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seclusion and familiarity of his more private life, but on public occasions. The secret of popularity in very high stations seems to consist in a somewhat reserved and lofty, but courteous and uniform behaviour. Drinking toasts, shaking people by the hand, and calling them Jack and Tom, gets more applause at the moment, but fails entirely in the long He seems to have behaved not like a sovereign coming in pomp and state to visit a part of his dominions, but like a popular candidate come down upon an electioneering trip. If the day before he left Ireland he had stood for Dublin, he would, I dare say, have turned out Shaw or Grattan. Henry IV. is a dangerous example for sovereigns that are not, like him, splendid chevaliers, and consummate captains. Louis XIV., who was never seen but in a full-bottomed wig, even by his valet-de-chambre, is a much safer model.'—Letter 63.

This is most true with regard to the ceremonious Germans. It is the misfortune of the kind-hearted Irish that they bend, creatures of impulse, to the passing breeze, now carried away by most enthusiastic loyalty, at another time the unsuspicious dupes of the most worthless agitators. George IV., though somewhat lavish of his presence, justly estimated the warmth of their character. And in spite of all the poison of reform and republicanism, there is yet a majesty doth fence in the King. Let but the sovereign appear in a distant province, the unextinguishable loyalty of Old England blazes forth. George IV., although at the height of his unpopularity after the Queen's trial, fascinated the whole of Ireland; even O'Connell yielded to the generous contagion, and talked of subscribing for a national palace.

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Lord Dudley's horror at the prospect of a peace with the robber' Buonaparte is summed up by the elevation of a new family' on the ruin of the oldest, greatest, and best royal family in Europe.' (Letter 4, 5.) When the restored Louis XVIII. appoints a prime minister, he remarks, Talleyrand, to be sure, is a great rogue; but he is a rogue of long experience, and of singular ability in the conduct of public affairs, and he is bound to the present order of things by the only sure tie, his own interest.' But above all-the nobility may derive some comfort from recollecting that he is not an upstart. If the revolution had never happened, a prime minister of France could not have been chosen with more propriety than from the house of Perigord.' (Letter 7.) The prejudice which Lord Dudley avows was not, we believe, uncommon in England before all evils were reformed; we find him praising Huskisson, and thinking that he had deserved a seat in the Cabinet, but not wondering that the lowness of his origin may have stood in his way.' (Letter 67.) Yet the Whigs were even worse, according to Mr. Thomas Moore, who, writing in those dark Tory times of prudish delicacy of finance in regard to recompensing literary exertion,' discovered that Mr. Canning

preferred

preferred joining the Tories, from seeing the difficulties which even genius like his would experience in rising to the full growth of its ambition under the shadowy influence of the Whig aristocracy, and the superseding influence of birth and connexions, which had contributed to keep such men as Burke and Sheridan out of the cabinet.'

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However that might be, to pass from the roturier to the patrician, Lord Dudley in his own case apprehended, among other reasons against acceptance of the under-secretaryship from Canning, in 1822, that it might be held a degradation.' (Letter 83.) Yet this feeling of what was due to himself was tempered by a sincere wish not to seem to do anything uncivil to Canning, or disparaging to the office, or to create a notion that he considered himself as fit for higher employment.' I am sensible that it is only by the absence of all pretension that I can escape the severest and most merited criticism.' (Letter 93.) We think that he took a mistaken view in his refusal. Canning, when he made the offer, remembered that he had himself begun his official life as an under-secretary to Pitt. However, Lord Dudley's refusal of subordinate office protected him from a repetition of such proposals; the highest was subsequently offered to him, and accepted. When he took the seals of the Foreign Office, the Greek Question seems to have immediately excited all his feelings. Greece to him was holy ground; his mind was deeply imbued with her classical literature, and he took the most lively interest' in the affairs of the degenerate moderns. For my part, I am almost as enthusiastic as a German student.' (Letter 62.) He was dazzled by their glorious past, which he could not separate from the fallen present. He clung to every prospect of their regeneration. We may confidently hope,' he 'We may confidently hope,' he says, that all subsequent changes in the language will be for the better; and even though it should never rise again to the level of Demosthenes and Sophocles, it may without any great difficulty be brought to surpass in grace, in force, in harmony, and in flexibility, any other instrument by which thought is now communicated among men.' (Letter 6.) He dreamed of Solon and patriotic poverty while listening to Joseph Hume's bubbles and Greek loans. He hoped to reconstruct the literature of the past. Alas! the form may be re-modelled, but the soul, the breath of life, is wanting. A chorus of Eschylus, which once electrified myriads, would now have less charms for Bavarian ears than the rattle of the Piræus omnibus.

