always conceal the sharp traces of great astuteness. I should call him the ideal of a well-intentioned Jesuit. As O'Connell was busy, I took an early walk with the friar to a desert island, to which we crossed dry-footed over the smooth sand now left by the ebb. Here stand the genuine ruins of Derrinane Abbey, to which O'Connell's house is only an appendix. It is to be repaired by the family, probably when some of their hopes are fulfilled....

"I wondered when I afterwards found both O'Connell and L'Estrange entirely free from religious bigotry, and even remarked in them very tolerant and philosophical views, though they persisted in choosing to continue true Catholics. I wished I had been able to conjure hither some of those furious imbeciles among the English Protestants, who cry out at those Catholics as irrational and bigoted; while they themselves alone, in the true sense of the word, cling to the fanatical faith of their politico-religious party, and are firmly predetermined to keep their long ears for ever closed to reason and humanity."—Vol. i., pp. 334-338.

Tearing himself from "the Man of the People," Father L'Estrange, and the rest of "the court of Derrinane," our prince transports himself to Killarney; inspects Mucruss, rows about the lakes, repeats some of Mr. Crofton Croker's stories of the great O'Donoghue, and again falls into one of those affaires du cœur, his clever management of which has so moved the admiration of the venerable Goethe.

"The Irish naïveté of the innkeeper's daughter made such an agreeable impression on me, that on my return to her father's inn I scarcely talked to anybody else, and thus won her good graces. She had never quitted her native mountains, and was as ignorant of the world as it is possible to conceive. I asked her, in jest, if she would go with me to Cork. 'Oh no,' said she, 'I should be afraid to go so far with you. Do tell me now who you really are: You are a Jew—that I know already.' 'Why, are you mad?' said I; 'what makes you think I must be a Jew?' 'Ah, you can't deny it; haven't you a black beard all round your chin, and five or six gold rings on your fingers?' My disclaimer was of no use. At last, however, she said good-humouredly, that if I positively would not allow that I was one, she wished at least that I might 'become as rich as a Jew,' (an English phrase.) I confirmed this with a Christian 'Amen!'"

Barring the last bit of blasphemy, this is a laughable page. We only ask, whether any prince, who had not the mind of a duck, would record such an adventure as this? Another bar-maid—another pot-girl—and she to whom he exclusively devoted his attentions, to set him down for a Jew, and not to be convinced to the contrary! Where were his "people"—where the evidence to counteract this calumny? The mere nastiness of encouraging a tuft of unseemly hair under his chin could hardly have led the girl to this conclusion.

The second volume presents us with a series of visits to Protestant country gentlemen, whose manners and dinners he derides, and whose wives and daughters are talked of as "imbecile bigots," because they "remember the Sabbath-day, and keep it holy,"—interspersed with scenes on which his highness dwells with more satisfaction, but of which we regret to find we can afford but few specimens. At Cashel he passes several of his white days, chiefly, of course, in the company of persons unconnected with the "stupid, dull, Anglican system." Inter alia, he is invited by "the Catholic dean to meet the archbishop and sixteen other clergymen at dinner."

"The table did honour to a chaplain of the Holy Father.... The conversation then turned on religious subjects, and was in a perfectly free and partial spirit: never did I perceive the least trace of bigotry, or of the disgusting affectation of puritanical rigour. At the dessert, several sang their national songs, some of which had no pretension to sanctity. As the one who sat next me remarked some little surprise on my countenance, he said in my ear, 'Here we forget the foreign * * * * the archbishop, and the priest,—at table we are only gentlemen, and to enjoy ourselves.'"—Vol. ii., pp. 47, 48.

"Before the archbishop retired," says his highness, "he said to me, in a most obliging manner, 'You are as you tell us! a bishop! consequently, you owe obedience to the archbishop. I employ this, my authority, to command you to dine here to-morrow with your colleague the Bishop of Limerick, whom we expect to-day;—I must hear of no excuse.' I answered, taking up the jest, 'I readily confess that it does not beseem me to withstand the discipline of the Church, and your grace and the dean know so well how to sweeten obedience, that I submit the more willingly.'"

