deemed by the French little less than a heresy to say so, is even more damp and disagreeable.
The Seine has her fogs, as dense, raw, and chilling, as those of old Father Thames himself; and the river approximating closer to “the gay resorts” of the _beau monde_, they are more felt. The want of draining, and the vapours that stagnate over the turbid waters of the _ruisseaux_ that intersect the streets at Paris, add to the humidity of the atmosphere; while the sewers in London convey away unseen and unfelt, if not always unsmelt, the rain which purifies, while it deluges, our streets. Heaven defend me, however, from uttering this disadvantageous comparison to Parisian cars, for the French are too fond of Paris not to be proud even of its _ruisseaux_, and incredulous of its fogs, and any censure on either would be ill received.
The gay butterflies when they first expand their varicoloured wings and float in air, seem not more joyous than the Parisians have been during the last two days of sunshine. The Jardins des Tuileries are crowded with well-dressed groups; the budding leaves have burst forth with that delicate green peculiar to early spring; and the chirping of innumerable birds, as they flit from tree to tree, announces the approach of the vernal season.
Paris is at no time so attractive, in my opinion, as in spring; and the verdure of the foliage during its infancy is so tender, yet bright, that it looks far more beautiful than with us in our London squares or parks, where no sooner do the leaves open into life, than they become stained by the impurity of the atmosphere, which soon deposes its dingy particles on them, “making the green one”–black.
The Boulevards were well stocked with flowers to-day, the _bouquetieres_ having resumed their stalls; and many a pedestrian might be seen bargaining for these fair and frail harbingers of rosy spring.
How exhilarating are the effects of this season on the spirits depressed by the long and gloomy winter, and the frame rendered languid by the same cause! The heart begins to beat with more energetic movement, the blood flows more briskly through the veins, and the spirit of hope is revivified in the human heart. This sympathy between awakening nature, on the earth, and on man, renders us more, that at any other period, fond of the country; for this is the season of promise; and we know that each coming day, for a certain time, will bestow some new beauty on all that is now budding forth, until glowing, laughing summer has replaced the fitful smiles and tears of spring.
And there are persons who tell me they experience nought of this elasticity of spirits at the approach of spring! How are such mortals to be pitied! Yet, perhaps, they are less so than we imagine, for the same insensibility that prevents their being exhilarated, may preclude them from the depression so peculiar to all who have lively feelings.
“I see nothing so very delightful in spring,” said —- to me, yesterday. “_Au contraire_, I think it rather disagreeable, for the sunshine cheats one into the belief of warmth, and we go forth less warmly clad in consequence, so return home chilled by the sharp cold air which always prevails at this season, and find, as never fails to be the case, that our stupid servants have let out the fires, because, truly, the sun was shining in the cold blue sky.” —- reminds me of the man mentioned in Sterne’s works, who, when his friend looking on a beautiful prospect, compared a green field with a flock of snowy-fleeced sheep on it, to a vast emerald studded with pearls, answered that _he_ could see nothing in it but grass and mutton.
Lord B—- set out for London to-day, to vote on the Catholic question, which is to come on immediately. His going at this moment, when he is far from well, is no little sacrifice of personal comfort; but never did he consider self when a duty was to be performed. I wish the question was carried, and he safely back again. What would our political friends say if they knew how strongly I urged him not to go, but to send his proxy to Lord Rosslyn? I would not have consented to his departure, were it not that the Duke of Wellington takes such an interest in the measure.
How times are changed! and how much is due to those statesmen who yield up their own convictions for the general good! There is no action in the whole life of the Duke more glorious than his self-abnegation on this occasion, nor is that of the Tory leader of the House of Commons less praiseworthy; yet how many attacks will both incur by this sacrifice of their opinions to expediency! for when were the actions of public men judged free from the prejudices that discolour and distort all viewed through their medium? That which originates in the purest patriotism, will be termed an unworthy tergiversation; but the reward of these great and good men will be found in their own breasts. I am _triste_ and unsettled, so will try the effect of a drive in the Bois de Boulogne.
I was forcibly reminded yesterday of the truth of an observation of a clever French writer, who says, that to judge the real merit of a cook, one should sit down to table without the least feeling of appetite, as the triumph of the culinary art was not to satisfy hunger but to excite it. Our new cook achieved this triumph yesterday, for he is so inimitable an artist, that the flavour of his _plats_ made even me, albeit unused to the sensation of hunger, feel disposed to render justice to them. Monsieur Louis–for so he is named–has a great reputation in his art; and it is evident, even from the proof furnished of his _savoir-faire_ yesterday, that he merits it.
It is those only who have delicate appetites that can truly appreciate the talent of a cook; for they who devour soon lose the power of tasting. No symptom of that terrible malady, well named by the ingenious Grimod de la Reyniere _remords d’estomac_, but vulgarly called indigestion, follows my unusual indulgence in _entrees_ and _entremets_, another delightful proof of the admirable skill of Monsieur Louis.
The English are apt to spoil French cooks by neglecting the _entrees_ for the _piece de resistance_, and, when the cook discovers this, which he is soon enabled to do by the slight breaches made in the first, and the large one in the second, his _amour-propre_ becomes wounded, and he begins to neglect his _entrees_. Be warned, then, by me, all ye who wish your cooks to retain their skill, and however your native tastes for that English favourite dish denominated “a plain joint” may prevail, never fail to taste the _entree_.
_A propos_ of cooks, an amusing instance of the _amour-propre_ of a Parisian cook was related to me by the gourmand Lord —-, the last time we dined at his house. Wishing to have a particular sauce made which he had tasted in London, and for which he got the receipt, he explained to his cook, an artist of great celebrity, how the component parts were to be amalgamated.
“How, mylord!” exclaimed _Monsieur le cuisinier_; “an English sauce! Is it possible your lordsip can taste any thing so barbarous? Why, years ago, my lord, a profound French philosopher described the English as a people who had a hundred religions, but only one sauce.”
More anxious to get the desired sauce than to defend the taste of his country, or correct the impertinence of his cook, Lord —- immediately said, “On recollection, I find I made a mistake; the sauce I mean is _a la Hollandaise_, and not _a l’Anglaise_.”
_A la bonne heure_, my lord, _c’est autre chose_; and the sauce was forthwith made, and was served at table the day we dined with Lord —-.
An anecdote is told of this same cook, which Lord —- relates with great good humour. The cook of another English nobleman conversing with him, said, “My master is like yours–a great _gourmand_.”
“Pardon me,” replied the other; “there is a vast difference between our masters. Yours is simply a _gourmand_, mine is an epicure as well.”
The Duc de Talleyrand, dining with us a few days ago, observed that to give a perfect dinner, the Amphitryon should have a French cook for soups, _entrees_ and _entremets_; an English _rotisseur_, and an Italian _confiseur_, as without these, a dinner could not be faultless. “But, alas!” said he–and he sighed while he spoke it–“the Revolution has destroyed our means of keeping these artists; and we eat now to support nature, instead of, as formerly, when we ate because it was a pleasure to eat.” The good-natured Duc nevertheless seemed to eat his dinner as if he still continued to take a pleasure in the operation, and did ample justice to a certain _plat de cailles farcies_ which he pronounced to be perfect.
Our landlord, le Marquis de L—-, has sent to offer us the refusal of our beautiful abode. The Duc de N—- has proposed to take it for fourteen on twenty-one years, at the same rent we pay (an extravagant one, by the bye), and as we only took it for a year, we must eithor leave or hire it for fourteen or twenty-one years, which is out of the question.
Nothing can be more fair or honourable than the conduct of the Marquis de L—-, for he laid before us the offer of the Duc de N—-; but as we do not intend to remain more than two or three years more in Paris, we must leave this charming house, to our infinite regret, when the year for which we have hired it expires. Gladly would we have engaged it for two, or even three years more, but this is now impossible; and we shall have the trouble of again going the round of house-hunting.
When I look on the suite of rooms in which I have passed such pleasant days, I am filled with regret at the prospect of leaving them, but it cannot be helped, so it is useless to repine. We have two months to look about us, and many friends who are occupied in assisting us in the search.
A letter from Lord B—-; better, but still ailing. He presided at the Covent Garden Theatrical Fund Dinner, at the request of the Duke of Clarence. He writes me that he met there Lord F. Leveson Gower[5], who was introduced to him by Mr. Charles Greville, and of whom he has conceived a very high opinion. Lord B—- partakes my belief in physiognomy, but in this instance the impression formed from the countenance is justified by the reputation of the individual, who is universally esteemed and respected.
Went again to see the Hotel Monaco, which Lord B—- writes me to close for; but its gloomy and uncomfortable bed-rooms discourage me, _malgre_ the splendour of the _salons_, which are decidedly the finest I have seen at Paris, I will decide on nothing until Lord B—-‘s return.
Went to the College of Ste.-Barbe to-day, with the Duchesse de Guiche, to see her sons. Great was their delight at the meeting. I thought they would never have done embracing her; and I, too, was warmly welcomed by these dear and affectionate boys, who kissed me again and again. They have already won golden opinions at the college, by their rare aptitude in acquiring all that is taught them, and by their docility and manly characters.
The masters paid the Duchesse the highest compliments on the progress her sons had made previously to their entrance at Ste.-Barbe, and declared that they had never met any children so far advanced for their age. I shared the triumph of this admirable mother, whose fair cheeks glowed, and whose beautiful eyes sparkled, on hearing the eulogiums pronounced on her boys. Her observation to me was, “How pleased their father will be!”
Ste.-Barbe is a little world in itself, and a very different world to any I had previously seen. In it every thing smacks of learning, and every body seems wholly engrossed by study.
The spirit of emulation animates all, and excites the youths into an application so intense as to be often found injurious to health. The ambition of surpassing all competitors in their studies operates so powerfully on the generality of the _eleves_, that the masters frequently find it more necessary to moderate, than to urge the ardour of the pupils. A boy’s reputation for abilities soon gets known, but he must possess no ordinary ones to be able to distinguish himself in a college where every victory in erudition is sure to be achieved by a well-contested battle.
We passed through the quarter of Paris known as the Pays Latin, the aspect of which is singular, and is said to have been little changed during the last century. The houses, chiefly occupied by literary men, look quaint and picturesque. Every man one sees passing has the air of an author, not as authors now are, or at least as popular ones are, well-clothed and prosperous-looking, but as authors were when genius could not always command a good wardrobe, and walked forth in habiliments more derogatory to the age in which it was neglected, than to the individual whose poverty compelled such attire.
Men in rusty threadbare black, with books under the arm, and some with spectacles on nose, reading while they walked along, might be encountered at every step.
The women, too, in the Pays Latin, have a totally different aspect to those of every other part of Paris. The desire to please, inherent in the female breast, seems to have expired in them, for their dress betrays a total neglect, and its fashion is that of some forty years ago. Even the youthful are equally negligent, which indicates their conviction that the men they meet seldom notice them, proving the truth of the old saying, that women dress to please men.
