Feb. 12th.
My illness has hindered me from going to Scotland, for which I had prepared every thing, and received many invitations; and now the expected arrival of W—— and the beginning of the season will keep me in London. To-day for the first time my doctor let me go out: and I took my way to Stranmore Park, which is at no great distance, that I might enjoy fresh air and the pleasure of a romantic walk. I was, however, not permitted to enter the garden, though I sent in my card. We are more liberal, indeed,—but this stern repulsiveness has its advantages:—it gives more value both to the thing itself, and to the permission to see it, when you do obtain it. ‘A propos,’ this reminds me of your new steward. It is desirable for us to keep him; nevertheless I beg you to behave to him a little as the lady of Stranmore did to me. Don’t be too ‘empressée’ in your kindness; that, if he deserves it, you may leave yourself the power of increasing it. Be kind, but with dignity; always shading off the superior station which you must necessarily maintain with regard to him. Don’t try to attach him by indulgence or over-civil behaviour, but by confidence, which does him honour; and also by substantial advantages, which in the end never fail to have their effect upon people, let them say, or even think, as they will. But you must address yourself no less to his ambition: keep it always awake by discreet concessions, by gratitude for proofs of zeal, and no less by gentle reproof whenever you think it necessary; that he may see you have a judgment. As an honourable man, he will then not fail to conduct our affairs with the same interest as if they were his own. Lastly, take care not to fatigue him, in his province of supervision, with details: don’t attempt to exercise control over him in every trifle, and keep vigilant watch to support his authority over those under him, no less than your own over himself;—in those cases only where you see reason to fear that something important is amiss, do not delay an instant to require a full explanation. In very weighty cases that admit of delay, you will of course consult me. Herewith does Polonius conclude his exhortations.
Feb. 15th.
The short flight was premature, for it did not agree with me. The charming weather, too, is become horrible. A snow-storm now flogs the sea under my windows, so that it foams and roars again for rage, and its billows dash over the high pier up to the houses.
In the midst of this thunder I yesterday began to write my memoirs, and finished eight sheets, which I send you herewith.
I have also taken advantage of this time to go through Lesage’s historical Atlas again; and I cannot say that during my whole illness I ever felt a moment’s ennui. Indeed the perfect repose and passionless calm of such a period refreshes my soul. My body will soon be restored also; and then, as soon as the sky clears a little, I think to return once more to the haunts of men. A——,[81] to whom I sent your letter, desires her best love to you. From her great intimacy with the future Queen, she is treated quite like a ‘Princesse du Sang.’ She begins to feel her own importance a little; her former shy, timid ‘tournure’ is altered much to her advantage, and she has learnt to assume a certain air without losing her affability. The sun of fortune and favour changes a human being, as the sun of heaven does a plant which faded in darkness, and now raises its drooping head in his bright beams, and penetrated by the genial warmth opens fragrant blossoms to the light. We, dear Julia, still lie in the cellar, like hyacinth roots; but the gardener can place us in a more favourable soil and brighter sun in the spring—if it please him.
Feb. 20th.
I have been out—and behind every thing is become strange wherever I went. My acquaintances were almost all gone, and in the houses and promenades new faces met me. The bare country alone I found in its former state, except that the green fields were manured—with oystershells. Miss ——, a not very young, but rich and ‘agreeable’ lady, told me that the papers here had spoken of me as lying at the point of death, while the London ‘Morning Post’ introduced me as dancing at Almack’s, which certainly looks rather spectral. This good-natured Miss —— is still full of acknowledgments for a ticket I once got her for Almack’s, and played and sang her thanks to me rather more than the weak state of my nerves could bear. I took my leave, but soon fell into the hands of two other Philomels who are also belated here.
As soon as my strength is quite restored I shall return to London, and can now, with a good conscience, and without fear of causing you anxiety, despatch this long letter.
The short meaning of many words is ever the same—the hearty love of