"I passed the evening in the society of the * * * * I have seldom found Protestant clergymen so frank and sincere as these Catholics. We came to the conclusion, that we must either receive blindly the hereditary faith the Church prescribes; or, if this be not in our power, form our own religious system as the result of individual thoughts and individual feelings, which may rightly be called the religion of philosophers. The * * * * spoke French most fluently, I therefore quote his own words: 'Heureusement on peut en quelque sorte combiner l'un et l'autre; car, au bout du compte, il faut une religion positive au peuple.' 'Et dites surtout,' replied I, 'qu'il en faut une aux rois et aux prêtres; car aux uns elle fournit le par la grâce de Dieu, et aux autres, de la puissance, des honneurs, et des richesses; le peuple se contenterait, peut-être, de bonnes lois et d'un gouvernement libre.' 'Ah,' interrupted he, 'you think like Voltaire,

"Les prêtres ne sont pas ce qu'un vain peuple pense,

Et sa crédulité fait toute notre science."'

'Ma foi,' said I, 'si tous les prêtres vous ressemblaient je penserais bien autrement.'"

"I was, unfortunately, unable to keep my word with my friendly Amphitryon. A 'megrim' confined me all day to my bed. The archbishop sent me word that he would cure me; and, if I would but bring firm faith, would be sure to drive away the headache-fiend by a well-applied exorcism. I was, however, obliged to reply, that this devil was not one of the most tractable, and that he respected no one but Nature, who sends and recalls him at her pleasure, which, alas! is seldom in less than four-and-twenty hours. I must, therefore, cut off even you, dearest Julia, with a few words."

This is a pleasant specimen of communication between a "frank and sincere" Irish * * * *, and a Lutheran liberal, who, in order to quiz the very idea of a Protestant episcopacy, announces himself at a drinking, singing party of papists, of which an archbishop makes one, to be a bishop himself.

When the prince has done with the popish archbishop, he takes to the pipers, and is safely delivered of this sapient remark:—"These pipers, who are almost all blind, derive their origin from remote antiquity. They are gradually fading away, for all that is old must vanish from the earth." This is a truism:—but, as pipers, like other men, to whatever age they may attain, are all born young—even in Ireland—his highness may still encourage the hope, that when the old ones die off, others will succeed them. The chapter of pipers is succeeded by a not very delicate one on game-cocks; but we must pass over this, and accompany the prince to the Phœnix Park, where he is in his proper sphere.

"Lord Anglesea invited me to dinner," says his highness, "and the party was brilliant. He is beloved in Ireland for his impartiality, and for the favour he has always shown to the cause of emancipation. His exploits as a general officer are well known—no man has a more graceful and polished address in society. A more perfect work of art than his false leg I never saw."

This climax of compliment will, no doubt, be felt and appreciated by his Excellency: he adds—

"The power and dignity of a Lord Lieutenant are considerable as representative of the king; but he holds them only at the pleasure of the ministry. Among other privileges, he has that of creating Baronets; and in former times inn-keepers, and men even less qualified, have received that dignity."

Baronets, as everybody knows, the Lord Lieutenant never could create, and the knighthoods the prince refers to most ungracefully, considering the "free and easy" manner in which, as we shall presently see, he treated Sir Charles Morgan and Sir Arthur Clarke—the individuals to whom he obviously points—and their "womankind." But, indeed, his malignity towards unfortunate Lady Morgan is worthy of severer reprehension. The following passage appears to us entirely indefensible:—

"I spent a very pleasant evening to-day at Lady M——'s. The company was small, but amusing, and enlivened by the presence of two very pretty friends of our hostess, who sang in the best Italian style. I talked a great deal with Lady M—— on various subjects, and she has talent and feeling enough always to excite a lively interest in her conversation. On the whole, I think I did not say enough in her favour in my former letter; at any rate, I did not then know one of her most charming qualities,—that of possessing two such pretty relatives.

"The conversation fell upon her works, and she asked me how I liked her Salvator Rosa? 'I have not read it,' replied I, 'because' (I added by way of excusing myself, 'tant bien que mal') 'I like your fictions so much, that I did not choose to read anything historical from the pen of the most imaginative of romance writers.' 'O, that is only a romance,' said she; 'you may read it without any qualms of conscience.' 'Very well,' thought I; 'probably that will apply to your travels too,'—but this I kept to myself. 'Ah,' said she, 'believe me, it is only ennui that sets my pen in motion; our destiny in this world is such a wretched one that I try to forget it in writing.' Probably the Lord Lieutenant had not invited her, or some other great personage had failed in 'his engagement to her, for she was quite out of spirits."—Vol. ii., p. 103.