We were struck, knowing his knowledge and delight in this language, to find so few traces in these letters of his favourite study. A vein, however, of classical allusions gilds his periods.

The

The touch is light and graceful, never pedantic; the scholar writing to the scholar, no cheap display of schoolboy erudition. We have before ventured to hint that respect and awe may have rendered his letters to such a person as the Bishop of Llandaff less easy and playful than they might otherwise have been-and we suspect the same feeling may have deprived the series of much purely literary interest. We venture to give one specimen of his delicate perception of the exquisite nicety of the Greek idiom, and the skill in the ovoμάтwv σúvěεσis.' The conversation had turned at dinner on the simple costumes of the Madonnas of Raphael compared with the glitter and brocade of Paul VeroA friend of his had chanced to illustrate the distinction by the application made by Algarotti of the anecdote of Apelles: 'Gli ornamenti nei vestimenti delle figure vogliono esser messi con sobrietà, e fa bisogno ricordarsi di colui, che altte volte diceva a quello artefice, Tristo a te! non sapesti far Ellena bella, la facesti ricca.** Next morning, Lord Dudley, not having a copy of the Saggio sopra la pittura,' begged the loan of it, which he returned, having enriched the page with the following note:'Park Lane, Thursday even.

nese.

'Dear -Thanks for the passage, which is well worth recollecting. Algarotti is very neat and concise; but there is no matching the grace and beauty of that confounded Greek language, the loss of which is such a severe, irreparable blow to the art of writing.

the

'Mind the TETоinkas for what was done ill, mechanically; ypáva, for what ought to have been done well; and the "kaλ" and the "Novoiav," brought in contact. This escapes in Italian; but it is the difference between silver and gold. Yours very sincerely,

D.'

His system of reading smacks of the old school; little, but good,— non multa, sed multum.'

'By-the-bye, I observe a point in which your taste and mine differ from each other materially. It is about new publications. I read them unwillingly. You abstain from them with difficulty, and as a matter of duty and self-denial. Their novelty has very little attraction for me; and in literature I am fond of confining myself to the best company, which consists chiefly of my old acquaintance, with whom I am desirous of becoming more intimate; and I suspect that nine times out of ten it is more profitable, if not more agreeable, to read an old book over again, than to read a new one for the first time. If I hear of a new poem, for instance, I ask myself first whether it is superior to Homer, Shakspeare, Ariosto, Virgil, or Racine; and in the next place, whether I already have all these authors completely at my fingers' ends. And when both questions have been answered in the negative, I infer that it

* The Greek is:—Απέλλης ὁ ζωγραφος θεασάμενός τινα τῶν μαθητῶν Ἑλένην ὀνόματι πολύχρυσον γράψαντα, ο μειράκιον, εἶπεν, μὴ δυνάμενος γράψαι καλὴν, πλουσίαν πεποίηκας. is

is better (and to me it is certainly pleasanter) to give such time as I have to bestow on the reading of poetry to Homer, Ariosto, and Co., and so of other things. Is it not better to try at least to elevate and adorn one's mind by the constant study and contemplation of the great models, than merely to know of one's own knowledge, that such a book an't worth reading? Some new books, to be sure, it is necessary to read— part for the information they contain-and others in order to acquaint oneself with the state of literature in the age in which one lives; but I would rather read too few than too many.'-Letter 24.

