You particularly delighted me with your description of Lismore, because some of the days of my infancy were passed there. Perhaps no picture is painted on my memory more vividly than that of Lismore Castle—the church—the bridge—the valley—and the unnumbered beauties of that exquisite spot. How often have I gazed with delight from the windows of the Castle; and being ignorant I was short-sighted, of which my eyes gave no outward indication, I imagined no greater enjoyment—when a person put a short-sighted glass as a plaything into my hand, while yet a child. The improvement of the picture was so great that I exclaimed, ‘Oh, this is the way I shall see in heaven.’
I have no news. Poverty goes on increasing, and like the spider in an empty house, spreads her thin grey pall over the kingdom, widening swiftly, though imperceptibly. Our population, though of necessity hungry and idle, are surprisingly quiet. The loans and gratuities proposed by Government, are but drops in a sandy desert; and as Government must take two drops for every one they give (to pay for the machinery of taxation and finance), I, like Mrs. Primrose, ‘never find out we grow richer for all their contrivances.’ In short, we are all becoming poorer, and though philosophers tell us that to sink all together is to keep the same place, they have not quite persuaded us this is practically true. The Bishop of London made this consolatory remark to a poor curate, who replied, ‘Yes, my Lord, we may sink all together, and your Lordship may sink a story, and be still in a good place; but I am on the ground floor, and if I go any lower, I shall be underground.’ If our time of decline as a nation is marked, I hope that it may not be sudden, but so gradual as to cause as little individual misery as possible. Adieu, my dear friend; may every storm blow over your innocent and happy dwelling, unfelt.
July, 1817.—We are now reading Miss Edgeworth’s Ormond and Harrington. The Edinburgh Reviewers have done her much mischief; first, by persuading her to stick fast to the bogs, after she has exhausted all that was comic, pathetic, or striking in the peculiar distinctions between England and Ireland; next, by objecting to her morality being so apparent. Now she never writes half so well as when she evidently endeavours to illustrate a moral or prudential axiom; and in this case, as ships sail best with ballast, she always walks more firmly and gracefully, instead of being impeded in her course.
Sept. 7, 1817.—When one has not seen an affected person for some years, it is amusing to observe how much their manner has changed. One’s natural manner lasts for life; an assumed one can never be kept in exact repair, and must vary in process of time. Lady C., from being once decisive and lively, now speaks in the toneless whisper of some of the English grandees, with deliberate utterance and unvarying languor.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.,
FRANKFORT.
Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 20, 1817.
I am anxious to know whether C——’s statement of promotion coming is a forerunner of reality, or a phantom raised to gratify his inclination for writing a letter with ‘private’ at the top, and a recommendation of prudence at the bottom. This, I know, is in itself tempting to some, and, I have heard, is peculiarly so to him.
When you next incline to make me a present, send a few bottles of Eau de Cologne. I bought some lately on the faith of the seller, and had recourse to it on one of our extraordinary hot nights at the Brunswick Hotel, when I thought the pillows seemed unsweet. I dashed it about magnificently, but it proved to be whisky, so for that night at least, you see, I slept in my native sweets.