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bore on the face of it so palpable a half-Halifax, half-Dennis of his stamp of truth. The whimsicality of day-embellishing his table-talk with the way in which the disclosure was habitual sneers and inuendoes pointed made. The weeping and groaning against the man who had begun by of the kind-hearted humorist. The honorably distinguishing him above quick revulsion, and finale in the his contemporaries, who continued to common chord of merriment ;-all the last to keep his breast open to him, this is genuine,—and points to the and of whom he had volunteered photographic accuracy of the self-nar- to sing, ration.
Thy heart, methinks, Hydropathists assert that it is good Was generous, noble—noble in its scom for the human constitution to box Of all things low or little; nothing there oneself up in a vapour-bath, and Sordid or servile. when one is nearly suffocated, and the pulse is up to a hundred and How is all this to be accounted for! twenty, to dart out, and plunge into In one way-and in one only. Moore ice-cold water. And thus it may, by and Rogers felt, and it galled themsome obscure analogy, be wholesome what Scott, more generous, said, to start from the general philanthropy without feeling galled—“ Byron bet and overwhelming jocularity of me." Well, it only swells the noble Sydney Smith, and tumble head-fore- bard's triumph. Of the cannon of a most into Rogers. Rogers was a fre- defeated enemy have the grandest quent visitor at Oatlands, where he monuments been reared to heroes. often came across Thomas Raikes. These little poisoned arrows are not Monk Lewis was a great favourite enough to make a pillar of; but they there, it seems. “One day after din- may dangle as trophies over a tomb ner, as the Duchess was leaving the which called for an epitaph like room, she whispered something into Swift's : “save me from my friends;" Lewis's ear. He was much affected, for thus might it be paraphrased. his eyes filled with tears. We asked Well : now that we have made a what was the matter. “Oh," replied clean breast of it, let us try to think Lewis, “the Duchess spoke so very no more about it. We wish from our kindly to me!"_"My dear fellow, soul that these pleasant, witty, sparksaid Colonel Armstrong, “pray don't ling fellows had not put it upon us to cry; I daresay she didn't mean be seriously angry with them for a it.”
single instant. It is not our fault, This is good ; and we bear the dash but theirs. We have already foreof vinegar, in the case of a man for warned the reader that as far as Sam whom we have little respect. It is Rogers is concerned, somewhat of an otherwise when Byron comes on the envious disparaging temper runs table. The “table-talk” then begins through all this table-talk of his. Perto be offensive. The truth is, the re haps it does not go farther than an velations of modern literature, as one absence of real freshness of feeling, by one the contemporaries of the where feeling is most ostentatiously great bard die and disclose their se- paraded. It is the rouge assuming crets, offer a startling result. We the place of the blush, that offends. find here, as in the case of one still A defect, this, which may, after all, less excusable, the further ramifica- let us charitably hope, be partly tion of a wide-spread system of con- traced to the reporter, the. Reverend ventional depreciation, which seems Alexander Dyce, who may possibly to have existed as secretly as the we speak without any disparagement Holy Vehme of Germany, and to to his own temperor principleshave judged and executed with as have only caught the pointed and little remorse. In Moore's case, there poisoned ends of the poet's discourse was the concurrent treason—the adu on the target of his memory, and allation of the book as it proceeded day lowed the harmless shaft and the by day, balanced off by the daily de- downy feather to quiver outside. traction of the journal. We do not Nevertheless, it is certain, absence find so much fault with Raikes, of heart weakens the wit in Rogers' who speaks of the poet as a man of instance as much as its presence, in the world might be expected to do that of Sydney Smith, strikingly enBut here we discover the heartless hances it. We do, after all, laugh
with a heartier abandonment when a thoughts and words tuin üpofi após slight touch of emotion ripples the plectic fits, sudden palsies, &c. He fountain of tears. At the same time seems to revel in the convulsions of there are themes in which the heart his friends as much as in those of has no concern : and here we have no empires. We all remember the scene fault to find. How well and shortly at that dinner, where the gourmet put is the following, in which the archbishop had dropped upon his closing parenthesis forms the point !- next neighbour's shoulder, and his
servant, who was behind his chair, “An Englishman and a Frenchman having after trying in vain to unclench his quarrelled, they were to fight a duel; and, master's teeth with a fork, pulled that they might have a better chance of miss him out of the room to die, while the ing one another, they agreed that it should
feast closed over him, and went on. take place in a room perfectly dark. The
Here we have it, on the same authoEnglishman groped his way to the hearth, fired up the chimney, and brought down-
rity, that Napoleon had a fit at Strasthe Frenchman. (Whenever I tell this story
burg, and foamed at the mouth. in Paris, I make the Frenchman fire up the
Raikes gives a choice bon mot on the chimney.)