The old, with locks of snow, who had grown into senility in this erudite quarter, still paced the same promenade which they had trodden for many a year, habit having fixed them where hope once led their steps. The middle-aged, too, might be seen with hair beginning to blanch from long hours devoted to the midnight lamp, and faces marked with “the pale cast of thought.” Hope, though less sanguine in her promises, still lures them on, and they pass the venerable old, unconscious that they themselves are succeeding them in the same life of study, to be followed by the same results, privation, and solitude, until death closes the scene. And yet a life of study is, perhaps, the one in which the privations compelled by poverty are the least felt to be a hardship.
Study, like virtue, is its own exceeding great reward, for it engrosses as well as elevates the mind above the sense of the wants so acutely felt by those who have no intellectual pursuits; and many a student has forgotten his own privations when reading the history of the great and good who have been exposed to even still more trying ones. Days pass uncounted in such occupations. Youth fleets away, if not happily, at least tranquilly, while thus employed; and maturity glides into age, and age drops into the grave, scarcely conscious of the gradations of each, owing to the mind having been filled with a continuous train of thought, engendered by study.
I have been reading some French poems by Madame Amabel Tastu; and very beautiful they are. A sweet and healthy tone of mind breathes through them, and the pensiveness that characterises many of them, marks a reflecting spirit imbued with tenderness. There is great harmony, too, in the versification, as well as purity and elegance in the diction. How much some works make us wish to know their authors, and _vice versa_! I feel, while reading her poems, that I should like Madame Amabel Tastu; while other books, whose cleverness I admit, convince me I should not like the writers.
A book must always resemble, more or less, its author. It is the mind, or at least a portion of it, of the individual; and, however circumstances may operate on it, the natural quality must always prevail and peep forth in spite of every effort to conceal it.
Living much in society seldom fails to deteriorate the force and originality of superior minds; because, though unconsciously, the persons who possess them are prone to fall into the habits of thought of those with whom they pass a considerable portion of their time, and suffer themselves to degenerate into taking an interest in puerilities on which, in the privacy of their study, they would not bestow a single thought. Hence, we are sometimes shocked at observing glaring inconsistencies in the works of writers, and find it difficult to imagine that the grave reflection which pervades some of the pages can emanate from the same mind that dictated the puerilities abounding in others. The author’s profound thoughts were his own, the puerilities were the result of the friction of his mind with inferior ones: at least this is my theory, and, as it is a charitable one, I like to indulge it.
A pleasant party at dinner yesterday. Mr. W. Spencer, the poet, was among the guests, He was much more like the William Spencer of former days than when he dined here before, and was occasionally brilliant, though at intervals he relapsed into moodiness. He told some good stories of John Kemble, and told them well; but it seemed an effort to him; and, while the listeners were still smiling at his excellent imitation of the great tragedian, he sank back in his chair with an air of utter abstraction.
I looked at him, and almost shuddered at marking the “change that had come o’er the spirit of his dream;” for whether the story touched a chord that awakened some painful reflection in his memory, or that the telling it had exhausted him, I know not, but his countenance for some minutes assumed a careworn and haggard expression, and he then glanced around at the guests with an air of surprise, like one awakened from slumber.
It is astonishing how little people observe each other in society! This inattention, originating in a good breeding that proscribes personal observation, has degenerated into something that approaches very nearly to total indifference, and I am persuaded that a man might die at table seated between two others without their being aware of it, until he dropped from his chair.
Civilization has its disadvantages as well as its advantages, and I think the consciousness that one might expire between one’s neighbours at table without their noticing it, is hardly atoned for by knowing that they will not stare one out of countenance. I often think, as I look around at a large dinner-party, how few present have the slightest knowledge of what is passing in the minds of the others. The smile worn on many a face may be assumed to conceal a sadness which those who feel it are but too well aware would meet with little sympathy, for one of the effects of modern civilization is the disregard for the cares of others, which it engenders.
Madame de —- once said to me, “I never invite Monsieur de —-, because he looks unhappy, and as if he expected to be questioned as to the cause.” This _naive_ confession of Madame de —- is what few would make, but the selfishness that dictated it is what society, _en masse_, feels and acts up to.
Monsieur de —-, talking of London last evening, told the Count —- to be on his guard not to be too civil to people when he got there. The Count —- looked astonished, and inquired the reason for the advice. “Merely to prevent your being suspected of having designs on the hearts of the women, or the purses of the men,” replied Monsieur de —-; “for no one can evince in London society the _empressement_ peculiar to well-bred Frenchmen without being accused of some unworthy motive for it.”
I defended my countrymen against the sweeping censure of the cynical Monsieur de —-, who shook his head and declared that he spoke from observation. He added, that persons more than usually polite are always supposed to be poor in London, and that as this supposition was the most injurious to their reception in good society, he always counselled his friends, when about to visit it, to assume a _brusquerie_ of manner, and a stinginess with regard to money, by which means they were sure to escape the suspicion of poverty; as in England a parsimonious expenditure and bluntness are supposed to imply the possession of wealth.
I ventured to say that I could now understand why it was that he passed for being so rich in England–a _coup de patte_ that turned the laugh against him.
Mr. de —- is a perfect cynic, and piques himself on saying what he thinks,–a habit more frequently adopted by those who think disagreeable, than agreeable things.
Dined yesterday at Madame C—-‘s, and being Friday, had a _diner maigre_, than which I know no dinner more luxurious, provided that the cook is a perfect artist, and that the Amphitryon, as was the case in this instance, objects not to expense.
The _soupes_ and _entrees_ left no room to regret the absence of flesh or poultry from their component parts, and the _releves_, in the shape of a _brochet roti_, and a _turbot a la hollandaise_ supplied the place of the usual _pieces de resistance_. But not only was the flavour of the _entrees_ quite as good as if they were composed of meat or poultry, but the appearance offered the same variety, and the _cotelettes de poisson_ and _fricandeau d’esturgeon_ might have deceived all but the profoundly learned in gastronomy,–they looked so exactly like lamb and veal.
The second course offered equally delicate substitutes for the usual dainties, and the most fastidious epicure might have been more than satisfied with the _entremets_.
The bishops in France are said to have had the most luxurious dinners imaginable on what were erroneously styled fast-days; and their cooks had such a reputation for their skill, that the having served _a Monseigneur d’Eglise_ was a passport to the kitchens of all lovers of good eating. There are people so profane as to insinuate that the excellence at which the cooks arrived in dressing _les diners maigres_ is one of the causes why Catholicism has continued to flourish; but this, of course, must be looked on as a malicious hint of the enemies to that faith which thus proves itself less addicted to indulgence in the flesh than are its decryers.
CHAPTER XVII.
The more I observe Lady C—- the more surprised I am at the romantic feelings she still indulges, and the illusions under which she labours;–yes _labours_ is the suitable word, for it can be nothing short of laborious, at her age, to work oneself into the belief that love is an indispensable requisite for life. Not the affection into which the love of one’s youth subsides, but the wild, the ungovernable passion peculiar to the heroes and heroines of novels, and young ladies and gentlemen recently emancipated from boarding-schools and colleges.
Poor Lady C—-, with so many estimable qualities, what a pity it is she should have this weakness! She maintained in our conversation yesterday that true love could never be extinguished in the heart, and that even in age it burnt with the same fire as when first kindled. I quoted to her a passage from Le Brun, who says–“L’amour peut s’eteindre sans doute dans le coeur d’un galant homme; mais combien de dedommagements n’a-t-il pas alors a offrir! L’estime, l’amitie, la confiance, ne suffisent-elles pas aux glaces de la vieillesse?” Lady C—- thinks not.
Talking last night of —-, some one observed that “it was disagreeable to have such a neighbour, as he did nothing but watch and interfere in the concerns of others.”
“Give me in preference such a man as le Comte —-,” said Monsieur —-, slily, “who never bestows a thought but on self, and is too much occupied with that interesting subject to have time to meddle with the affairs of other people.”
“You are right,” observed Madame —-, gravely, believing him to be serious; “it is much preferable.”
“But surely,” said I, determined to continue the mystification, “you are unjustly severe in your animadversions on poor Monsieur —-. Does he not prove himself a true philanthropist in devoting the time to the affairs of others that might be usefully occupied in attending to his own?”
“You are quite right,” said Mrs. —-; “I never viewed his conduct in this light before; and now that I understand it I really begin to like him,–a thing I thought quite impossible before you convinced me of the goodness of his motives.”
How many Mrs. —-‘s there are in the world, with minds ductile as wax, ready to receive any impression one wishes to give them! Yet I reproached myself for assisting to hoax her, when I saw the smiles excited by her credulity.
Mademoiselle Delphine Gay[6] is one of the agreeable proofs that genius is hereditary. I have been reading some productions of hers that greatly pleased me. Her poetry is graceful, the thoughts are natural, and the versification is polished. She is a very youthful authoress, and a beauty as well as a _bel esprit_. Her mother’s novels have beguiled many an hour of mine that might otherwise have been weary, for they have the rare advantage of displaying an equal knowledge of the world with a lively sensibility.
All Frenchwomen write well. They possess the art of giving interest even to trifles, and have a natural eloquence _de plume_, as well as _de langue_, that renders the task an easy one. It is the custom in England to decry French novels, because the English unreasonably expect that the literature of other countries should be judged by the same criterion by which they examine their own, without making sufficient allowance for the different manners and habits of the nations. Without arrogating to myself the pretension of a critic, I should be unjust if I did not acknowledge that I have perused many a French novel by modern authors, from which I have derived interest and pleasure.
The French critics are not loath to display their acumen in reviewing the works of their compatriots, for they not only analyze the demerits with pungent causticity, but apply to them the severest of all tests, that of ridicule; in the use of which dangerous weapon they excel.
House-hunting the greater part of the day. Oh the weariness of such an occupation, and, above all, after having lived in so delightful a house as the one we inhabit! Many of our French friends have come and told us that they had found hotels exactly to suit us: and we have driven next day to see them, when lo and behold! these eligible mansions were either situated in some disagreeable _quartier_, or consisted of three fine _salons de reception_, with some half-dozen miserable dormitories, and a passage-room by way of _salle a manger_.
Though Paris abounds with fine _hotels entre cour et jardin_, they are seldom to be let; and those to be disposed of are generally divided into suites of apartments, appropriated to different persons. One of the hotels recommended by a friend was on the Boulevards, with the principal rooms commanding a full view of that populous and noisy quarter of Paris. I should have gone mad in such a dwelling, for the possibility of reading, or almost of thinking, amidst such an ever-moving scene of bustle and din, would be out of the question.
The modern French do not seem to appreciate the comfort of quiet and seclusion in the position of their abodes, for they talk of the enlivening influence of a vicinity to these same Boulevards from which I shrink with alarm. It was not so in former days; witness the delightful hotels before alluded to, _entre cour et jardin_, in which the inhabitants, although in the centre of Paris, might enjoy all the repose peculiar to a house in the country. There is something, I am inclined to think, in the nature of the Parisians that enables them to support noise better than we can,–nay, not only to support, but even to like it.
