Petworth House, Oct. 26.
Colonel C—— came to my inn early in this morning, and reproached me with not driving straight to the house of his father-in-law, Lord E——, the owner of Petworth House. He pressed me so kindly to spend at least a day there, that I could not refuse. My luggage was soon transported thither, and I as quickly installed in my room. It is a fine modern palace, with a noble collection of pictures and antiques, and a large park which contains a celebrated stud. I was peculiarly struck with three of the pictures,—Henry the Eighth, a full-length, by Holbein, remarkable for the exquisite painting of the dress and ornaments, and the fresh masterly colouring: a portrait of the immortal Newton, which is far less distinguished for its expression of intelligence, than for its pre-eminently elegant and gentlemanly air; and one of Maurice of Orange, so like our poet Houwald that it might pass for him. The mixture of statues and pictures which is common here, is disadvantageous to both.
Among the curiosities is a family relic,—the great sword of Harry Percy, an ancestor of Lord E——’s. The library served, as usual, as drawing-room,—a very rational and agreeable plan. It was fitted up according to your taste,—only the best modern books, in elegant bindings; for all others there was another room upstairs.
The freedom in this house was perfect, which rendered it doubly agreeable to me. One really feels not the slightest ‘gène.’ There were many guests of both sexes. The host himself is a learned and accomplished connoisseur in art, and at the same time a very conspicuous and successful man ‘on the turf.’ In his stud I saw a horse about thirty years old, (‘Whalebone’,) who was obliged to be supported by several grooms when he attempted to walk, and whose foals still unborn, fetch enormous sums. That’s what I call a glorious old age. ‘Au reste,’ the regulations of the stud are very different here from ours. With all your appetite for knowledge, however, this ‘thema’ might interest you little, so that I shall go on to other matters.
On the following day, arrived the Duchess of St. A——, a woman whose ever ascending fortunes have been remarkable enough. The earliest recollections of her infancy are those of a deserted, starving, shivering child, in a solitary barn in an English village. Thence she was taken by a band of gipsies;—quitting them, she entered a strolling company of players. By her agreeable person, high spirits, and original humour, she gained some reputation in her new profession, gradually secured patronage and friends, and lived in long and undisturbed connexion with a rich banker, who at length married her, and at his death left her seventy thousand a year. This enormous fortune afterwards promoted her to be the wife of the third English Duke, and (by a curious coincidence) the descendant of the celebrated actress Nell Gwynne, to whose charms the Duke owes his title, in the same manner as his wife has acquired hers.
She is a very good-natured woman, who is not ashamed to speak of the past—on the contrary, alludes to it perhaps rather too much.
* * * * * * *
After an agreeable visit of three days, I returned hither, and now celebrate my birth-day in the profoundest solitude, with closed doors. Three-fourths of my melancholy fits I may certainly ascribe to the month in which I first saw the light. May children are far more cheerful: I never saw a hypochondriacal son of the Spring. A song called Prognostica once fell into my hands: I am very sorry I did not keep it; for it told a man’s fortune according to the month of his birth. I only remember that those born in October were to have a melancholy temper, and that the prophecy began thus:—
“Ein Junge geboren im Monat October
Wird eim Critiker, und das ein recht grober.”[71]
I leave you now for a great dinner at Prince E——’s, for I will not devote the whole day to solitude; I am too superstitious for that. Adieu.