same attractive subject :Talleyrand ought to have been a “ Talleyrand's friend Montrond has been man after Rogers' own heart. No subject of late to epileptic fits, one of which body said such good things as Talley attacked him lately after dinneratTalleyrand's. rand: yet here we have nothing While he lay on the floor in convulsions, worth recording, as coming from him.
scratching the carpet with his hands, his A few ordinary remarks and a
benigu host remarked with a sneer, C'est strange account of Napoleon in a fit
qu'il me parait, qu'il veut absolument descen
dre.'" constitute the sum total. By the by, talking of Napoleon reminds us of an
It appears that this prince of wits anecdote we remember to have heard
could indeed, like Scarron, jest with many years ago related by a witty Scotchbaronet, who had served
visitations of this shocking kind, even
in his own person. Lord Stuart de in a regiment of dragoons in the
Rothesay related the following anecFrench war, and who happened to
dote to Raikes : visit Paris in 1802, during the short peace. Everyone flocked to pay court
“ The Prince was unwell at Paris, some to the First Consul. Amongst these
years ago, but wished to take a journey were numerous English officers, in
into the country. Stuart called upon him, cluding militia in abundance. Who
aud strongly advised him to defer the jourever could make an excuse for a red ney; which he fortunately did, and in two coat, availed himself of it. A gentle days afterwards he was seized with a fit, man of some property in the neigh from which he only recovered by severe bourhood of Kingston was amongst bleeding. After a few days Stuart paid him these ; and appeared, his portly per
another visit, and found him quite well, eatson arrayed in the conspicious uni
ing some soup, when Talleyrand said, “C'est form of the Surrey militia. As he
bien heureux que je ne sois pas parti pour la
campagne; je calcule que je serois arrivé à passed into the presence, Napoleon,
Chartres le jour de ma maladic; j'aurois de not recognising the dress, put to him
suite enroyé chercher des sangsues chez mon the question, “Quel regiment, mon
ami l'Evêque ; il est très dévot, il ne m'ausieur / The Saxon, whose French
roit envoyé que l'extrême onction, et je ne was more that of - Stratford atte serois pas sûrement içi à manger ma soupe Bowe” than of Paris, felt suddenly at aujourd'hui." a loss : and after some hesitation stammered out—"Le regiment de We had hoped to have entered Souris? Monsieur.” “Le regiment de more at our leisure upon Mr. Raikes's souris," repeated Napoleon, slightly volumes, the rather as we wished frowning ; but the next moment re- to make the amende for what might laxing into a smile, added, “Ah, ap- appear a too disparaging tone with parement c'est une uniforme de fan- reference to them, when we first tasie que vous portez !”
mentioned them. The fact is, they There is something revoltingly are a great deal better worth reading characteristic of the man in the than one at least of the other books frequency with which Talleyrand's we have been quoting. A fuller in
sight is given in their pages into the best society of London and Paris twenty years ago, than we remember to have found elsewhere. A diary is scrupulously kept; and although it is here and there much too frequently eked out by cuttings from the newspapers, there is less of self and more of others than in that of the other journalizer of that day, whose notes have been of late so prominently before the public we mean Thomas Moore. Thomas Raikes was, as we have said, an undistinguished but regular habitué of the salons and drawing-rooms of London and Paris. In that capacity he saw, heard, read, and wrote diligently. It would be more appropriate to say that he looked, listened, studied, and noted down diligently. He was all eye, ear, and hand; and, except where his passion for toadyism carried him away, he may be considered as having been a shrewd and competent judge of character. The portion of the journal we have here was written while he lived en retraite in Paris. But he seemed all the while to know as much of the dessous des cartes of London life as if he was connected with it by the telegraphic wire. How he was blinded by the rays of royalty and aristocracy is abundantly and constantly manifest to any one who reads his book. Those who do not, will be amused by such entries as this. Raikes had just presented the Duke of York with a picture of Louis XV. when a boy, The following was the reply (bad English and all) :“Dear Raikes,
“ I cannot sufficiently thank you for the picture which you have been so good as to send me.
