11 February 1833 – 17 February 1833

After dinner, —— came in. He sat himself down, and presently was over-head in reminiscences. His account of Tom Paine's escape from the Conciergerie, on the eve of being guillotined, was extremely interesting. His own introduction to, and subsequent acquaintance with, that worthy, was equally so, and his summing up was highly characteristic. "I tell ye, madam, the saving of that man's life was an especial providence, that he might come over to this country, where his works have done so much harm, and might have done so much more, and just exemplify the result of his own principles put into practice in his own person, and show that the glorious light of reason, and the noble natural gifts of man, of which he preached so much, would neither prevent a man's becoming a drunkard and a spendthrift, nor a debased degraded being. If Paine had been guillotined, madam, he would have been a martyr, and his works would have had ten times the power of evil they had before. But he lived to be a miserable low unthrift, and sot, and died neglected and despised by all reputable and respectable individuals, and, I say again, it was a manifest providence that he did so." We left the gentlemen to their wine for a short time, but were presently summoned back. —— had gone to the theatre. —— began his history to me, and it was, word for word, a repetition of Galt's book, except that occasionally it was more touching. The pity of all this is, the man's own consciousness that he is a lion. His vanity is almost as amusing as his recollections are curious and interesting; and though the tears were in my eye several times while he described the blessed time he lived with his sweet Phœbe, yet, at others, I could scarce help exclaiming, in the words of his own countryman, "Heigh, cretur, cretur! thou hast unco plause o' thysel'!" He ended his narrative with a eulogy of women that would have warmed the heart of a stone; and to my utter surprise addressed Mr. —— with, "Out upon ye, bachelors, all! ye throw away your lives, and your life's happiness!" This last attack of ——'s seemed too much for Mr. ——; and, as I turned to him with the tears in my eyes, to desire he would not laugh, which he was doing very heartily, he said he couldn't stand it any longer, and went away, apparently more amused than edified by ——'s appeal.

St. Valentine's day! I wish all these pretty golden days, which, like the flowers in the sundial of Linnæus, were wont so gaily to mark the flight of time, were not becoming so dim in our calendars; I wish St. Valentine's day, and May morning, and Christmas day, and New-Year's day, were not putting off their holiday suits to wear the work-day russet of their drudging fellows; I wish we were not making all things, of all sorts, so completely of a neutral tint. * * * * * I wouldn't be in the Reform Parliament of England for ten thousand pounds! ——, and ——, the bruiser, and the bankrupt! Oh, shame, England, shame!—Poor England! A RHAPSODY. White lady, sitting on the sea, Tell to me, oh, tell to me, How long shall thy reigning be, White lady, sitting on the sea? Long as the oak with which I'm crown'd Shall bear one leaf above the ground, Round which the crawling ivy's grasp Its cursed tendrils does not clasp; Long as one foot remains to stand Firm on its own ancestral land; Or one true man be left to claim The burden of a noble name; Long as one Gothic shrine shall rise With 'scutcheon'd tomb, and banner'd stall, Or the blest glances of the skies, Through storied casements dimly fall; Long as one heart shall beat to hear Legends of the old valiant time; Long as the Sabbath wind shall bear The music of one haunting chime. White lady, sitting on the sea, Tell to me, oh, tell to me, When shall thy downfalling be, White lady, sitting on the sea? When the vile kennel mud is thrown Upon the ermine of the king, And the old worships are cast down Before a rabble's triumphing; When toothless —— is young again, To do the mischief he but dreams, And little —— shall make more plain The good that glitters through his schemes; When the steam-engine of the north Leaves making essays and wry faces; And patriot Whigs forget the worth Of pensions, power, pride, and places; When on the spot where Burke and Pitt Earn'd their high immortality, Boxers and bankrupts boldly sit, Then, then shall my downfalling be.