Bread is 17 pence the quartern loaf, coals six guineas the chaldron, turkeys 16 shillings, capons 8s. 6d., meat dearer than usual. During this scarcity, be it natural or artificial, we adopt the regulations of the H. of Lords; each person in the family is limited to a quartern loaf per week, no pastry, no fine bread for breakfast.
19th March, 1800.—A satirical poem called The Campaign is just published; it abuses the Duke of York and the Dutch Expedition. It is imputed to Mr. Courtenay,[76] an old member of Opposition, a man of great coarseness, but some wit. In the House of Commons some supporter of Mr. Pitt’s Administration complimented him on having conducted the machine of Government with such success, in spite of the drag chain of Opposition. Mr. Courtenay, in his reply, remarked upon the beauty and correctness of ye metaphor, since the machine was confessedly going downhill.
22nd March.—Erskine and Mr. Lattin (and a foolish, handsome Irishman, Mr. Henry) dined, and were extremely entertaining yesterday. Erskine, I have always found hitherto far from agreeable, but yesterday was an exception. He talked strangely upon religion; he pretends to Christianity, but the Mother Church would not take him into her bosom. Bishops and churches, he declares, have destroyed true religion; had he the power of Christ he would drive the doctors out of the Temple as he did, and out of Lincoln’s Inn besides. The Church Establishment he maintains to be the total ruin of the simple, primitive worship. The Trinity he explains with ingenuity, and reprobates the Incomprehensible Mystery of three separate and individual persons.
The little Monk Lewis has behaved like a great fool, and made himself highly ridiculous. He sent to the Duke of Somerset and desired he would wait upon him the next day at 1 o’clock. The Duke obeyed the summons, and did wait upon him. ‘I understand, D. of Somerset, that you have exposed me to the contempt of being again blackballed by the New Club. I think the part you have acted by so doing unbecoming the character of a friend; thus I desire our acquaintance may drop here.’ He rung the bell, and bid the servant open the door for the D., and thus dismissed him. The D. of S. is remarkably good-natured, and most certainly did what he thought Lewis would like, but, poor little man, he is very irritable and quarrelsome, and will shortly be left not only friendless, but without many acquaintances.
THE ROYAL INSTITUTION
This Institution[77] of Rumford’s furnishes ridiculous stories. The other day they tried the effect of the gas, so poetically described by Beddoes; it exhilarates the spirits, distends the vessels, and, in short, gives life to the whole machine. The first subject was a corpulent, middle-aged gentleman, who, after inhaling a sufficient dose, was requested to describe to the company his sensations; ‘Why, I only feel stupid.’ This intelligence was received amidst a burst of applause, most probably not for the novelty of the information. Sir Coxe Hippisley was the next who submitted to the operation, but the effect upon him was so animating that the ladies tittered, held up their hands, and declared themselves satisfied. The experiment to remove the popular prejudice in favour of silver teapots failed, as the thermometer gave the lie to the Professor’s learned dissertations, but it must have been from the malice of his evil genius, for the fact is in his favour.
The Bishop of Killala’s[78] narrative of what passed in the town and neighbouring district whilst the French were in possession of it in ’98 under Humbert, is extremely interesting. It is written simply, with a great appearance of truth and feeling. His palace was the headquarters of the General and his officers. He speaks with highest admiration of their humanity, civility, and incredible discipline. There is even humour in his description of some of the scenes, particularly that in which he describes the mixture of mirth and contempt with which the French officer thrust indiscriminately upon the noddles of the Irish the gaudy helmets. He yields the palm of superiority to the English for their dexterity in pillaging and in plunder; indeed compared with every European army, save the Papal one, it is the only excellence in candour we can admit them to lay claim to.
Great embarkations are making at Plymouth of the Guards and other troops. Their destination is not known, but rumour says they go to the Mediterranean. Were I not satisfied how harmless an English military force is against an enemy in battle array, I should wish contrary winds to waft them leagues out of their course, if they are destined for Egypt; but they inspire as little alarm to their enemies as they do confidence in their countrymen, for they are, as one of their commanders in Ireland said publicly of them, ‘Formidable only to their friends.’
PICTURES BY VAN DYKE