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Our readers will have collected that Lord Dudley went frequently to the continent, which in those days was not the resort of shopkeepers and half-pay economists! He was an excellent fellow-traveller. This is the most severe trial of temper. It is a test which even Paul and Barnabas could not stand. It is an ordeal of good-nature and self-sacrifice. Lord Dudley invariably speaks in favour of his companions: he is most sensible of their bearing and forbearing with his ill-health. Few men,' says Charles Lamb, like sick persons. I candidly confess that I hate them.' He records the good-nature, gaiety, and gentlemanlike disposition, the most essential qualities in a fellow-traveller, of General Matthew;' (Letter 7.)-the quickness, accomplishments, and industry, which I like in others, of Mr. Irvine;' (Letter 35.)—the ' good sense of Mr. Pigou, whose society and kindness have been a great comfort to me, while the state of my spirits must have made me a vile companion;' (Letter 66.)-the excellent temper and disposition of Francis Hare; his learning extensive and various; his cheerful, social turn of mind.' (Letter 88.) He could give as well as take;-when about to travel with Lord Ebrington, he waives his own plans: For my part, I had much rather go to Paris; but it don't do to begin a journey by telling one's companion that you are determined to do all that you choose, and nothing that he chooses.' (Letter 11.) Lord Dudley himself was a most agreeable and instructive travelling companion. He entered into

everything with a fresh curiosity; his illustrations were apt and classical. He was worthy to have gone to Brundusium with Horace, Virgil, and Mecanas, by each of whom might he have been addressed at parting from those fair scenes

quæ vidimus ambo,

Te mihi jucundas efficiente vias.'

Perhaps the best letter in this volume is that descriptive of Pompeii- an ancient town potted for posterity,' as he happily calls it. One of his great objects in travel was the acquisition of knowledge. There is no such rapid and delightful way of acquiring new and valuable ideas: they flow in upon you whether you will or not. You should confine yourself as much as possible to the capital

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cities.'

cities.' (Letter 48.) In this last rule we catch the clue of this student of the Odyssey' :

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πολλῶν δ ̓ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω.

This was the natural result of his education; it had been classical, continental, more like that of an ancient or modern Roman, than of our hardy, independent, public schoolboy, who grows only on the English soil. His habits were quiet, in-door, gregarious, not daring, adventurous, or solitary. On him was lost the lonely magnificence of nature, who, careless of mortal admiration, lavishes with proud indifference her fairest charms where most unseen, her grandest forms where most inaccessible. He shrunk from the sublimity of solitude. His heart was cheered, and his countenance made glad, by gazing on plains overrunning with milk and honey, laughing with oil and wine. He preferred those sweet meadows which gave pleasure and profit' to old Izaac Walton, to the barren magnificence of Alps and water-torrents. He carried this feeling

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into his studies: he revelled in the happy genius of Walter Scott; his cheerful, social disposition, his undiminished relish for the pursuits and amusements of ordinary life.' He preferred these to the splendid misanthropy of Rousseau or Byron:'—with him it was the valley versus the crag.

Everything that I have ever beheld, hardly excepting Granada, Naples, Amalfi, and Cintra-yields to Saltzburg. It has been much praised, but hardly so much as it deserves. I could not mention any natural beauty either of the softer or of the severer kind which it does not possess in an eminent degree. In short, it is one of those enchanting spots which it is difficult to see without a transient wish to make it one's abode; and without a more enduring regret that it should not be the seat of a more polished and extended society-of more persons qualified by leisure and education to enjoy it. We spent four days there, and thought them short, which is saying a great deal for me, who, I fairly own, should like to spend a part of every day that I am well in a club or a drawing-room-and to whom the busy hum of men is hardly ever importunate. However, you do not quite do me justice in what regards the picturesque-I am as much delighted with a fine country as any body. All I plead guilty to is, not liking wild scenery, rocks, and glaciers, so much as you do. Without undertaking to decide the question whether or not all the pleasure that is derived from the contemplation of nature arises from association, we may fairly presume that a very considerable part of it is derived from that source. that are suggested to my mind by very high rocks, snow-covered peaks, &c., are eminently disagreeable. I turn with horror from these emblems and causes of extreme cold, of desolation, and of the suspension of the benign and productive powers of nature. I do not like to see the face of the earth turned into a frozen desert, and the human race degraded below the beast. Perhaps I ought to think of something very

Ideas

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