Chessel, Oct., 1820.
I am happy here, but I have to reproach myself with talking too much, and also with taking possession too much of the Reverend John Owen, and sometimes even differing from him—supposed to be the author of The World without Souls, attributed to Cunningham, and Secretary from the commencement of the Bible Society—orator, poet, musician, singer—father-in-law of young Wilberforce, friend of Porteus and old Wilberforce—and the very best talker of religion I have yet heard. I do not mean that he is not a doer also, but he has the happiest power of introducing religious topics without gloom and without affectation. I mean to endeavour to renew his acquaintance, and extend it to his wife and daughter.
Nov. 7, 1820.—I have just finished Southey’s Life of Wesley, a book one cannot read without some religious improvement; but what a trimmer poor Southey is, bowing to right and left! I have looked into Croker’s translation of Fontaine’s Fables. I grieve to see my dear old French friend in a masquerade Court dress, a Windsor uniform. It is a coarse and bad translation. He leaves out the sweetness, finesse, and simplicity of his author, and substitutes a vulgar jollity of phrase, quite intolerable on comparison with the original.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.,
STOCKHOLM.
Elm Lodge, Dec. 20, 1820.
Having just sent an excuse to Mrs. F., who annually collects her neighbours on the shortest day of the year, I am inclined to criticize the habit of keeping in villas and small country houses all festivities for Christmas, because the very wealthy, who have immense houses, and whose large parties remain under the same roof during that foggy period, fix on it for their amusements. It is a misfortune when they who are neither wealthy nor great ape the habits of our Crœsuses and grandees. There is then no proportion nor keeping, and little friendly society, in their proceedings.
Lord —— is in the same state; but enjoys his existence more than one would think possible. Yet he loves not reading, and is debarred most of the pleasures of a good dinner, being forbidden meat and wine. His wife, his children, his garden, his wheelchair, his newspaper—and his loyalty, evinced in hating the Queen, the Radicals, the press, the parish paupers, and the Whigs, fill up his day; as snip-snap-snorum does his evening.