I received an edition of the works of L.E.L. yesterday from London. She is a charming poetess, full of imagination and fancy, dazzling one moment by the brilliancy of her flights, and the next touching the heart by some stroke of pathos. How Byron would have admired her genius, for it bears the stamp of being influenced no less by a graceful and fertile fancy than by a deep sensibility, and the union of the two gives a peculiar charm to her poems.
Drove to the Bois de Boulogne to-day, with the Comtesse d’O—-, I know no such brilliant talker as she is. No matter what may be the subject of conversation, her wit flashes brightly on all, and without the slightest appearance of effort or pretension. She speaks from a mind overflowing with general information, made available by a retentive memory, a ready wit, and in exhaustible good spirits.
Letters from dear Italy. Shall I ever see that delightful land again? A letter, too, from Mrs. Francis Hare, asking me to be civil to some English friends of hers, who are come to Paris, which I shall certainly be for her sake.
_A propos_ of the English, it is amusing to witness the avidity with which many of them not only accept but court civilities abroad, and the _sang-froid_ with which they seem to forget them when they return home. I have as yet had no opportunity of judging personally on this point, but I hear such tales on the subject as would justify caution, if one was disposed to extend hospitality with any prospective view to gratitude for it, which we never have done, and never will do.
Mine is the philosophy of —-, who, when his extreme hospitality to his countrymen was remarked on, answered, “I can’t eat all my good dinners alone, and if I am lucky enough to find now and then a pleasant guest, it repays me for the many dull ones invited.” I expect no gratitude for our hospitality to our compatriots, and “Blessed are they who expect not, for they will not be disappointed.”
Longchamps has not equalled my expectations. It is a dull affair after all, resembling the drive in Hyde Park on a Sunday in May, the promenade in the Cacina at Florence, in the Corso at Rome, or the Chaija at Naples, in all save the elegance of the dresses of the women, in which Longchamps has an immeasurable superiority.
It is at Longchamps that the Parisian spring fashions are first exhibited, and busy are the _modistes_ for many weeks previously in putting their powers of invention to the test, in order to bring out novelties, facsimiles of which are, the ensuing week, forwarded to England, Italy, Germany, Holland, and Russia. The coachmakers, saddlers, and horse-dealers, are also put in requisition for this epoch; and, though the exhibition is no longer comparable to what it was in former times, when a luxurious extravagance not only in dress, but in equipages, was displayed, some handsome and well-appointed carriages are still to be seen. Among the most remarkable for good taste, were those of the Princess Bagration, and Monsieur Schikler, whose very handsome wife attracted more admiration than the elegant vehicle in which she was seated, or the fine steeds that drew it.
Those who are disposed to question the beauty of French women, should have been at Longchamps to-day, when their scepticism would certainly have been vanquished, for I saw several women there whose beauty could admit of no doubt even by the most fastidious critic of female charms. The Duchesse de Guiche, however, bore off the bell from all competitors, and so the spectators who crowded the Champs-Elysees seemed to think. Of her may be said what Choissy stated of la Duchesse de la Valliere, she has “_La grace plus belle encore que la beaute_.” The handsome Duchesse d’Istrie and countless other _beautes a la mode_ were present, and well sustained the reputation for beauty of the Parisian ladies.
The men _caracoled_ between the carriages on their proud and prancing steeds, followed by grooms, _a l’Anglaise_, in smart liveries, and the people crowded the footpaths on each side of the drive, commenting aloud on the equipages and their owners that passed before them.
The promenade at Longchamps, which takes place in the Holy Week, is said to owe its origin to a religious procession that went annually to a church so called, whence it by degrees changed its character, and became a scene of gaiety, in which the most extravagant exhibitions of luxury were displayed.
One example, out of many, of this extravagance, is furnished by a publication of the epoch at which Longchamps was in its most palmy state, when a certain Mademoiselle Duthe, whose means of indulging in inordinate expense were not solely derived from her ostensible profession as one of the performers attached to the Opera, figured in the promenade in a carriage of the most sumptuous kind, drawn by no less than six thorough-bred horses, the harness of which was of blue morocco, studded with polished steel ornaments, which produced the most dazzling effect.
That our times are improved in respect, at least, to appearances, may be fairly concluded from the fact that no example of a similar ostentatious display of luxury is ever now exhibited by persons in the same position as Mademoiselle Duthe; and that if the same folly that enabled her to indulge in such extravagance still prevails, a sense of decency prevents all public display of wealth so acquired. Modern morals censure not people so much for their vices as for the display of them, as Aleibiades was blamed not for loving Nemea, but for allowing himself to be painted reposing on her lap.
Finished the perusal of _Cinq Mars_, by Count Alfred de Vigny. It is an admirable production, and deeply interested me. The sentiments noble and elevated, without ever degenerating into aught approaching to bombast, and the pathos such as a manly heart might feel, without incurring the accusation of weakness. The author must be a man of fine feelings, as well as of genius,–but were they ever distinct? I like to think they cannot be, for my theory is, that the feelings are to genius what the chords are to a musical instrument–they must be touched to produce effect.
The style of Count Alfred de Vigny merits the eulogium passed by Lord Shaftesbury on that of an author in his time, of which he wrote, “It is free from that affected obscurity and laboured pomp of language aiming at a false sublime, with crowded simile and mixed metaphor (the hobby-horse and rattle of the Muses.”)
—- dined with us yesterday, and, clever as I admit him to be, he often displeases me by his severe strictures on mankind. I told him that he exposed himself to the suspicion of censuring it only because he had studied a bad specimen of it (self) more attentively than the good that fell in his way: a reproof that turned the current of his conversation into a more agreeable channel, though he did not seem to like the hint.
It is the fashion for people now-a-days to affect this cynicism, and to expend their wit at the expense of poor human nature, which is abused _en masse_ for the sins of those who abuse it from judging of all others by self. How different is —-, who thinks so well of his species, that, like our English laws, he disbelieves the existence of guilt until it is absolutely proved,–a charity originating in a superior nature, and a judgment formed from an involuntary consciousness of it!
—- suspects evil on all sides, and passes his time in guarding against it. He dares not indulge friendship, because he doubts the possibility of its being disinterested, and feels no little self-complacency when the conduct of those with whom he comes in contact justifies his suspicions. —-, on the contrary, if sometimes deceived, feels no bitterness, because he believes that the instance may be a solitary one, and finds consolation in those whose truth he has yet had no room to question. His is the best philosophy, for though it cannot preclude occasional disappointment, it ensures much happiness, as the indulgence of good feelings invariably does, and he often creates the good qualities he gives credit for, as few persons are so bad as not to wish to justify the favourable opinion entertained of them, as few are so good as to resist the demoralising influence of unfounded suspicions.
A letter from Lord B—-, announcing a majority of 105 on the bill of the Catholic question. Lord Grey made an admirable speech, with a happy allusion to the fact of Lord Howard of Effingham, who commanded the English fleet in the reign of Elizabeth, having, though a Roman Catholic, destroyed the Armada under the anointed banner of the Pope. What a triumphant refutation of the notion that Roman Catholics dared not oppose the Pope! Lord B—- writes, that the brilliant and justly merited eulogium pronounced by Lord Grey on the Duke of Wellington was rapturously received by the House. How honourable to both was the praise! I feel delighted that Lord Grey should have distinguished himself on this occasion, for he is one of the friends in England whom I most esteem.
—- dined here to-day. He reminds me of the larva, which is the first state of animal existence in the caterpillar, for his appetite is voracious, and, as a French naturalist states in describing that insect, “Tout est estomac dans un larve.” —- is of the opinion of Aretaeus, that the stomach is the great source of pleasurable affections, and that as Nature “abhors a vacuum,” the more filled it is the better.
Dining is a serious affair with —-. Soup, fish, flesh, and fowl, disappear from his plate with a rapidity that is really surprising; and while they are vanishing, not “into empty air,” but into the yawning abyss of his ravenous jaws, his eyes wander around, seeking what next those same ravenous jaws may devour.
On beholding a person indulge in such gluttony, I feel a distaste to eating, as a certain double-refined lady of my acquaintance declared that witnessing the demonstrations of love between two persons of low and vulgar habits so disgusted her with the tender passion, that she was sure she never could experience it herself.
I have been reading _la Chronique du Temps de Charles IX_, by Prosper Merimee, and a most interesting and admirably written book it is. Full of stirring scenes and incidents, it contains the most graphic pictures of the manners of the time in which the story is placed, and the interest progresses, never flagging from the commencement to the end. This book will be greatly admired in England, where the romances of our great Northern Wizard have taught us to appreciate the peculiar merit in which this abounds. Sir Walter Scott will be one of the first to admire and render justice to this excellent book, and to welcome into the field of literature this highly gifted brother of the craft.
The French writers deserve justice from the English, for they invariably treat the works of the latter with indulgence. Scott is not more read or esteemed in his own country than here; and even the productions of our young writers are more kindly treated than those of their own youthful aspirants for fame.
French critics have much merit for this amenity, because the greater number of them possess a peculiar talent, for the exercise of their critical acumen, which renders the indulgence of it, like that of the power of ridicule, very tempting. Among the most remarkable critics of the day Jules Janin, who though yet little more than a youth, evinces such talent as a reviewer as to be the terror of mediocrity. His style is pungent and vigorous, his satire searching and biting, and his tact in pointing ridicule unfailing. He bids fair to take a most distinguished place in his profession.
Spent last evening in the Rue d’Anjou, where I met the usual circle and —-. He bepraised every one that was named during the evening, and so injudiciously, that it was palpable he knew little of those upon whom he expended his eulogiums; nay, he lauded some whom he acknowledged he had never seen, on the same principle that actuated the Romans of old who, having deified every body they knew, erected at last an altar to the unknown Gods, lest any should by chance be omitted.
This habit of indiscriminate praise is almost as faulty as that of general censure, and is, in my opinion, more injurious to the praised than the censure is to the abused, because people are prone to indulge a greater degree of sympathy towards those attacked than towards those who are commended. No one said “Amen” to the praises heaped on some really deserving people by —-, but several put in a palliating “_pourtant_” to the ill-natured remarks made by —-, whose habit of abusing all who chance to be named is quite as remarkable as the other’s habit of praising. I would prefer being attacked by —- to being lauded by —-, for the extravagance of the eulogiums of the latter would excite more ill-will towards me than the censures of the other, as the self-love of the listeners disposes them to feel more kindly to the one they can pity, than to the person they are disposed to envy.
I never look at dear, good Madame C—, without thinking how soon we may,–nay, we must lose her. At her very advanced age we cannot hope that she will be long spared to us; yet her freshness of heart and wonderful vivacity of mind would almost cheat one into a hope of her long continuing amongst us.
She drove out with me yesterday to the Bois de Boulogne, and, when remarking how verdant and beautiful all around was looking, exclaimed, “Ah! why is no second spring allowed to us? I hear,” continued she, “people say they would not like to renew their youth, but I cannot believe them. There are times–would you believe it?–that I forget my age, and feel so young in imagination that I can scarcely bring myself to think this heart, which is still so youthful, can appertain to the same frame to which is attached this faded and wrinkled face,” and she raised her hand to her cheek. “Ah! my dear friend, it is a sad, sad thing to mark this fearful change, and I never look in my mirror without being shocked. The feelings ought to change with the person, and the heart should become as insensible as the face becomes withered.”