" You do not do it justice in abusing the painting of it; besides which, I think it extremely curious, and will, I can assure you, be considered by me as a great addition to my collection.
“ Ever, my dear Raikes,
“ FREDERICK." The literary value of this document, as a specimen of the epistolary style, can only be equalled by its worth as a memorial of affection : both may be left to be determined by those who can see with the eyes of Mr. Raikes.
Here is an interesting obituary. It deserves to be placed beside the epitaph of Lady O’Looney.
" Tresday, 16th April, 1833. - A sad, melancholy day. At seven o'clock this morning died my deeply-regretted friend Lord Foley. One short week's illness has carried him to the grave. For twenty-five years have I lived with him in the closest intimacy, and never knew a kinder or more friendly heart than his. The unbounded hospitality of his nature brought him into pecuniary dil. ficulties, which embittered the latter years of his life; and I very much fear that anxiety of mind contributed to render his last illness fatal. He was of a noble and princely disposition; a kind, affectionate parent, and a warm friend. He married the sister of the Duke of Leinster, and has left eight children, He was lord of the bedchamber, and captain of the band of Gentlemen Pensioners to the present King."
But it will not do to make selections in an invidious spirit. The reader who turns over these volumes will some times light upon matter which will interest, amuse, and instruct him. A good healthy tone of politics pervades the journal. Mr. Raikes was a conservative on principle as well as from personal friendships ; and often deals shrewdly with party questions then perplexing the wisest heads in England. But he is best in his croquis of character. No where do we find Beau Brummell sofreely and delicately sketched as here. He was an intimate of Beau Raikes; who understood his rival thoroughly, yet depicts him with a kindly and unenvious pen. Some of the events recorded are to be found both in the journal and in the Table Talk. For instance, the Marchioness of Salisbury's death in 1835. Here the wit and the beau exhibit their several peculiarities. Rogers has a sly soupçon of humour crossing his pathetic. “Ah,” he exclaims, “the fate of my old acquaintance, Lady Salisbury! The very evening of the day on which the catastrophe occurred, 'I quitted Hatfield; and I then shook her by the hand, that hand which was so soon to be a cinder!" “ Thus," says Raikes, musing after his manner,“ perished old Lady Salisbury, whom I have known all my life as one of the leaders of ton in the fashionable world. She was a Hill, sister to the late, and aunt to the present, Marquis of Downshire." On one point, however, the man of letters and the man of ton differ. “She was one of the beauties of her day," says Raikes. “ She never had any pretensions to
beauty," says Rogers. Both these ably be expected that his biographer, men were of an age to have been able with every pious intention, could proto judge for themselves. Rogers was duce a full continuous flowing narrathirteen years younger than Lady tive of her father's life. Gracefully Salisbury. Raikes was twenty years as Lady Holland, (or rather Lady younger. She retained her youthful Holland's mother ;-for the memoir appearance, such as it was, to an was composed principally by her, and advanced age; and both knew her at her death came into her daughter's early in their lives. Raikes, after hands for publication,) gracefully and describing her adherence to old cus feelingly, we say, as the biographer toms, informs us that after the dis has performed her task, it is easy to franchisement of the boroughs, her see the disadvantages under which ladyship went by the sobriquet of Old she laboured-disadvantages, neverSarum,“with the exception, that to theless, by which the public are not the last she bid defiance to reform.” quite losers to a proportionate extent; We have heard from another source, since the biographical memoir (taken that her pride, which was excessive, along with the correspondence) may indulged itself in unmeasured scorn probably be as entertaining in its of the Lamb family. This broke out present form-or formlessness as it into furious paroxysms when a would have been had it been drawn member of it became premier. It from more uniform materials in a appears that the ancestors of that more regular way. house, for one or two generations, We have already explained — at had been men of business connected least hinted-in what way Rogers's with the property of the Cecils. The reminiscences must be considered deDowager, on one occasion, being asked fective. They do not, indeed, aspire how the Lambs made their money, re- or pretend to be more than a foretaste plied, with magnificent generalization of what is to come. The public had —“By robbing the Lords Salisbury!" a right to expect, nevertheless, that
