Hatchford, February 25th.—Here I am come to recruit my strength after being confined for a fortnight with gout and fever, more than usually severe. While I was laid up, the Parliamentary campaign proceeded very briskly: first, with Peel's financial statement in a very able speech, more than three hours long, which was much admired for its clearness and force. His financial reforms are considered very bold and skilful, but the Tories hail them with anything but satisfaction, though they are too crestfallen to resist, or even to murmur, except an odd agriculturist here and there. Everybody regards this measure as a great wedge thrust in, and as the forerunner of still more extensive changes, and above all that the income tax is to be permanent. After this came Tom Duncombe[94] and his attack on the Post Office, three nights' debate, some clever speeches, a very good one from Sidney Herbert, which was a capital thing for the Government, and very promising for his future success. The whole Opposition rallied round an amendment of Howick's, and fought a pitched battle on the question of a fresh Committee to enquire into the supposed opening of Tommy's letters in 1842. My Whig friends behaved as ill as they could, and all out of spite to Graham, and because they could not resist seizing the opportunity of flinging dirt upon the Government.
DEATH OF SYDNEY SMITH.
All this they did, well knowing, and not pretending to deny, that Graham had done nothing but what every other Secretary of State without exception had done, and though the Committee had fully absolved him of any blame in the execution of his office; still they endeavoured to pick holes, and by dint of insinuations and imputations, and torturing any circumstance they could find into something like a charge, to excite prejudice and raise or prolong clamour. The Whig members of the Post Office Committee bore their testimony fairly, and Ward, the Radical member for Sheffield, had the honesty and candour to denounce the scandalous set that was made at Graham, and to speak out in the language of truth and justice. Both John Russell and Howick behaved very shabbily, but Palmerston took no part in the debate. I don't think the question was fully argued on the Government side, and the most simple and obvious answer given and pressed with all the force it might have been.
Yesterday we heard of the death of Sydney Smith, which took place on Sunday. His case had for some time been hopeless, and it was merely a question how long he could be kept alive by the remedies applied to stop the water on his chest. It is the extinction of a great luminary, such as we shall hardly see the like of again, and who has reigned without a rival in wit and humour for a great length of time. It is almost impossible to overrate his wit, humour, and drollery, or their effect in society. Innumerable comical sayings and jokes of his are or have been current, but their repetition gives but an imperfect idea of the flavour and zest of the original. His appearance, voice, and manner added immensely to the effect, and the bursting and uproarious merriment with which he poured forth his good things, never failed to communicate itself to his audience, who were always in fits of laughter. If there was a fault in it, it was that it was too amusing. People so entirely expected to be made to die of laughing, and he was so aware of this, that there never seemed to be any question of conversation when he was of the party, or at least no more than just to afford Sydney pegs to hang his jokes on. This is the misfortune of all great professed wits, and I have very little doubt that Sydney often felt oppressed with the weight of his comical obligations, and came on the stage like a great actor, forced to exert himself, but not always in the vein to play his part. It is well known that he was subject at home to frequent fits of depression, but I believe in his own house in the country he could often be a very agreeable companion, on a lower and less ambitious level, for his talk never could be otherwise than seasoned with his rich vein of humour and wit, as the current, though it did not always flow with the same force, was never dry. He was full of varied information, and a liberal, kind-hearted, charitable man. The favourite objects of his jokes were the men of his own cloth, especially the bishops, among whom he once probably aspired to sit. I do not suppose he had any dogmatic and doctrinal opinions in respect to religion, and that in his heart of hearts he despised and derided all that the world wrangles and squabbles about; but he had the true religion of benevolence and charity, of peace and goodwill to mankind, which, let us hope (as I firmly believe) to be all-sufficient, be the truth of the great mystery what it may.