“The change in the face is so gradual, too,” continued Madame C—-. “We see ourselves after thirty-five, each day looking a little less well (we are loath to think it ugly), and we attribute it not to the true cause, the approach of that enemy to beauty–age,–but to some temporary indisposition, a bad night’s rest, or an unbecoming cap. We thus go on cheating ourselves, but not cheating others, until some day when the light falls more clearly on our faces, and the fearful truth stands revealed. Wrinkles have usurped the place of dimples; horrid lines, traced by Time, have encircled the eyelids; the eyes, too, no longer bright and pellucid, become dim; the lips dry and colourless, the teeth yellow, and the cheeks pale and faded, as a dried rose-leaf long pressed in a _hortus siccus_.”
“Alas, alas! who can help thinking of all this when one sees the trees opening into their rich foliage, the earth putting forth its bright verdure, and the flowers budding into bloom, while we resemble the hoar and dreary winter, and scarcely retain a trace of the genial summer we once knew.”
This conversation suggested the following lines, which I wish I could translate into French verse to give to Madame C—-:
GRAY HAIRS.
Snowy blossoms of the grave
That now o’er care-worn temples wave, Oh! what change hath pass’d since ye
O’er youthful brows fell carelessly! In silken curls of ebon hue
That with such wild luxuriance grew, The raven’s dark and glossy wing
A richer shadow scarce could fling. The brow that tells a tale of Care
That Sorrow’s pen hath written there, In characters too deeply traced
Ever on earth to be effaced,
Was then a page of spotless white, Where Love himself might wish to write. The jetty arches that did rise,
As if to guard the brilliant eyes, Have lost their smoothness;–and no more The eyes can sparkle as of yore:
They look like fountains form’d by tears, Where perish’d Hope in by-gone years. The nose that served as bridge between The brow and mouth–for Love, I ween, To pass–hath lost its sculptured air. For Time, the spoiler, hath been there. The mouth–ah! where’s the crimson dye That youth and health did erst supply? Are these pale lips that seldom smile, The same that laugh’d, devoid of guile. Shewing within their coral cell
The shining pearls that there did dwell, But dwell no more? The pearls are fled, And homely teeth are in their stead.
The cheeks have lost the blushing rose That once their surface could disclose; A dull, pale tint has spread around,
Where rose and lily erst were found. The throat, and bust–but, ah! forbear, Let’s draw a veil for ever there;
Too fearful is ‘t to put in rhyme The changes wrought by cruel Time,
The faithful mirror well reveals The truth that flattery conceals;
The charms once boasted, now are flown, But mind and heart are still thine own; And thou canst see the wreck of years, And ghost of beauty, without tears.
No outward change thy soul shouldst wring, Oh! mourn but for the change within;
Grieve over bright illusions fled, O’er fondly cherish’d hope, now dead, O’er errors of the days of youth,
Ere wisdom taught the path of truth. Then hail, ye blossoms of the grave,
That o’er the care-worn temples wave– Sent to remind us of “that bourn,
Whence traveller can ne’er return;” The harbingers of peace and rest,
Where only mortals can be blest.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Read Victor Hugo’s _Dernier Jour d’un Condamne!_ It is powerfully written, and the author identifies his feelings so strongly with the condemned, that he must, while writing the book, have experienced similar emotions to those which a person in the same terrible position would have felt. Wonderful power of genius, that can thus excite sympathy for the erring and the wretched, and awaken attention to a subject but too little thought of in our selfish times, namely, the expediency of the abolition of capital punishment! A perusal of Victor Hugo’s graphic book will do more to lead men’s minds to reflect on this point than all the dull essays; or as dull speeches, that may be written or made on it.
Talking of —- to-day with —- —-, she remarked that he had every sense but common sense, and made light of this deficiency. How frequently do we hear people do this, as if the possession of talents or various fine qualities can atone for its absence! Common sense is not only positively necessary to render talent available by directing its proper application, but is indispensable as a monitor to warn men against error. Without this guide the passions and feelings will be ever leading men astray, and even those with the best natural dispositions will fall into error.
Common sense is to the individual what the compass is to the mariner–it enables him to steer safely through the rocks, shoals, and whirlpools that intersect his way. Were the lives of criminals accurately known, I am persuaded that it would be found that from a want of common sense had proceeded their guilt; for a clear perception of crime would do more to check its perpetration, than the goodness of heart which is so frequently urged as a preventive against it.
Conscience is the only substitute for common sense, but even this will not supply its place in all cases. Conscience will lead a man to repent or atone for crime, but common sense will preclude his committing it by enabling him to judge of the result. I frequently hear people say, “So and so are very clever,” or “very cunning, and are well calculated to make their way in the world.” This opinion seems to me to be a severe satire on the world, for as cunning can only appertain to a mean intellect, to which it serves as a poor substitute for sense, it argues ill for the world to suppose it can be taken in by it.
I never knew a sensible, or a good person, who was cunning; and I have known so many weak and wicked ones who possessed this despicable quality, that I hold it in abhorrence, except in very young children, to whom Providence gives it before they arrive at good sense.
Went a round of the curiosity shops on the Quai d’Orsay, and bought an amber vase of rare beauty, said to have once belonged to the Empress Josephine. When I see the beautiful objects collected together in these shops, I often think of their probable histories, and of those to whom they once belonged. Each seems to identify itself with the former owner, and conjures up in my mind a little romance.
A vase of rock crystal, set in precious stones, seen today, could never have belonged to aught but some beauty, for whom it was selected by an adoring lover or husband, ere yet the honeymoon had passed. A chased gold _etui_, enriched with oriental agates and brilliants, must have appertained to some _grande dame_, on whose table it rested in a richly-decorated _salon_; and could it speak, what piquant disclosures might it not make!
The fine old watch, around the dial of which sparkle diamonds, and on the back the motto, executed in the same precious stones, “_Vous me faites oublier les heures_,” once adorned the slender waist of some dainty dame,–a nuptial gift. The silvery sound of its bell often reminded her of the flight of Time, and her _caro sposo_ of the effects of it on his inconstant heart, long before her mirror told her of the ravages of the tyrant. The _flacon_ so tastefully ornamented, has been held to delicate nostrils when the megrim–that malady peculiar to refined organisations and susceptible nerves–has assailed its fair owner; and the heart-shaped pincushion of crimson velvet, inclosed in its golden case and stuck with pins, has been likened by the giver to his own heart, pierced by the darts of Love–a simile that probably displeased not the fair creature to whom it was addressed.
Here are the expensive and tasteful gifts, the _gages d’amour_, not often disinterested, as bright and beautiful as when they left the hands of the jeweller; but the givers and the receivers where are they? Mouldered in the grave long, long years ago! Through how many hands may these objects not have passed since Death snatched away the persons for whom they were originally designed! And here they are in the ignoble custody of some avaricious vender, who having obtained them at the sale of some departed amateur for less than half their first cost, now expects to extort more than double.
He takes them up in his unwashed fingers, turns them–oh, profanation!–round and round, in order to display their various merits, descants on the delicacy of the workmanship, the sharpness of the chiseling, the pure water of the brilliants, and the fine taste displayed in the form; tells a hundred lies about the sum he gave for them, the offers he has refused, the persons to whom they once belonged, and those who wish to purchase them!
The _flacon_ of some defunct prude is placed side by side with the _vinaigrette_ of some _jolie danseuse_ who was any thing but prudish. How shocked would the original owner of the _flacon_ feel at the friction! The fan of some _grande dame de la cour_ touches the diamond-mounted _etui_ of the wife of some _financier_, who would have given half her diamonds to enter the circle in which she who once owned this fan found more _ennui_ than amusement. The cane of a deceased philosopher is in close contact with the golden-hilted sword of a _petit maitre de l’ancien regime_, and the sparkling _tabatiere_ of a _Marquis Musque_, the partaker if not the cause of half his _succes dans le monde_, is placed by the _chapelet_ of a _religieuse de haute naissance_, who often perhaps dropped a tear on the beads as she counted them in saying her Ave Marias, when some unbidden thought of the world she had resigned usurped the place of her aspirations for a brighter and more enduring world.
“And so ‘t will be when I am gone,” as Moore’s beautiful song says; the rare and beautiful _bijouterie_ which I have collected with such pains, and looked on with such pleasure, will probably be scattered abroad, and find their resting places not in gilded _salons_, but in the dingy coffers of the wily _brocanteur_, whose exorbitant demands will preclude their finding purchasers. Even these inanimate and puerile objects have their moral, if people would but seek it; but what has not, to a reflecting mind?–complained bitterly to-day, of having been attacked by an anonymous scribbler. I was surprised to see a man accounted clever and sensible, so much annoyed by what I consider so wholly beneath his notice. It requires only a knowledge of the world and a self-respect to enable one to treat such attacks with the contempt they merit; and those who allow themselves to be mortified by them must be deficient in these necessary qualifications for passing smoothly through life.
It seems to me to indicate great weakness of mind, when a person permits his peace to be at the mercy of every anonymous scribbler who, actuated by envy or hatred (the invariable causes of such attacks), writes a libel on him. If a person so attacked would but reflect that few, if any, who have acquired celebrity, or have been favoured by fortune, have ever escaped similar assaults, he would be disposed to consider them as the certain proofs of a merit, the general acknowledgment of which has excited the ire of the envious, thus displayed by the only mean within their reach–anonymous abuse. Anonymous assailants may be likened to the cuttle-fish, which employs the inky secretions it forms as a means of tormenting its enemy and baffling pursuit.
I have been reading the poems of Mrs. Hemans, and exquisite they are. They affect me like sacred music, and never fail to excite religious sentiments. England only could have produced this poetess, and peculiar circumstances were necessary to the developement of her genius. The music of the versification harmonises well with the elevated character of the thoughts, which inspire the reader (at least such is their effect on me) with a pensive sentiment of resignation that is not without a deep charm to a mind that loves to withdraw itself from the turmoil and bustle incidental to a life passed in a gay and brilliant capital.
The mind of this charming poetess must be like an AEolian harp, that every sighing wind awakes to music, but to grave and chastened melody, the full charm of which can only be truly appreciated by those who have sorrowed, and who look beyond this earth for repose. Well might Goethe write,
“Wo du das Genie erblickst
Erblickst du auch zugleich die martkrone”[7]
for where is Genius to be found that has not been tried by suffering?
Moore has beautifully said,
“The hearths that are soonest awake to the flowers, Are always the first to be pierced by the thorns;”
and so it is with poets: they feel intensely before they can make others feel even superficially.
And there are those who can talk lightly and irreverently of the sufferings from which spring such exquisite, such glorious music, unconscious that the fine organization and delicate susceptibility of the minds of Genius which give such precious gifts to delight others, receive deep wounds from weapons that could not make an incision on impenetrable hearts like their own. Yes, the hearts of people of genius may be said to resemble the American maple-trees, which must be pierced ere they yield their honied treasures.
