May 24, 1826.—Read the criticism in the Quarterly Review on the translations of Goethe. Its liberality and fair dealing are very satisfactory. It seems as if some one had awakened the Quarterly from a long nap, and enabled it to look around and see that Goethe was not quite an imbecile, elderly gentleman, only known as the author of an improper novel called Werther, now out of date; that Shelley was not quite a mad rhymester, equally presumptuous and inane; and that there existed other modern poets in Europe besides the acknowledged quintetto, Scott, Byron, Southey, Rogers, and Campbell.
June 30, 1826.—Returned to town, and there received a letter from Miss Shackleton, with the sad news of my beloved Mrs. Leadbeater’s death. Death how unexpected! I never thought of this word as connected with her. She was so serene, so happy, so active, leading a life so far from all that exposes to danger; she never had mentioned her illness but so slightly; she had so many benevolent and literary plans; she was so loved, and so sweetly loved again. Her instinctive fondness for me was a boon from Heaven which I valued not half enough while I possessed it. How little gratitude did I show for her unbounded kindness and partiality, not half so much as I felt! how many attentions to her were to be performed, how long were they deferred! how often wholly forgotten. Alas! I thought I should have her always.
TO MRS. SHACKLETON.
Elm Lodge, Sept. 2, 1826.
I am much obliged by your letter, and hasten to assure you that I received both parts of my dear friend’s character, and entirely coincide in your opinion of it. It does not touch upon many points which deserved a place in her portrait; such as her anxiety to improve herself and others; her delicate feelings, highly refined, yet never degenerating into susceptibility, or exacting from others those attentions which she never failed to bestow herself; her taste for everything that was admirable in nature and art; her polished mind and manner, that seemed instinctively to reject all that others are taught by rule to avoid; her quick sense of wit and humour; her own unaffected pleasantry; her entire absence of all self-comparison with any human being, which left her capable of doing complete justice to the merits of all; her rare suavity, and her uncommon talents. The writer of this character has also placed her ‘second’ in the delineation of Irish manners and language. She is second to none in this. Others have taken a wider range; others have permitted themselves the free indulgence of humour on a greater variety of topics; but as far as she goes in her pictures, she is second to none.
Pray do not dwell on the idea that her valuable life might have been saved. She once wrote thus to me: ‘There never was an event of this kind where one did not blame oneself, and blame others.’ She was right. Self-reproach is one of the shapes that sorrow loves to take; and one ought to protect one’s-self against it. I deeply reproached myself, and perhaps I was a little (though unjustly) hurt as to others; but this is certain, I deeply reproached myself for not having known her danger. I have been so long in a state of suffering that it seemed to me the most natural thing in the world to be ill; and though I heard your dear mother was so, the idea of danger never passed through my mind, and the intelligence was a sad surprise, upon which I shall not allow myself to dwell.