We must quit these pleasant, if not these first pressings of the grape quite satisfactory pages. In the case should have had at least the average of the first published of the works we amount of flavour and strength. Can have glanced at, scarcely more could we believe that such is the case ? If have been looked for than what has we must, then let us not fret ourselves actually been given. It was the with impatience for what remains. misfortune of Sydney Smith to have It will not be tokay. We can afford been, in society, what Barham was to wait. But there is one hope. These in poetic literature, a professed drole, table-sayings are selections made by who was expected to act up to his another. Let us not pronounce till character. À misfortune for them- we hear what the poet-wit has to say selves in each of these instances, for himself. We have seen what for this reason, that both of the men memories of him have lived in the belonged to a profession which re- brain of a friend. Let us bide our fused to licence the legitimate per- time, and see what his own “pleasures formance of their rôle; and possessed of memory" have been. talents that might have ensured them In giving to the world any reminisa more forward place in their respec- cences, however, of such men as these, tive walks than they could ever attain an editor cannot make a mistake. by bolting into burlesque. The two As public characters themselves, their canons of St. Paul's thus gravitated lives and thoughts are public proby their levity, as Horne Tooke said perty. No apology is necessary for of himself; but, what was worse, presenting them to the world, in any deprived the world, the one of a bold commonly respectable garb. The and brilliant philosopher and philan same excuse will not serve in a case thropist, if not a distinguished divine, such as that of the publication of Mr. -the other of a rich and harmonious Thomas Raikes's diary. There was nopoet. Taking it for granted, then, thing to call it forth. It might have that Sydney Smith mistook his part remained in manuscript, in the hands in life,-- perhaps, it might be said, of his family, and the world could forfeited his best claims upon our re- not and would not have complained. spect, by relinquishing his true and And consequently, when it does apnoblest vocation, it could not reason- pear, a more rigid rule of criticism
must naturally be applied to it than in the other case. It will be askx is it presumption, or is it not, that thus prompts the publication of the private journal of a private gentle man, who lived at a period not yet to be treated as historic? The answer to this question will depend upon the contents of the book, - how it is written-what it is about. We have already acquitted the editor of blame on this score. We venture to predict that the public will very generally agree in the verdict. With every disposition to vindicate the negative as well as positive rights of rearlers as regards the matter submitted to
them, we have felt justified in pronouncing that the student of life and manners would have been a loser had this journal been withheld. It forms a pleasant and readable addition to the stock of individual experiences on which a general estimate of the tone and temper and complexion of English and French polite society within the last twenty years will have some day to be made. With all its faults and some short-comings, it enables us to commend, as we do, the zeal of the editor which has forced through these discouraging circumstances into print a private diary not undeserving of public notice.
THE DARRAGH AND ITS MASTER.
Loomed the mansion stark and lofty, spread the common brown and bare,
It was a cold bright afternoon in the month of March, 18—; the morning had been gusty, and the sun was going down amidst a glare of copper and fiery clouds, indicative of angry weather, and presaging a stormy night. Its dying rays were now kindling on the top of a broad belt of dark fir trees, which ran in a circle of nearly two miles around a smooth green lawn, slightly sloping up towards the north, and terminating in an extremely large and old fashioned mansion, with a low roof, balustraded clumsily, and heavily chimnied, and flanked at each side by a tall weathercock ; both of which having been blown out of repair during a tempest in the reign of his Gracious Majesty, George the Second, had stiffened in their sockets, and now pointed obstinately and hopelessly to separate points of the compass. The front of the house was singularly wanting in physiognomy, presenting an unbroken
surface of facial stupidity and flatness, relieved by a few sickly creepers, which,straggling hereand there,looked like the thin ringlets on the cheek of an aged spinster. Before the door was a small pleasure ground defended by a ha-ha; the avenue was a mile long to the high road, terminating in two lofty and elaborately worked iron gates, which were hinged on great columns of white stone, each supporting an heraldic cockatrice or griffin, boldly but roughly carved, as it rested its paw on a sloping scutcheon, with a scroll beneath on which was traced the word “ Decrevi," being manifestly the motto, shield, and crest of the proprietor of the mansion. From each side of the old gates ran a wall which girdled the whole demesne --once strong and defensive, now full of large gaps where the stones had given way to the ceaseless hammer of old time, or fallen beneath the green but fatal blandishments of the ivy.