If Mrs. Hemans had been as happy as she deserved to be, it is probable that she would never have written the exquisite poems I have been reading; for the fulness of content leaves no room for the sweet and bitter fancies engendered by an imagination that finds its Hippocrene in the fountain of Sorrow, whose source is in the heart, and can only flow when touched by the hand of Care.
Well may England be proud of such poetesses as she can now boast! Johanna Baillie, the noble-minded and elevated; Miss Bowles, the pure, the true; Miss Mitford, the gifted and the natural; and Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon, though last not least in the galaxy of Genius, with imaginations as brilliant as their hearts are generous and tender. Who can read the productions of these gifted women, without feeling a lively interest in their welfare, and a pride in belonging to the country that has given them birth?
Lord B—- arrived yesterday, and, Heaven be thanked! is in better health. He says the spring is three weeks more advanced at Paris than in London. He is delighted at the Catholic Question having been carried; and trusts, as I do, that Ireland will derive the greatest benefit from the measure. How few, with estates in a province where so strong a prejudice is entertained against Roman Catholics as exists in the north of Ireland, would have voted as Lord B—- has done; but, like his father, Lord B—- never allows personal interest to interfere in the discharge of a duty! If there were many such landlords in Ireland, prejudices, the bane of that country, would soon subside. Lord B—- came back laden with presents for me. Some of them are quite beautiful, and would excite the envy of half my sex.
Received letters from good, dear Sir William Gell, and the no less dear and good Archbishop of Tarentum, both urging us to return to Italy to see them, as they say, once more before they die. Receiving letters from absent friends who are dear to us, has almost as much of sadness as of pleasure in it; for although it is consolatory to know that they are in life, and are not unmindful of us, still a closely written sheet of paper is but a poor substitute for the animated conversation, the cordial grasp of the hand, and the kind glance of the eye; and we become more sensible of the distance that divides us when letters written many days ago arrive, and we remember with dread that, since these very epistles were indited, the hands that traced them may be chilled by death. This fear, which recurs so often to the mind in all cases of absence from those dear to us, becomes still more vivid where infirmity of health and advanced age render the probability of the loss of friends the greater.
Italy–dear, beautiful Italy–with all its sunshine and attractions, would not be the same delightful residence to me if I no longer found there the friends who made my _sejour_ there so pleasant; and among these the Archbishop and Sir William Gell stand prominent.
Gell writes me that some new and interesting discoveries have been made at Pompeii. Would that I could be transported there for a few days to see them with him, as I have beheld so many before when we were present at several excavations together, and saw exposed to the light of day objects that had been for two thousand years buried in darkness! There was a thrilling feeling of interest awakened in the breast by the first view of these so-long-interred articles of use or ornament of a bygone generation, and on the spot where their owners perished. It was as though the secrets of the grave were revealed; and that, to convince us of the perishable coil of which mortals are formed, it is given us to behold how much more durable are the commonest utensils of daily use than the frames of those who boast themselves lords of the creation. But here am I moralizing, when I ought to be taking advantage of this glorious day by a promenade in the Bois de Boulogne, where I promised to conduct Madame d’O—-; so _allons en voiture_.
Read the _Disowned_, and like it exceedingly. It is full of beautiful thoughts, sparkling with wit, teeming with sentiment, and each and all of them based on immutable truths. The more I read of the works of this highly gifted writer, the more am I delighted with them; for his philosophy passes through the alembic of a mind glowing with noble and generous sentiments, of which it imbibes the hues.
The generality of readers pause not to reflect on the truth and beauty of the sentiments to be found in novels. They hurry on to the _denoument_; and a stirring incident, skilfully managed, which serves to develope the plot, finds more admirers than the noblest thoughts, or most witty maxims. Yet as people who read nothing else, will read novels, authors like Mr. Bulwer, whose minds are overflowing with genius, are compelled to make fiction the vehicle for giving to the public thoughts and opinions that are deserving of a higher grade of literature.
The greater portion of novel readers, liking not to be detained from the interest of the story by any extraneous matter, however admirable it may be, skip over the passages that most delight those who read to reflect, and not for mere amusement.
I find myself continually pausing over the admirable and profound reflections of Mr. Bulwer, and almost regret that his writings do not meet the public as the papers of the _Spectator_ did, when a single one of them was deemed as essential to the breakfast-table of all lovers of literature as a morning journal is now to the lovers of news. The merit of the thoughts would be then duly appreciated, instead of being hastily passed over in the excitement of the story which they intersect.
A long visit from —-, and, as usual, politics furnished the topic. How I wish people would never talk politics to me! I have no vocation for that abstruse science,–a science in which even those who devote all their time and talents to it, but rarely arrive at a proficiency. In vain do I profess my ignorance and inability; people will not believe me, and think it necessary to enter into political discussions that _ennuient_ me beyond expression.
If —- is to be credited, Charles the Tenth and his government are so unpopular that his reign will not pass without some violent commotion. A fatality appears to attend this family, which, like the house of Stuart, seems doomed never to conciliate the affections of the people. And yet, Charles the Tenth is said not to be disposed to tyrannical measures, neither is he without many good qualities. But the last of the Stuart sovereigns also was naturally a humane and good man, yet he was driven from his kingdom and his throne,–a proof that weakness of mind is, perhaps, of all faults in a monarch, the one most likely to compromise the security of his dynasty.
The restoration of the Stuarts after Cromwell, was hailed with much more enthusiasm in England than that of Louis the Eighteenth, after the abdication of the Emperor Napoleon. Yet that enthusiasm was no pledge that the people would bear from the descendants of the ill-fated Charles the First–that most perfect of all gentlemen and meekest of Christians–what they deprived him of not only his kingdom but his life for attempting.
The house of Bourbon, like that of Stuart, has had its tragedy, offering a fearful lesson to sovereigns and a terrific example to subjects. It has had, also, its restoration; and, if report may be credited, the parallel will not rest here: for there are those who assert that as James was supplanted on the throne of England by a relative while yet the legitimate and unoffending heir lived, so will also the place of Charles the Tenth be filled by one between whom and the crown stand two legitimate barriers. Time will tell how far the predictions of —- are just; but, _en attendant_, I never can believe that ambition can so blind _one_ who possesses all that can render life a scene of happiness to himself and of usefulness to others, to throw away a positive good for the uncertain and unquiet possession of a crown, bestowed by hands that to confer the dangerous gift must have subverted a monarchy.
Pandora’s box contained not more evils than the crown of France would inflict on him on whose brow a revolution would place it. From that hour let him bid adieu to peaceful slumber, to domestic happiness, to well-merited confidence and esteem, all of which are now his own. Popularity, never a stable possession in any country, is infinitely less so in France, where the vivacity of perception of the people leads them to discover grave faults where only slight errors exist, and where a natural inconstancy, love of change, and a reckless impatience under aught that offends them, prompt them to hurl down from the pedestal the idol of yesterday to replace it by the idol of to-day.
I hear so much good of the Duc and Duchesse d’O—- that I feel a lively interest in them, and heartily wish they may never be elevated (unless by the natural demise of the legitimate heirs) to the dangerous height to which —- and others assert they will ultimately ascend. Even in the contingency of a legitimate inheritance of the crown, the Tuileries would offer a less peaceful couch to them than they find in the blissful domestic circle at N—-.
A long visit from the Duc de T—-. I never meet him without being reminded of the truth of an observation of a French writer, who says–“_On a vu des gens se passer d’esprit en sachant meler la politesse avec des manieres nobles et elegantes_.” The Duc de T—- passes off perfectly well without _esprit_, the absence of which his noble manners perfectly conceal; while —-, who is so very clever, makes one continually conscious of his want of good breeding and _bon ton_.
Finished reading _Sayings and Doings_, by Mr. Theodore Hook. Every page teems with wit, humour, or pathos, and reveals a knowledge of the world under all the various phases of the ever-moving scene that gives a lively interest to all he writes. This profound acquaintance with human life, which stamps the impress of truth on every character portrayed by his graphic pen, has not soured his feelings or produced that cynical disposition so frequently engendered by it.
Mr. Hook is no misanthrope, and while he exposes the ridiculous with a rare wit and humour he evinces a natural and warm sympathy with the good. He is a very original thinker and writer, hits off characters with a facility and felicity that few authors possess, and makes them invariably act in accordance with the peculiar characteristics with which he has endowed them. The _vraisemblance_ is never for a moment violated, which makes the reader imagine he is perusing a true narration instead of a fiction.
House-hunting to-day. Went again over the Hotel Monaco, but its dilapidated state somewhat alarms us. The suite of reception rooms are magnificent, but the garden into which they open pleases me still more, for it is vast and umbrageous. The line old hotels in the Faubourg St.-Germain, and this is one of the finest, give one a good idea of the splendour of the _noblesse de l’ancien regime_. The number and spaciousness of the apartments, the richness of the decorations, though no longer retaining their pristine beauty, and above all, the terraces and gardens, have a grand effect.
CHAPTER XIX.
House-hunting all the day with Lord B—-. Went again over the Hotel Monaco, and abandoned the project of hiring it. Saw one house newly built and freshly and beautifully decorated, which I like, but Lord B—- does not think good enough. It is in the Rue de Matignon. It is so desirable to get into a mansion where every thing is new and in good taste, which is the case with the one in question, that I hope Lord B—- will be satisfied with this.
Sat an hour with General d’O—- who has been unwell. Never was there such a nurse as his wife, and so he said. Illness almost loses its irksomeness when the sick chamber is cheered by one who is as kind as she is clever. Madame d’O—- is glad we have not taken the Hotel Monaco, for she resided in it a long time when it was occupied by her mother, and she thinks the sleeping-rooms are confined and gloomy.
“After serious consideration and mature deliberation,” we have finally decided on taking the house in the Rue de Matignon. It will be beautiful when completed, but nevertheless not to be compared to the Hotel Ney. The _salons de reception_, are very good, and the decorations are rich and handsome.
The large _salon_ is separated from the lesser by an immense plate of unsilvered glass, which admits of the fireplaces in each room (they are _vis-a-vis_) being seen, and has a very good effect. A door on each side this large plate of glass opens into the smaller _salon_. The portion of the house allotted to me will, when completed, be like fairy land. A _salon_, destined to contain my buhl cabinets, _porcelaine de Sevres_, and rare _bijouterie_, opens into a library by two glass-doors, and in the pier which divides them is a large mirror filling up the entire space.
In the library, that opens on a terrace, which is to be covered with a _berceau_, and converted into a garden, are two mirrors, _vis-a-vis_ to the two glass doors that communicate from the _salon_; so that on entering this last, the effect produced is exceedingly pretty. Another large mirror is placed at the end of the library, and reflects the terrace.
When my books and various treasures are arranged in this suite I shall be very comfortably lodged. My _chambre a coucher_, dressing-room, and boudoir, are spacious, and beautifully decorated. All this sounds well and looks well, too, yet we shall leave the Rue de Bourbon with regret, and Lord B—- now laments that we did not secure it for a long term.
