From my favourite inn at Farnham I write to say how impatient I grow for a line from you, having past a fortnight without that cheering northern light.
Our November and December, until this day of eternal rain, have given us the most beautiful specimens of spring, and all Hampshire is as busy as a bee-hive in active pursuit of pleasure, chiefly in the tangible shape of good dinners. Mr. W. Rose, Ariosto’s best translator, his only good one in the opinion of Ugo Foscolo, is at present with his mother in the Polygon, but keeps his state, and withdraws himself from worshipful society. Murray, on observing the merit and reputation of his Court and Parliament of Beasts, offered him £3000 to be the interpreter of Ariosto; which, although he is rich enough for all his wishes, he thought it right to accept, according to custom, for the benefit of his nephews and nieces, &c. &c. Foscolo says, that the beauty of Ariosto’s style being his chief excellence, those who only know him by his present translators are wholly ignorant of his merits.
I desire no better advocate than you have been for the lady of ——. I think you imagine my story, such as it is, relates to your kind friend. Not so. That gallant vessel is safe in port. It is at the fresh, the trim, the gaily ornate ship which lately sailed out of harbour, all these small shots are fired. In London we war not with the dead; dowagers of a certain age can do no wrong; but the young, and splendid, and prosperous can do no right—can perform no act without some little flaw, to be detected only by the vigilance of female observation.
Jan. 3, 1825.—Sat by the venerable Bishop of Norwich at dinner at Lady Listowel’s. He was a delightful neighbour. One cannot but admire his love of liberty, his kindly way of seeing all the actions of others, his humility in speaking of his own, the simplicity of his tastes and habits, and the pleasing contrast of peculiar courage in conduct, and almost feminine mildness of manners.
Jan. 5.—A visit from Joseph Humphries, a benevolent Quaker, and his deaf and dumb pupil—an animated and pleasing specimen of this unfortunate class, whose vivacity, intelligence, kindliness, and piety, shine with a vivid lustre in his looks and words; for he writes well, and almost as rapidly as others speak. He was much interested by my family, probably he is so by the great family of the human race in a higher degree than those who have more distractions; and he asked me, by graceful and expressive signs, for my tallest boy, now above six feet, represented by waving his hands, progressively higher, over his head; and for ——, by first appearing to draw, and then to ride, having seen some horses of his drawing. He asked me on his slate the royal questions, How many children I had, and then, ‘What business is your husband employed in?’ This puzzled me. Mr. Humphries explained to him that we lived on the produce of property in land, which, I suppose, gave him an idea of the pleasures of agriculture, for on going away, he imitated the actions of digging, sowing, and whetting the scythe, making signs that he liked those occupations. It occurred in the course of conversation that I wrote on his slate, ‘Mrs. Leadbeater thinks me better than I am;’ and he made signs to his friend, expressive of a reply, in which piety was beautifully blended with kindliness.
His instructor observed, ‘They refer all things to a Supreme Being. Their piety is remarkable, and their complete renunciation of any opinion, when the authority of the Bible intervenes. They are industrious, and all wish to marry active, intelligent, talking women, who will leave to them the routine of their daily and peculiar employment, and take all other trouble upon themselves.’ The attitudes of this young man would have been a fine study for a painter, so simple, expressive, and decided. In Chantrey’s phrase, one may truly say, ‘he has never been corrupted by the dancing-master.’ One also sees he has never thought on the effect of his looks or motions.
Jan. 7.—At last, after an interval of twenty-four years, which succeeded a tolerably intimate acquaintance of seven weeks, I saw Count Münster of Hanover again. We met like two ghosts that ought to have been laid long since. I witnessed the whole process of the difficulty of persuading him that I was I; and I thought him as much changed in his degree as he could have found me. When we conversed, all the persons we referred to were dead and gone; and our interview added another link in my mind to the chain of proofs that, after a very, very long interval, neither friends nor acquaintance ought to meet in this world. He was kindly anxious to renew our acquaintance, and visited me next day; but still it seemed as if seeing me had renewed some painful associations.