At page 108 we are introduced to Lady Clarke, Lady Morgan's sister—for they are both "Ladies"—and Sir Arthur Clarke, and the Misses Clarke, who turn out to be the two "pretty relatives." Lady Clarke, we are told, "is very superior to her celebrated relation in accurate taste and judgment." Of the young ladies, whom his highness calls his "little nightingales," the prince says much; but it would be unfair to criticise his criticisms upon them, which are only distinguished by vanity, puppyism, conceit, bad taste, and bad feeling. He takes these poor girls to see "the fine artist," M. Ducrow, ("an admirable model for sculptors, in an elastic dress, which fits exquisitely,") ride nine horses at once, and "finally go to bed with a pony dressed as an old woman;" and the "little one" trembled with delight, with anxiety and eagerness, and kept her hands clenched all the time; and then comes a history of his fetching out a girl, who had acted Napoleon, from a dressing-room, where she stood naked as "a little Cupid before the glass," (we should have said a little Venus!)—but there is no end to his malice.

"I rested myself (he says) this evening in the accustomed place. 'Tableaux' were again the order of the day. I had to appear successively as Brutus, an Asiatic Jew, Francis the First, and Saladin. Miss J—— was a captivating little fellow as a student of Alcala; and her eldest sister, as a fair slave, a welcome companion to Saladin. As the beautiful Rebecca, she also assorted not ill with the oriental Jew. All these metamorphoses were accomplished with the help only of four candles, two looking-glasses, a few shawls and coloured handkerchiefs, a burnt cork, a pot of rouge, and different heads of hair."

Even the mysteries of her ladyship's dressing-room, and the articles which compose her ladyship's toilette, are not sacred in the eyes of this "right-minded observer!"

Our readers have probably had enough of the prince. On the political portion of his highness's book we cannot enter, because his politics are universally mixed up with impiety. As to personal adventure, his closing chapters on Ireland contain little of that, except his being invited to drink wine at a radical meeting, and a visit to the Catholic Association. The rest is a mere tissue of commonplaces, evidently gleaned from the female attendants of the small inns which his highness was in the habit of frequenting, while his "carriage and people" were absent. He quits Ireland, and starts from Holyhead by the mail; he arrives at Shrewsbury, and, although the mail very rarely stops for anybody, perambulates the whole town,—sketches the horses,—examines the castle, and the tread-mill,—and yet is in time to pursue his journey, which he does on the outside of the mail, with four outside passengers! At Monmouth he pauses,—goes into a bookseller's shop to "buy a Guide,"—and "unexpectedly" makes the acquaintance of the bookseller's "very amiable family," particularly two "pretty daughters,"—of whom his highness observes, as a Lyell or Murchison would of lumps of nickel or tungsten, "they were the most perfect specimens of innocent country girls I ever met with." They were at tea when his highness dropped in; and the father, "unusually loquacious for an Englishman, took him absolutely and formally prisoner, and began to ask him the strangest questions about the Continent and about politics."

"The daughters," said his highness, "obviously pitied me—probably from experience—and tried to restrain him; but I let him go on, and surrendered myself for half an hour de bonne grace, by which I won the good-will of the whole family to such a degree, that they all pressed me most warmly to stay some days in this beautiful country, and to take up my abode with them. When I rose at length to go, they positively refused to take anything for the book; 'bongré, malgré,' I was forced to keep it as a present. Such conquests please me; because their manifestations can come only from the heart."

The reader will presently find the sequel to this double shot, by which two perfect specimens of innocence were killed dead; but he must first be told that his highness, the next morning, charges the landlord of his inn, the waiters, or the chambermaids, or somebody, with stealing his purse and pocket-book. They indignantly deny the charge, and repel the imputation, which his highness appears to have been anxious to cast equally upon gentlemen and innkeepers, and offer to submit to instant search, adding, however, that his highness must undergo a similar operation. This his highness declines; he thinks it best to put up with the loss of ten pounds, and depart; and what will the reader think he therefore did? "Why," says the prince, "I therefore took some more bank-notes out of my travelling-bag, paid the reckoning, and so departed."