Drove in the Bois de Boulogne. A lovely day, which produced a very exhilarating effect on my spirits. I know not whether others experience the same pleasurable sensations that I do on a fine day in spring, when all nature is bursting into life, and the air and earth look joyous. My feelings become more buoyant, my step more elastic, and all that I love seem dearer than before. I remember that even in childhood I was peculiarly sensible to atmospheric influence, and I find that as I grow old this susceptibility does not diminish.
We dined at the Rocher de Cancale yesterday; and Counts Septeuil and Valeski composed our party. The Rocher de Cancale is the Greenwich of Paris; the oysters and various other kinds of fish served up _con gusto_, attracting people to it, as the white bait draw visitors to Greenwich. Our dinner was excellent, and our party very agreeable.
A _diner de restaurant_ is pleasant from its novelty. The guests seem less ceremonious and more gay; the absence of the elegance that marks the dinner-table appointments in a _maison bien montee_, gives a homeliness and heartiness to the repast; and even the attendance of two or three ill-dressed _garcons_ hurrying about, instead of half-a-dozen sedate servants in rich liveries, marshalled by a solemn-looking _maitre-d’hotel_ and groom of the chambers, gives a zest to the dinner often wanted in more luxurious feasts.
The Bois de Boulogne yesterday presented one of the gayest sights imaginable as we drove through it, for, being Sunday, all the _bourgeoisie_ of Paris were promenading there, and in their holyday dresses. And very pretty and becoming were the said dresses, from those of the _femmes de negociants_, composed of rich and tasteful materials, down to those of the humble _grisettes_, who, with jaunty air and roguish eyes, walked briskly along, casting glances at every smart toilette they encountered, more intent on examining the dresses than the wearers.
A good taste in dress seems innate in Frenchwomen of every class, and a confidence in their own attractions precludes the air of _mauvaise honte_ and _gaucherie_ so continually observable in the women of other countries, while it is so distinct from boldness that it never offends. It was pretty to see the gay dresses of varied colours fluttering beneath the delicate green foliage, like rich flowers agitated by a more than usually brisk summer’s wind, while the foliage and the dresses are still in their pristine purity.
The _beau monde_ occupied the drive in the centre, their vehicles of every description attracting the admiration of the pedestrians, who glanced from the well-appointed carriages, whose owners reclined negligently back as if unwilling to be seen, to the smart young equestrians on prancing steeds, who caracoled past with the air half dandy and half _militaire_ that characterises every young Frenchman.
I am always struck in a crowd in Paris with the soldier-like air of its male population; and this air does not seem to be the result of study, but sits as naturally on them as does the look, half fierce, half mocking, that accompanies it. There is something in the nature of a Frenchman that enables him to become a soldier in less time than is usually necessary to render the natives of other countries _au fait_ in the routine of duty, just as he learns to dance well in a quarter of the time required to teach them to go through a simple measure.
The Emperor Napoleon quickly observed this peculiar predisposition to a military life in his subjects, and took advantage of it to fool them to the top of their bent. The victories achieved beneath his banner reflect scarcely less honour on them than on him, and the memory of them associates his name in their hearts by the strongest bonds of sympathy that can bind a Frenchman–the love of glory. A sense of duty, high discipline, and true courage, influence our soldiers in the discharge of their calling. They are proud of their country and of their regiment, for the honour of which they are ready to fight unto the death; but a Frenchman, though proud of his country and his regiment, is still more proud of his individual self, and, believing that all eyes are upon _him_ acts as if his single arm could accomplish that which only soldiers _en masse_ can achieve.
A pleasant party at dinner at home yesterday. The Marquis de Mornay, Count Valeski, and General Ornano, were among the number. Laughed immoderately at the _naivete_ of —-, who is irresistibly ludicrous.
Madame —- came in the evening and sang “God save the King.” Time was that her singing this national anthem would have electrified the hearers, but now–. Alas! alas! that voices, like faces, should lose their delicate flexibility and freshness, and seem but like the faint echo of their former brilliant tones!
Does the ear of a singer, like the eye of some _has-been_ beauty, lose its fine perception and become accustomed to the change in the voice, as does the eye to that in the face, to which it appertains, from being daily in the habit of seeing the said face! Merciful dispensation of Providence, which thus saves us from the horror and dismay we must experience could we but behold ourselves as others see us, after a lapse of years without having met; while we, unconscious of the sad change in ourselves, are perfectly sensible of it in them. Oh, the misery of the _mezzo termine_ in the journey of life, when time robs the eyes of their lustre, the cheeks of their roses, the mouth of its pearls, and the heart of its gaiety, and writes harsh sentences on brows once smooth and polished as marble!
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Why fleets youth so fast away,
Taking beauty in its train,
Never to return again?
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Why will health no longer stay?
After youth ‘t will not remain,
Chased away by care and pain.
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Youth, health, beauty, gone for aye, Life itself must quickly wane
With its thoughts and wishes vain.
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Frail and perishable clay
That to earth our wishes chain,
Well it is that brief’s thy reign.
I have been reading Captain Marryat’s _Naval Officer_, and think it exceedingly clever and amusing. It is like himself, full of talent, originality, and humour. He is an accurate observer of life; nothing escapes him; yet there is no bitterness in his satire and no exaggeration in his comic vein. He is never obliged to explain to his readers _why_ the characters he introduces act in such or such a manner.
They always bear out the parts he wishes them to enact, and the whole story goes on so naturally that one feels as if reading a narrative of facts, instead of a work of fiction.
I have known Captain Marryat many years, and liked him from the first; but this circumstance, far from rendering me more indulgent to his novel, makes me more fastidious; for I find myself at all times more disposed to criticise the writings of persons whom I know and like than those of strangers: perhaps because I expect more from them, if, as in the present case, I know them to be very clever.
Dined yesterday at the Cadran Bleu, and went in the evening to see _La Tour d’Auvergne_, a piece founded on the life, and taking its name from a soldier of the time of the Republic. A nobler character than that of La Tour d’Auvergne could not be selected for a dramatic hero, and ancient times furnish posterity with no brighter example. A letter from Carnot, then Minister of War, addressed to this distinguished soldier and admirable man, has pleased me so much that I give its substance:
“On fixing my attention on the men who reflect honour on the army, I have remarked you, citizen, and I said to the First Consul–‘La Tour d’Auvergne Corret, descendant of the family of Turenne, has inherited its bravery and its virtues. One of the oldest officers in the army, he counts the greatest number of brilliant actions, and all the brave name him to be the most brave. As modest as he is intrepid, he has shewn himself anxious for glory alone, and has refused all the grades offered to him. At the eastern Pyrenees the General assembled all the companies of the grenadiers, and during the remainder of the campaign gave them no chief. The oldest captain was to command them, and he was Latour d’Auvergne. He obeyed, and the corps was soon named by the enemy the Infernal Column.
“‘One of his friends had an only son, whose labour was necessary for the support of his father, and this young man was included in the conscription. Latour d’Auvergne, broken down by fatigue, could not labour, but he could still fight. He hastened to the army of the Rhine; replaced the son of his friend; and, during two campaigns, with his knapsack on his hack and always in the foremost rank, he was in every engagement, animating the grenadiers by his discourse and by his example. Poor, but proud, he has refused the gift of an estate offered to him by the head of his family. Simple in his manners, and temperate in his habits, he lives on the limited pay of a captain. Highly informed, and speaking several languages, his erudition equals his courage. We are indebted to his pen for the interesting work entitled _Les Origines Gauloises_. Such rare talents and virtues appertain to the page of history, but to the First Consul belongs the right to anticipate its award.’
“The First Consul, citizen, heard this recital with the same emotions that I experienced. He named you instantly first grenadier of the Republic, and decreed you this sword of honour. _Salut et fraternite_.”
The distinction accorded so readily to Latour d’Auvergne by the First Consul, himself a hero, who could better than any other contemporary among his countrymen appreciate the glory he was called on by Carnot to reward, was refused by the gallant veteran.
“Among us soldiers,” said he, “there is neither first nor last.” He demanded, as the sole recompense of his services, to be sent to join his old brothers-in-arms, to fight once more with them, not as the _first_, but as the _oldest_, soldier of the Republic.
His death was like his life, glorious; for he fell on the field of battle at Neubourg, in 1800, mourned by the whole army, who devoted a day’s pay to the purchase of an urn to preserve his heart, for a niche in the Pantheon.
Another distinction, not less touching, was accorded to his memory by the regiment in which he served. The sergeant, in calling his names in the muster of his company, always called Latour d’Auvergne, and the corporal answered–“_Mort au champ d’honneur_.” If the history of this hero excited the warm admiration of those opposed to him in arms, the effect of its representation on his compatriots may be more easily imagined than described. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm it excited in their minds. Men, women, and children, seemed electrified by it.
There is a chord in the hearts of the French that responds instantaneously, and with vivid emotion, to any appeal made to their national glory; and this susceptibility constitutes the germ so easily fructified by those who know how to cultivate it.
Enthusiasm, if it sometimes leads to error, or commits its votaries into the ridiculous, also prompts and accomplishes the most glorious achievements; and it is impossible not to feel a sympathy with its unsophisticated demonstrations thus evinced _en masse_. Civilization, more than aught else, tends to discourage enthusiasm; and where it is pushed to the utmost degree of perfection, there will this prompter of great deeds, this darer of impossibilities and instigator of heroic actions, be most rarely found.
Drove yesterday to see the villa of the Duchesse de Montmorency, which is to be let. The grounds are very pretty, and a portion of them opens by iron rails to the Bois de Boulogne, which is a great advantage. But neither the villa nor the grounds are to be compared to the beautiful ones in the neighbourhood of London, where, as an old French gentleman once observed to me, “the trees seem to take a peculiar pride and pleasure in growing.”
I have seen nothing to be compared with the tasteful villas on green velvet lawns sloping down to the limpid Thames, near Richmond, with umbrageous trees bending their leafy branches to the earth and water; or to the colonnaded mansions peeping forth from the well-wooded grounds of Roehampton and its vicinage.
I can remember as distinctly as if beheld yesterday, the various tempting residences that meet the eye in a morning drive, or in a row on the silvery Thames, compelling the violation of the tenth commandment, by looking so beautiful that one imagines how happily a life might glide away in such abodes, forgetful that in no earthly abode can existence be passed free from the cares meant to remind us that this is not our abiding-place.
Went to see Bagatelle yesterday with the Duchesse de G—-. Here the Duc de Bordeaux and Mademoiselle, his sister, pass much of their time. It is a very pleasant villa, and contains many proofs of the taste and industry of these very interesting children, who are greatly beloved by those who have access to them. Various stories were related to us illustrative of their goodness of heart and considerate kindness for those around them; and, making all due allowance for the partiality of the narrators, they went far to prove that these scions of royalty are more amiable and unspoilt than are most children of their age, and of even far less elevated rank. “Born in sorrow, and nursed in tears,” the Duc de Bordeaux’s early infancy has not passed under bright auspices; and those are not wanting who prophesy that he may hereafter look back to the days passed at Bagatelle as the happiest of his life.
