I thank Heaven the cloud attendant on receiving the final account of our friend’s fate is clearing away, and our loss remains only as a subject of just regret. Were it not for that reference to another world by which his actions were, and ours ought to be, regulated, one might think his removal peculiarly unfortunate, since he possessed all the materials of present happiness, and many of the means of future fame. He had a noble nature—a fine mind—a striking and pleasing exterior—a distinguished figure—a head for sculpture—great attainments—great natural endowments—a fond father—an affectionate sister—the wife of his choice—lovely children—sufficient wealth, with the certainty, at no very distant period, of a great increase; and, though last, not least, an elevated, intellectual pursuit in the history he was writing of Rome, which was looked for in full anticipation of its merits, by those learned men who so much admired those essays on the subject where he seems to have tried his strength.
Nov. 13, 1825.—Moore’s Life of Sheridan lowers the biographer and the subject. He is a great motive-monger, and usually selects among a variety of probable motives, those which are least dignified and meritorious. He does not appear to love Sheridan; and he alters the complexion of facts in his domestic life, so as to make him appear blameable in a point where the plain truth would have been highly to his honour. That truth could not have been all told, but Moore ought not to have employed language which leads us to form an opposite conclusion.
March 30, 1826.—Took my lesser pair to the British Gallery, and saw many new beauties in the Trial of Lord Russell. It grows on one’s admiration as much as Martin’s Deluge loses. I would rather have that picture to elevate my mind, the Garden scene from Scripture to animate my devotion, the Tired Fishermen to make me feel with and for the children of labour, the Mistletoe to make me laugh, and the little Fisherman’s Head to give me added liking for the aged and industrious poor, than all the rest of the Gallery.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
London, April 1, 1826.
I dined, without fatigue, at the Bishop of Norwich’s on Thursday. The Bishop said on going down to dinner with the prima donna, ‘Lord John Russell, take Mrs. Trench.’ I felt much pleasure at the thought of sitting by the historian, the political economist, the successful author; and prepared to treasure up his sayings and doings, with that due degree of awe for his talents which is always a little unpleasant to me at first, though it soon subsides into a pleasant feeling of respect. Well, we sat down, and he talked of Harrow, and wished he had been at a private clergyman’s, saying that he should have read more there and been much happier; that at Harrow he had been subdued, and that he always had wanted encouragement. ‘How amiable!’ thought I; ‘how modest!’ He went on to say, ‘If I had been at a private clergyman’s, I should have been quite a different person.’ Still more modesty! ‘How can a person who is so lauded,’ thought I, ‘have so moderate an opinion of himself.’ Well, he drank his due proportion of wine with everybody, and watched their wants with a scrupulous attention; ‘how very attentive to all the little forms of society,’ thought I; ‘this is so pleasing in an author of eminence.’ In the evening he played cards, and I went into the music-room, and sang in quite another way from what I do when I am afraid you are anxious I should please. I came home and gave such an account of the author of Memoirs of the Affairs of Europe from the Peace of Utrecht, that all at home were dying to see him. ‘Not that he said much to mark him out,’ said I; ‘but you could see the possession of talent under the veil of simple and quiet manners it pleased him to assume.’
Well, the Bishop had mistaken the name, and I had been led down by one who passes for the greatest proser of his day, Lord John ——, and I had all my feelings of awe for nothing. So much for a name.