LORD ERSKINE.

Poor Lord Erskine! how the memory of the first odd and pleasant evening which introduced me to the distinction of his notice, refreshes all my after remembrance of his unchanging kindness, from the moment that we met in Lady C——k’s conservatory, until within a few weeks of his death. Among the brightest, and often falsest illusions of our youth, are the ideas we conceive of eminent persons, of whom we have long read and heard. I could write volumes on the impressions which I received in my early and obscure youth, of the eminent and the celebrated, whose names had danced before my eyes, or tingled in my ears, in books and news-papers, in rumours and reports; and of the disappointment which followed, when my own notoriety brought me within their sphere. The first time I read of Lord Erskine was in Miss Seward’s works. What a splendid picture of humanity, for one whose imagination, like the style of the fair author whose pages she gloated over, was all exaggeration and effervescence! Oh! how very much in love I then was with the idea of Lord Erskine!

A little further on in life, I met with an old pamphlet, in the parlour window of a country house, and found it was the famous trial of Horne Tooke. The speech of Lord Erskine revived my early and warm impressions of that splendid person; and he of whom it had been said that “he had spoken on that momentous occasion like a man inspired, and at once redeemed the honour of his profession, and established the safety of his country,” was to me just that sort of person, whom to behold but for a moment, I would have made a pilgrimage barefooted from Tipperary (where I then was) to any given spot which he inhabited.

I met Lord Erskine, therefore, under these exaggerated notions of his genius and character; and was a little disappointed to find that he spoke like other persons—was a thin, middle-aged gentleman, and wore a brown wig. This was not exactly the impersonation of my beau-idéal! Genius was then with me a mode of being, splendid in its form as in its spirit. Already a little disabused, I yet could not reconcile myself to inspiration in a bob wig. Still it was a great epoch in my life, when I found myself seated by one of the gods of my idolatry—for I then had a great many; and worshipped a sort of polytheism of prepossession, which kept me in a constant alternation of hope and disappointment:—my gods being too frequently false gods, and my golden idols, images of clay. It was a still more flattering distinction, when his lordship called on me, the day after our introduction, at Lady C——’s.

From that time, till his death, we met frequently, and corresponded occasionally; just seeing enough of each other, to become intimate with nothing but our respective good qualities. He was always delightful, always amusing, frequently incoherent—and, I thought, sometimes affectedly wild, at least paradoxical. Of this, an instance occurs to me, connected with an important epoch, and with some amusing scenes, que voilà.

It was during that grand political æra—the very hegira of ratting—when the Prince of Wales, becoming regent, left it a moment in doubt whether the old ministry would join the whig sovereign, or the whig sovereign adopt the sentiments of the tory ministers. I was then enjoying my brilliant existence, at that Alhambra of fashion, and of ministerial politics, the P—— at St——re. The noble owner of that hospitable mansion was an aristocrat in feeling and a tory in principle. The blood of the Stuarts ran in his veins; the beauty of the Darnley and the hauteur of the Bothwell were the characteristics of his distinguished person. He was so organized to be the man he was, that no education nor example could have made him otherwise. Had he occupied the throne of his ancestors, he would have been the justest despot that ever reigned; for though he loved power much, he loved truth more;—and truth is—justice. Lord A—— was a frank, aboveboard, and uncompromising politician. His pride, with which he was reproached as a vice, was his virtue. It rendered him untractable to the meanness of manœuvre, intrigue, and corruption. His opinions were in such perfect coincidence with his interest, that his marquisate and blue ribbon were not the rewards of a purchased conformity, but testimonials of ministerial good will, for voluntary and independent services, conscientiously rendered; and much as he was said to have loved such distinctions, I am sure he would rather have resigned the title and the garter, than have changed sides, or given up any cause he deemed to be based in justice.

From Saturday till Monday, (the weekly interval of public business,) was always a carnival at the P——, when the upper and lower houses seemed to send their most distinguished members to recreate in its elegant salons. The first Saturday after the appointment of the Regent brought down a multitude of visitors, the élite of the statesmen and stateswomen of both parties. Among these were Lord Erskine and the Duchess of G——. It was my good fortune to be seated on a sofa with Lord Erskine, when the duchess did us the honour to make a third in our conversation. “Oh, my lord,” she said, “you ha’ got the Wild Irish Girl all to yourself. Weel, she’s a clever creature, but I’ve a great fault to find with her. She has no more sentiment than a London Missy! The first time I met her was at the Irish chancellor’s. Jannie M—— and I had been living among the heaths and the roses of Glengarry, and had been gloating on her ‘Wild Irish Girl’ and ‘Novice;’ and when I arrived in Dublin I was longing to know her. Weel, Lord M—— made a dinner expressly. But, what was my disappointment when she said, ‘Oh! Lord M——, think how unlucky I am. The very day I left B—— C——, a whole jaunting car of officers were expected from Strabane.’ Eh! gude God, there was sentiment with a vengeance.”