It requires little of the prescience of a soothsayer to make this prediction, when we reflect that the lives of even the most popular of those born to the dangerous inheritance of a crown must ever be more exposed to the cares that weigh so heavily, and the responsibility that presses so continually on them, than are those who, exempt from the splendour of sovereignty, escape also its toils. “Oh happy they, the happiest of their kind,” who enjoy, in the peace and repose of a private station, a competency, good health, a love of, and power of indulging in, study; an unreproaching conscience, and a cheerful mind! With such blessings they may contemplate, without a feeling of envy, the more brilliant but less fortunate lots of those great ones of the earth, whose elevation but too often serves to render them the target at which Fortune loves aim her most envenomed darts.
Passed the greater part of the morning in the house in the Rue de Matignon, superintending the alterations and improvements to be carried into execution there. It has been found necessary to build an additional room, which the proprietor pledges himself can be ready for occupation in six weeks, and already have its walls reached nearly to their intended height. The builders seem to be as expeditious as the upholsterers at Paris, and adding a room or two to a mansion appears to be as easily accomplished as adding some extra furniture.
One is made to pay dearly, however, for this facility and expedition; for rents are extravagantly high at Paris, as are also the prices of furniture.
Already does the terrace begin to assume the appearance of a garden. Deep beds of earth inclosed in green cases line the sides, and an abundance of orange-trees, flowering shrubs, plants, and flowers, are placed in them.
At the end of the terrace, the wall which bounds it has been painted in fresco, with a view of Italian scenery; and this wall forms the back of an aviary, with a fountain that plays in the centre. A smaller aviary, constructed of glass, is erected on the end of the terrace, close to my library, from the window of which I can feed my favourite birds; and this aviary, as well as the library, is warmed by means of a stove beneath the latter. The terrace is covered by a lattice-work, formed into arched windows at the side next the court: over the sides and roof there are trailing parasitical plants. Nothing in the new residence pleases me so much as this suite, and the terrace attached to it.
Already do we begin to feel the unsettled state peculiar to an intended change of abode, and the prospect of entering a new one disturbs the sense of enjoyment of the old. Gladly would we remain where we are, for we prefer this hotel to any other at Paris; but the days we have to sojourn in it are numbered, and our regret is unavailing.
CHAPTER XX.
September, 1829.–A chasm of many months in my journal. When last I closed it, little could I have foreseen the terrible blow that awaited me. Well may I exclaim with the French writer whose works I have been just reading, “_Nous, qui sommes bornes en tout, comment le sommes-nous si peu quand il s’agit de souffrir_.” How slowly has time passed since! Every hour counted, and each coloured by care, the past turned to with the vain hope of forgetting the present, and the future no longer offering the bright prospect it once unfolded!
How is my destiny changed since I last opened this book! My hopes have faded and vanished like the leaves whose opening into life I hailed with joy six months ago, little dreaming that before the first cold breath of autumn had tinted them with brown, _he_ who saw them expand with me would have passed from the earth!
_October_.–Ill, and confined to my chamber for several days, my physician prescribes society to relieve low spirits; but in the present state of mine, the remedy seems worse than the disease.
My old friends Mr. and Mrs. Mathews, and their clever son, have arrived at Paris and dined here yesterday. Mr. Matthews is as entertaining as ever, and his wife as amiable and _spirituelle_. They are excellent as well as clever people, and their society is very agreeable. Charles Mathews, the son, is full of talent, possesses all his father’s powers of imitation, and sings comic songs of his own composition that James Smith himself might be proud to have written.
The Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, the Marquise de Poulpry, Lady Combermere, Madame Craufurd, and Count Valeski, came in the evening, and were all highly gratified with some recitations and songs given us by Mr. Mathews and his son. They were not less pleased with Mrs. Mathews, whose manners and conversation are peculiarly fascinating, and whose good looks and youthfulness of appearance made them almost disbelieve that she could be the mother of a grown-up son.
How forcibly did the recitations and songs bring back former times to my memory, when in St. James’s Square, or in his own beautiful cottage at Highgate, I have so frequently been delighted by the performances of this clever and worthy man! The recollection of the past occupied me more last night than did the actual present, and caused me to return but a faint echo to the reiterated applause which every new effort of his drew forth from the party. There are moments when the present appears like a dream, and that we think the past, which is gone for ever, has more of reality in it!
I took Mr. and Mrs. Mathews to the Jardin des Plantes to-day, and was much amused by an incident that occurred there. A pretty child, with her _bonne_, were seated on a bench near to which we placed ourselves. She was asking questions relative to the animals she had seen, and Mr. Mathews having turned his head away from her, gave some admirable imitations of the sounds peculiar to the beasts of which she was speaking, and also of the voice and speeches of the person who had exhibited them.
Never did he exert himself more to please a crowded and admiring audience than to amuse this child, who, maintaining an immovable gravity during the imitations, quietly observed to her nurse, “_Ma bonne, ce Monsieur est bien drole_.”
The mortification of Mr. Mathews on this occasion was very diverting. “How!” exclaimed he, “is it possible that all my efforts to amuse that child have so wholly failed? She never moved a muscle! I suppose the French children are not so easily pleased as our English men and women are?”
He reverted to this disappointment more than once during our drive back, and seemed dispirited by it. Nevertheless, he gave us some most humorous imitations of the lower orders of the French talking loudly together, in which he spoke in so many different voices that one could have imagined that no less than half-a-dozen people, at least, were engaged in the conversation.
I think so highly of the intellectual powers of Mr. Mathews, and find his conversation so interesting that, admirable as are his imitations, I prefer the former. He has seen so much of the world in all its phases, that he has a piquant anecdote or a clever story to relate touching every place and almost every person mentioned. Yet, with all this intuitive and acquired knowledge of the world, he possesses all the simplicity of a child, and a good nature that never can resist an appeal to it.
Spent all yesterday in reading, and writing letters on business. I begin to experience the _ennui_ of having affairs to attend to, and groan in spirit, if not aloud, at having to read and write dry details on the subject. To unbend my mind from its painful thoughts and tension, I devoted the evening to reading, which affords me the surest relief, by transporting my thoughts from the cares that oppress me.
Had a long visit from my old acquaintance the Count de Montalembert, to-day. He is in very low spirits, occasioned by the recent death of an only and charming daughter, and could not restrain his deep emotion, when recounting to me the particulars of her latter days. His grief was contagious, and found a chord in my heart that responded to it. When we last met, it was in a gay and brilliant party, each of us in high spirits; and now, though but a few more years have passed over our heads, how changed are our feelings! We meet, not to amuse and to be amused, but to talk of those we have lost, and whose loss has darkened our lives. He spoke of his son, who already gives the promise of distinguishing himself, and of reflecting credit on his family.
How little do we know people whom we meet only in general society, in which every one assumes a similar tone and manner, reserving for home the peculiarities that distinguish each from the other, and suppressing all demonstration of the feelings indulged only in the privacy of the domestic circle!
I have been many years acquainted with the Count de Montalembert, yet never really appreciated him until today. Had I been asked to describe him yesterday, I should have spoken of him as a _spirituel_, lively, and amusing man, with remarkably good manners, a great knowledge of the world, and possessing in an eminent degree the tact and talent _de societe_. Had any one mentioned that he was a man of deep feeling, I should have been disposed to question the discernment of the person who asserted it: yet now I am as perfectly convinced of the fact as it is possible to be, and had he paid this visit before affliction had assailed me, he would not, I am convinced, have revealed his own grief. Yes, affliction is like the divinatory wand, whose touch discovers deep-buried springs the existence of which was previously unknown.
—- called on me to-day, and talked a good deal of —-. I endeavoured to excite sympathy for the unhappy person, but failed in the attempt. The unfortunate generally meet with more blame than pity; for as the latter is a painful emotion, people endeavour to exonerate themselves from its indulgence, by trying to discover some error which may have led to the misfortune they are too selfish to commiserate. Alas! there are but few friends who, like ivy, cling to ruin, and —- is not one of these.
The Prince and Princesse Soutzo dined with us yesterday. They are as amiable and agreeable as ever, and I felt great gratification in meeting them again. We talked over the many pleasant days we passed together at Pisa. Alas! how changed is my domestic circle since then! They missed _one_ who would have joined me in welcoming them to Paris, and whose unvaried kindness they have not forgotten!
The “decent dignity” with which this interesting couple support their altered fortunes, won my esteem on our first acquaintance. Prince Soutzo was Hospodar, or reigning Prince of Moldavia, and married the eldest daughter of Prince Carraga, Hospodar of Walachia. He maintained the state attendant on his high rank, beloved and respected by those he governed, until the patriotic sentiments inseparable from a great mind induced him to sacrifice rank, fortune, and power, to the cause of Greece, his native land. He only saved his life by flight; for the angry Sultan with whom he had previously been a great favourite, had already sent an order for his decapitation! Never was a reverse of fortune borne with greater equanimity than by this charming family, whose virtues, endowments, and acquirements, fit them for the most elevated station.
My old acquaintances, Mr. Rogers the poet, and Mr. Luttrell, called on me to-day. Of how many pleasant days in St. James’s Square did the sight of both remind me! Such days I shall pass there no more: but I must not give way to reflections that are, alas! as unavailing as they are painful. Both of these my old friends are unchanged. Time has dealt gently by them during the seven years that have elapsed since we last met: the restless tyrant has been less merciful to me. We may, however, bear with equanimity the ravages of Time, if we meet the destroyer side by side with those dear to us, those who have witnessed our youth and maturity, and who have advanced with us into the autumn of life; but, when they are lost to us, how dreary becomes the prospect!
How difficult it is to prevent the mind from dwelling on thoughts fraught with sadness, when once the chord of memory vibrates to the touch of grief!
Mr. Rogers talked of Byron, and evinced a deep feeling of regard for his memory, He little knows the manner in which he is treated in a certain poem, written by him in one of his angry moods, and which I urged him, but in vain, to commit to the flames. The knowledge of it, however, would, I am convinced, excite no wrath in the heart of Rogers, who would feel more sorrow than anger that one he believed his friend could have written so bitter a diatribe against him. And, truth to say, the poem in question is more injurious to the memory of Byron than it could be painful to him who is the subject of it; but I hope that it may never be published, and I think no one who had delicacy or feeling would bring it to light.
Byron read this lampoon to us one day at Genoa, and enjoyed our dismay at it like a froward boy who has achieved what he considers some mischievous prank. He offered us a copy, but we declined to accept it; for, being in the habit of seeing Mr. Rogers frequently beneath our roof, we thought it would be treacherous to him. Byron, however, found others less scrupulous, and three or four copies of it have been given away.
The love of mischief was strong in the heart of Byron even to the last, but, while recklessly indulging it in trifles, he was capable of giving proofs of exalted friendship to those against whom he practised it; and, had Rogers stood in need of kindness, he would have found no lack of it in his brother poet, even in the very hour he had penned the malicious lampoon in question against him.