March 15th.—At last I have settled my difficulties, and my book is coming out. Finding the Government measures could not be introduced before Easter, I wrote to Graham to ask if they wanted it kept back any longer. His answer determined me to seek an interview with him. I saw him, talked the matter over, and found that they would not much object, if I did not put my name to the work. I agreed to this at once, and without the least hesitation. He then said, 'Oh, then I see no reason why you should not publish as soon as you please, and the sooner the better. Don't quote me, or say you have authority from me; but as your friend I tell you, I advise you now to publish it.' He gave me to understand that the Duke of Wellington was one of the persons who would have most resented the publication with my name; but he considered its appearance without my name as a very different matter, which removed all objections. So now it will come out, and I must abide the result, criticisms and resentments. It has bothered and perplexed me much, and I am glad to be delivered of the burthen.
A few days only after Sydney Smith's death, Bobus Smith died also, two remarkable brothers. Bobus was perhaps more agreeable and more cultivated than Sydney, though without his exuberant wit and drollery; still he had great finesse d'esprit, and was very amusing, but in a quieter and less ambitious style. He was a fine scholar and great reader, latterly reading seldom modern books, but living with his old favourites. He was a year older than Sydney.
DEATH OF MISS FOX.
The day before yesterday Miss Fox died, a most amiable woman, with excellent abilities; but she really died six months ago, when she was attacked by paralysis at Bowood. Thus are dropping off the yellow leaves of that great tree which adorned Holland House, and so long afforded shelter to the crowd of all that was eminent and attractive in political, literary, and social life which gathered under its branches. What an interesting biography would the life of Holland House be for half a century; but hardly anybody is now left alive who could write it; and Macaulay, whose genius is alone capable of illustrating the subject, came too late into the circle to have sufficient personal knowledge of those who shone at the earliest part of the period.
March 29th.—I went on Monday to Althorp, and was very well amused among the pictures and books, though as there are 50,000 volumes of the latter, it was only possible to look at the outside of them, and here and there examine some remarkable book or fine edition. They are kept in admirable condition, and the present Lord, without being a bibliomaniac like his father, keeps the collection up, and buys from time to time anything in the market that may be necessary to complete it. The portraits are numerous, curious, and interesting. While there I received a letter from Graham, in which he told me that he had read the greater part of my book, and could find nothing to which anybody could take any just exception. This was a great relief to my mind, and now I don't care who likes or dislikes it. I continue to receive from my Whig friends many expressions of approbation, very obliging and gratifying; yesterday from Macaulay. I told him I was afraid of his reading it, for fear of his detecting blunders in it; but he said not at all, and that he was in fact more ignorant of Irish history than he ought to be, and had got information from it.
March 30th.—The effect which my book has produced is now beginning to appear, and, as far as it has gone, it amounts to this. With the Whigs of all descriptions its success is complete; I receive compliments and felicitations on all sides; I could not have desired, and certainly I did not expect, such complete success; so far from it, that all the time I was writing it I was doubting if it ever would be worth publishing. With the Tories, as far as I can ascertain, it is far different; they are to the last degree angry and indignant; and as these little details and records of personal opinions become curious and interesting by the lapse of time and the change of circumstances and opinions, I will note down what I hear. Then moderate men, not belonging to any party, and men of sense and capacity have approved, which is, of course, very satisfactory to me; in this category Stephen, his brother-in-law Mr. Dicey, Senior (though he is a Whig), George Lewis, Amyot. Lord Clare, a Conservative and Irishman, has written me a letter, in which he thanks me for the good he thinks the book will do. Alvanley, on the other hand, has written me a criticism full of disapprobation, but not a good or clever letter, nor, critically, worth anything. I should have expected a better written letter, and objections more acutely raised and more ably put from him, but he only affords a proof that men who may be brimful of drollery, and able to keep the table in a roar from morning to night, may be utterly unfit to handle serious subjects when their reasoning faculties bear no proportion to their imaginative. I had expected greater concurrence of opinion in Alvanley, who a little while ago wrote a pamphlet on the same subject and with the same object. When he takes the objection that he does, it is no wonder that the foolish Tory mob fall on me tooth and nail. Accordingly I heard yesterday that Lady Jersey refused to read 'such a blackguard book.' She said so to Bessborough, who told me, and Cecil Forester would not read it, because Lady Jersey told him it was 'abominable.'