This brought on the chapter of romance, national peculiarities, fetches, second-sights, &c. &c.; in the latter of which, both Lord E. and the duchess acknowledged their belief. I could not avoid expressing some surprise that such persons should give way to the influence of such irrational superstition. The duchess was displeased, and said, “I don’t like to see young ladies setting themselves above their superiors, and giving in to free thinking. I never knew any one cry down what is called superstition, but those who have no religion.”

It was in vain that “I rose to explain.” Prostration of intellect, and profound obedience in the young and inexperienced, were the order of the day; and her grace related a very curious and romantic tale of second-sight in her own family, which amused, if it did not convert me—while the affecting manner in which it was told, left no doubt as to the sincerity of the relator.

“I also,” said Lord Erskine, “believe in second-sight, because I have been its subject. When I was a very young man, I had been for some time absent from Scotland. On the morning of my arrival in Edinburgh, as I was descending the steps of a close, on coming out from a bookseller’s shop, I met our old family butler. He looked greatly changed, pale, wan, and shadowy, as a ghost. ‘Eh! old boy,’ I said, ‘what brings you here?’ He replied, ‘To meet your honour, and solicit your interference with my lord, to recover a sum, due to me, which the steward at our last settlement did not pay.’ Struck by his looks and manner, I bade him follow me to the bookseller’s, into whose shop I stepped back; but when I turned round to speak to him, he had vanished.

“I remembered that his wife carried on some little trade in the old town. I remembered even the house and the flat she occupied, which I had often visited in my boyhood. Having made it out, I found the old woman in widow’s mourning. Her husband had been dead for some months; and had told her on her death-bed, that my father’s steward had wronged him of some money, but that when Master Tom returned, he would see her righted. This I promised to do, and shortly after, fulfilled my promise. The impression was indelible; and I am extremely cautious how I deny the possibility of such ‘supernatural visitings’ as those which your grace has just instanced in your own family.”

Either Lord Erskine did, or did not, believe this strange story; if he did, what a strange aberration of intellect!—if he did not, what a stranger aberration from truth! My opinion is, that he did believe it. I had not, however, then learned upon what trifling points human credulity turns, how little even our opinions are our own, and how far the strongest minds are inconsistent with themselves, and obstinately retain the dog’s-ears and folds of early impression.

Notwithstanding my heresy in the matter of second-sight, I continued to receive marks of friendship from Lord E.; and for years after my marriage, he sent me any thing he produced in a literary way. The following note, which was written a few months before his death, closed our correspondence; it was accompanied by his pamphlet on the Greeks. It is worth citing, as a testimony to prove that years do not make age, and that freshness of feeling, and youthful ardour in a great cause, may survive the corporeal decay, which time never spares, even to protracted sensibility:—

“Dear Lady Morgan,

“A long time ago, in one of your works (all of which I have read with great satisfaction), I remember your having expressed your approbation of my style of writing, and a wish that I would lose no occasion of rendering it useful. I wish I could agree with your ladyship in your kind and partial opinion; but as there never was an occasion in which it can be more useful to excite popular feeling than in the cause of the Greeks, I send your ladyship a copy of the second edition [of my work], published a few days ago.

“I have the honour to be,

“With regard and esteem,

“Your ladyship’s faithful humble servant,

“ERSKINE.”

“No. 13, Arabella Row, Pimlico, London, October 11, 1822.”

“Lady Morgan, Dublin.”

The pamphlet which accompanied this note, abundantly proved, that neither the talent nor the feelings of this singularly gifted writer had abandoned him; yet circumstances had occurred, and become notorious, which implied that age had, in some respects, made sad havoc with his powerful intellect. There is nothing more curious in the history of the human mind, than the manner in which it falls to ruin; and in which splendid and magnificent fragments can subsist, in all their pristine beauty, amidst the total decay of the rest of the intellectual fabric.