From this splendid detail we discern that his highness travelled with a sac de nuit stuffed with bank-notes; nevertheless—

"The Prince, unable to conceal his pain"

at the loss of his ten pounds, runs to his amiable friends at the bookshop, and imparts to them the disaster:—

"The surprise and concern of all were equal. In a few minutes the daughters began to whisper to their mother, made signs to one another, then took their father on one side; and after a short deliberation, the youngest came up to me and asked me, blushing and embarrassed, 'Whether this loss might not have caused me a temporary embarrassment, and whether I would accept a loan of five pounds, which I could restore whenever I returned that way:' at the same time trying to push the note into my hand. Such genuine kindness touched me to the heart: it had something so affectionate and disinterested, that the greatest benefit conferred under other circumstances would perhaps have inspired me with less gratitude than this mark of unaffected goodwill. You may imagine how cordially I thanked them. 'Certainly,' said I, 'were I in the slightest difficulty, I should not be too proud to accept so kind an offer; but as this is not in the least degree the case, I shall lay claim to your generosity in another way, and beg permission to be allowed to carry back to the Continent a kiss from each of the fair girls of Monmouth.' This was granted, amid much laughter and good-natured resignation. Thus freighted, I went back to my carriage!"—(N.B.—He had come by the mail.)

The end of all this interesting story is, that two or three days after, his highness (whom, like Goethe, and unlike the barmaids, and the bookseller's daughters, we always "figure to ourselves as of a dignified aspect") finds his purse and his book in his dressing-gown pocket, so that the whole episode is given to show his Julia what a fine man he is, and how ready his "specimens of innocence" are to fall vanquished at his feet.—"Eich dyn!"

But we must cut his highness short. At Bristol he enters Radcliffe Church while the organ is playing, and stations himself in a corner, whence he could catch a glimpse at the interior:—

"The illiberality of the English Church would not allow me this satisfaction, and the preacher sent an old woman to tell me that I must sit down. As it is not the custom in Catholic churches to interrupt the devotions of a congregation on such light grounds, even if strangers go in without any caution to view whatever is worth seeing in the church, I might justly wonder that English Protestant piety should have so little confidence in its own strength, as to be thus blown about by the slightest breath. The riddle was explained to me afterwards: I should have to pay for my seat, and the truly pious motive was the sixpence. However, I had had enough, and left their mummery without paying."

The substantial veracity of this narrative who can doubt? but that no preacher at Radcliffe Church ever took the slightest notice of his highness we will venture to affirm; the pew-opener might have thought that such a fine man as his highness would like to sit down, or the beadle might have thought it civil to an Israelite—for which he seems to have generally been mistaken—to show him a little Christian charity.

Passing over his highness's account of Bath, and Mr. Beckford, "a sort of Lord Byron in prose, who pays fifty guineas a week for leave to walk in a nursery garden and pick what flowers he chooses;"—of Salisbury, where the prince meets another specimen—"a very pretty young girl," a dress-maker,—and of course takes an opportunity of libelling the bishop, the venerable and excellent Dr. Burgess,—who "never preaches, and draws 15,000l. a-year from his see!"—of Wilton, to which house he obtains admission by a story, and under an assumed name, which he rejoices to hear the housekeeper could neither pronounce nor write;—and some other seats and towns,—we reach London,—his highness's description of which is to occupy the two first, but as yet unpublished, volumes of this work. When he has sufficiently reinspected the "grand foyer," he again mounts the box for Canterbury, criticises the cathedral, the peculiar beauty of which he considers to arise from its not having a screen! and satirizes the archbishop, who enjoys "the rank of a prince" within his jurisdiction, "but not in London,"—as if London were not in the heart of his Grace's jurisdiction,—"moreover, he has sixty thousand a-year! and may marry!" (in the teeth, we presume, of the statute against bigamy.) The "illustrious stranger" proceeds to Dover—thence to Calais—dines with, and of course abuses, Mr. Brummel,—having, by-the-bye, gained admission to his table, as he had done to Lord Pembroke's gallery, under a feigned name! The "thorough lustre" of his principality is then enshrined in the cabriolet of a diligence; he eats smoking hot plinzen with the coachman, and arrives in Paris, where for the present we shall leave him,—and that "sweltering venom" which is luckily neutralized by an unfailing effusion of dulness.

We are sorry that the first Prussian castigator of our manners should have been a prince! We had, at one time, been led to expect the notice of a personage, who, though of not quite princely rank, could have told a much more amusing story,—described "specimens" of a higher order than bar-maids—pecuniary incidents more important than the loss of a ten-pound note out of a sac-de-nuit,—and even wound up his "picture of insular existence" with an interesting appendix to the "Mémoires d'un Homme d'Etat."

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