Comte d’Orsay, with his frank _naivete_, observed, “I thought you were one of Mr. Rogers’s most intimate friends, and so all the world had reason to think, after reading your dedication of the _Giaour_ to him.”
“Yes,” answered Byron, laughing, “and it is our friendship that gives me the privilege of taking a liberty with him.”
“If it is thus you evince your friendship,” replied Comte d’Orsay, “I should be disposed to prefer your enmity.”
“You,” said Byron, “could never excite this last sentiment in my breast, for you neither say nor do spiteful things.”
Brief as was the period Byron had lived in what is termed fashionable society in London, it was long enough to have engendered in him a habit of _persiflage_, and a love of uttering sarcasms, (more from a desire of displaying wit than from malice,) peculiar to that circle in which, if every man’s hand is not against his associates, every man’s tongue is. He drew no line of demarcation between _uttering_ and _writing_ satirical things; and the first being, if not sanctioned, at least permitted in the society in which he had lived in London, he considered himself not more culpable in inditing his satires than the others were in speaking them. He would have laughed at being censured for putting on paper the epigrammatic malice that his former associates would delight in uttering before all except the person at whom it was aimed; yet the world see the matter in another point of view, and many of those who _speak_ as much evil of their _soi-disant_ friends, would declare, if not feel, themselves shocked at Byron’s writing it.
I know no more agreeable member of society than Mr. Luttrell. His conversation, like a limpid stream, flows smoothly and brightly along, revealing the depths beneath its current, now sparkling over the objects it discloses or reflecting those by which it glides. He never talks for talking’s sake; but his mind is so well filled that, like a fountain which when stirred sends up from its bosom sparkling showers, his mind, when excited, sends forth thoughts no less bright than profound, revealing the treasures with which it is so richly stored. The conversation of Mr. Luttrell makes me think, while that of many others only amuses me.
Lord John Russell has arrived at Paris, and sat with me a considerable time to-day. How very agreeable he can be when his reserve wears off, and what a pity it is he should ever allow it to veil the many fine qualities he possesses! Few men have a finer taste in literature, or a more highly cultivated mind. It seizes with rapidity whatever is brought before it; and being wholly free from passion or egotism, the views he takes on all subjects are just and unprejudiced. He has a quick perception of the ridiculous, and possesses a fund of dry caustic humour that might render him a very dangerous opponent in a debate, were it not governed by a good breeding and a calmness that never forsake him.
Lord John Russell is precisely the person calculated to fill a high official situation. Well informed on all subjects, with an ardent love of his country, and an anxious desire to serve it, he has a sobriety of judgment and a strictness of principle that will for ever place him beyond the reach of suspicion, even to the most prejudiced of his political adversaries. The reserve complained of by those who are only superficially acquainted with him, would be highly advantageous to a minister; for it would not only preserve him from the approaches to familiarity, so injurious to men in power, but would discourage the hopes founded on the facility of manner of those whose very smiles and simple acts of politeness are by the many looked on as an encouragement to form the most unreasonable ones, and as an excuse for the indulgence of angry feelings when those unreasonable hopes are frustrated.
Lord John Russell, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Luttrell, Monsieur Thiers, Monsieur Mignet, and Mr. Poulett Thomson, dined here yesterday. The party was an agreeable one, and the guests seemed mutually pleased with each other.
Monsieur Thiers is a very remarkable person–quick, animated, and observant: nothing escapes him, and his remarks are indicative of a mind of great power. I enjoy listening to his conversation, which is at once full of originality, yet free from the slightest shade of eccentricity.
Monsieur Mignet, who is the inseparable friend of Monsieur Thiers, reminds me every time I see him of Byron, for there is a striking likeness in the countenance. With great abilities, Monsieur Mignet gives me the notion of being more fitted to a life of philosophical research and contemplation than of action, while Monsieur Thiers impresses me with the conviction of his being formed to fill a busy and conspicuous part in the drama of life.
He is a sort of modern Prometheus, capable of creating and of vivifying with the electric spark of mind; but, whether he would steal the fire from Heaven, or a less elevated region, I am not prepared to say. He has called into life a body–and a vast one–by his vigorous writings, and has infused into it a spirit that will not be soon or easily quelled. Whether that spirit will tend to the advancement of his country or not, time will prove; but, _en attendant_, its ebullitions may occasion as much trouble to the _powers that be_ as did the spirit engendered by Mirabeau in a former reign.
The countenance of Monsieur Thiers is remarkable. The eyes, even through his spectacles, flash with intelligence, and the expression of his face varies with every sentiment he utters. Thiers is a man to effect a revolution, and Mignet would be the historian to narrate it.
There is something very interesting in the unbroken friendship of these two men of genius, and its constancy elevates both in my estimation. They are not more unlike than are their respective works, both of which, though so dissimilar, are admirable in their way. The mobility and extreme excitability of the French, render such men as Monsieur Thiers extremely dangerous to monarchical power. His genius, his eloquence, and his boldness, furnish him with the means of exciting the enthusiasm of his countrymen as surely as a torch applied to gunpowder produces an explosion. In England these qualities, however elevated, would fail to produce similar results; for enthusiasm is there little known, and, when it comes forth, satisfies itself with a brief manifestation, and swiftly resigns itself to the prudent jurisdiction of reason. Napoleon himself, with all the glory associated with his name–a glory that intoxicated the French–would have failed to inebriate the sober-minded English.
Through my acquaintance with the Baron de Cailleux, who is at the head of the Musee, I obtained permission to take Lord John Russell, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Luttrell, to the galleries of the Louvre yesterday, it being a day on which the public are excluded. The Baron received us, did the honours of the Musee with all the intelligence and urbanity that distinguish him, and made as favourable an impression on my countrymen as they seemed to have produced on him.
Rogers has a pure taste in the fine arts, and has cultivated it _con amore_; Luttrell brings to the study a practised eye and a matured judgment; but Lord John, nurtured from infancy in dwellings, the walls of which glow with the _chefs-d’oeuvre_ of the old masters and the best works of the modern ones, possesses an exquisite tact in recognizing at a glance the finest points in a picture, and reasons on them with all the _savoir_ of a connoisseur and the feeling of an amateur.
It is a pleasant thing to view collections of art with those fully capable of appreciating them, and I enjoyed this satisfaction yesterday. The Baron de Cailleux evinced no little pleasure in conducting my companions from one masterpiece to another, and two or three hours passed away rapidly in the interesting study.
The Marquis and Marquise de B—-, Comte V—-, and some others, dined here yesterday. The Marquise de B—- is very clever, has agreeable manners, knows the world thoroughly, and neither under nor overvalues it. A constant friction with society, while it smoothes down asperities and polishes manners, is apt to impair if not destroy much of the originality and raciness peculiar to clever people. To suit themselves to the ordinary level of society, they become either insipid or satirical; they mix too much water, or apply cayenne pepper to the wine of their conversation: hence that mind which, apart from the artificial atmosphere of the busy world, might have grown into strength and beauty, becomes like some poor child nurtured in the unhealthy precincts of a dense and crowded city,–diseased, stunted, rickety, and incapable of distinguishing itself from its fellows.
As clever people cannot elevate the mass with which they herd to their own level, they are apt to sink to theirs; and persons with talents that might have served for nobler purposes are suffered to degenerate into _diseurs de bons mots_ and _raconteurs de societe_, content with the paltry distinction of being considered amusing. How many such have I encountered, satisfied with being pigmies, who might have grown to be giants, but who were consoled by the reflection that in that world in which their sole aim is to shine, pigmies are more tolerated than giants, as people prefer looking down to looking up!
Lord Allen and Sir Andrew Barnard dined here yesterday. They appear to enter into the gaiety of Paris with great zest, go the round of the theatres, dine at all the celebrated _restaurateurs_, mix enough in the _beau monde_ to be enabled to observe the difference between the Parisian and London one, and will, at the expiration of the term assigned to their _sejour_ here, return to England well satisfied with their trip and with themselves.
Lord A—- has tasted all the _nouveaux plats a la mode_, for at Paris new dishes are as frequently invented as new bonnets or caps; and the proficiency in the culinary art which he has acquired will render him an oracle at his clubs, until the more recent arrival of some other epicurean from the French capital deposes his brief sovereignty.
But it is not in the culinary art alone that Lord Allen evinces his good taste, for no one is a better judge of all that constitutes the _agremens_ of life, or more _au fait_ of the [* omitted word?] of contributing to them.
Sir A. B—-, as devoted as ever to music, has heard all the new, and finds that the old, like old friends, loses nothing by comparison. It is pleasant to see that the advance of years impairs not the taste for a refined and innocent pleasure.
CHAPTER XXI.
Mr. Rogers and Mr. Luttrell spent last evening here. The minds of both teem with reflection, and their conversation is a high intellectual treat to me. There is a repose in the society of clever and refined Englishmen to be met with in no other: the absence of all attempts to shine, or at least of the evidence of such attempts; the mildness of the manners; the low voices, the freedom from any flattery, except the most delicate and acceptable of all to a fastidious person, namely, that implied by the subjects of conversation chosen, and the interest yielded to them;–yes, these peculiarities have a great charm for me, and Mr. Rogers and Mr. Luttrell possess them in an eminent degree.
The mercurial temperaments of the French preclude them from this calmness of manner and mildness of speech. More obsequiously polite and attentive to women, the exuberance of their animal spirits often hurries them into a gaiety evinced by brilliant sallies and clever observations. They shine, but they let the desire to do so be too evident to admit of that quietude that forms one of the most agreeable, as well as distinguishing, attributes of the conversation of a refined and highly-intellectual Englishman.
—- and —- spent last evening here. Two more opposite characters could not easily have encountered. One influenced wholly by his feelings, the other by his reason, each seemed to form a low estimate of the other; and this, _malgre_ all the restraint imposed by good breeding, was but too visible. Neither has any cause to be vain, for he becomes a dupe who judges with his heart instead of his head, and an egotist who permits not his heart to be touched by the toleration of his head. —- is often duped, but sometimes liked for his good nature; while —-, if never duped, is never liked.
I took Lord John Russell, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Luttrell yesterday to La Muette to see M. Erard’s fine collection of pictures, with which they were very much pleased. Our drive to the Bois de Boulogne was a very agreeable one, and was rendered so by their pleasant conversation.
I have presented Mr. Rogers with some acquisitions for his cabinet of antique _bijouterie_, with which he appears delighted. I outbid M. Millingen, who was bargaining at Naples for these little treasures, and secured a diminutive Cupid, a Bacchus, and a small bunch of grapes of pure gold, and of exquisite workmanship, which will now be transferred to the museum of my friend, Mr. Rogers. He will not, I dare say, be more grateful for the gift of my Cupid than his sex generally are when ladies no longer young bestow their love on them, and so I hinted when giving him the little winged god; but, _n’importe_, the gift may please, though the giver be forgotten.
Lord Pembroke dined here yesterday, he is peculiarly well-bred and gentlemanlike, and looks a nobleman from top to toe. He has acquired