The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Idler in France, by Marguerite Gardiner
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Title: The Idler in France
Author: Marguerite Gardiner
Release Date: July 28, 2004 [eBook #13044]
Language: English
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THE IDLER IN FRANCE
By MARGUERITE GARDINER, THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON
1841.
CHAPTER I.
NISMES.
I have omitted to notice the route to this place, having formerly
described the greater portion of it. I remarked a considerable
improvement in the different towns we passed through: the people look
cleaner, and an air of business has replaced the stagnation that used
to prevail, except in Marseilles and Toulon, which were always busy
cities.
Nismes surpasses my expectations, although they had been greatly
excited, and amply repays the long _détour_ we have made to visit it.
When I look round on the objects of antiquity that meet my eye on every
side, and above all on the Amphitheatre and _Maison Carrée_, I am
forced to admit that Italy has nothing to equal the two last: for if
the Coliseum may be said to surpass the amphitheatre in dimensions, the
wonderful state of preservation of the latter renders it more
interesting; and the _Maison Carrée_, it must be allowed, stands
without a competitor. Well might the Abbé Barthélemy, in his _Voyage
d'Anacharsis_, call it the masterpiece of ancient architecture and the
despair of modern!
The antiquities of Nismes have another advantage over those of Italy:
they are kept wholly free from the disgusting _entourage_ that impairs
the effect of the latter; and in examining them in the interior or
exterior, no risk is incurred of encountering aught offensive to the
olfactory nerves, or injurious to the _chaussure_.
We devoted last evening to walking round the town, and so cloudless was
the sky, so genial the air, and so striking the monuments of Roman
splendour, that I could have fancied myself again transported to Italy.
Our inn, the Hôtel du Midi, is an excellent one; the apartments good,
and the _cuisine soignée_. In this latter point the French hôtels are
far superior to the Italian; but in civility and attention, the hosts
of Italy have the advantage.
We had no sooner dined than half-a-dozen persons, laden with silk
handkerchiefs and ribands, brocaded with gold and silver, and silk
stockings, and crapes, all the manufacture of Nismes, came to display
their merchandise. The specimens were good, and the prices moderate; so
we bought some of each, much to the satisfaction of the parties
selling, and also of the host, who seemed to take a more than common
interest in the sale, whether wholly from patriotic feelings or not, I
will not pretend to say.
The _Maison Carrée_, of all the buildings of antiquity I have yet seen,
is the one which has most successfully resisted the numerous assaults
of time, weather, Vandalism, and the not less barbarous attacks of
those into whose merciless hands it has afterwards fallen. In the early
part of the Christian ages it was converted into a church, and
dedicated to St.-Étienne the Martyr; and in the eleventh century it was
used as the Hôtel-de-Ville. It was then given to a certain Pierre Boys,
in exchange for a piece of ground to erect a new hôtel-de-ville; and
he, after having degraded it by using a portion of it as a party-wall
to a mean dwelling he erected adjoining it, disposed of it to a *Sieur
Bruyes, who, still more barbarous than Pierre Boys, converted it into a
stable. In 1670, it was purchased by the Augustin monks from the
descendants of Bruyes, and once more used as a church; and, in 1789, it
was taken from the Augustin monks for the purposes of the
administration of the department. From that period, every thing has
been done for its preservation. Cleared from the mean houses which had
been built around it, and enclosed by an iron palisade, which protects
it from mischievous hands, it now stands isolated in the centre of a
square, or _place_, where it can be seen at every side. Poldo
d'Albenas, a quaint old writer, whose book I glanced over to-day,
attributes the preservation of the _Maison Carrée_ to the fortunate
horoscope of the spot on which it stands. His lamentations for the
insults offered to this building are really passionate.
The _Maison Carrée_ is not square, though its denomination might lead
one to suppose it to be so, being nearly eighty feet long, and only
thirty-eight feet wide. Elevated on a base of cut stone, it is ascended
by a flight of steps, which extends the length of the base in front.
The walls of the building are of a fine white stone, and are admirably
constructed.
The edifice has thirty fluted columns, with Corinthian capitals
beautifully sculptured, on which rests the architrave, with frieze and
cornice. This last is ornamented with sculpture; and the frieze, with
foliage finely executed.
The entrance is by a portico, open on three sides, and supported by two
columns, included in the thirty already named, of which six form the
front, and extend to the fourth, when commences the wall of the
building, in which the other columns are half imbedded, being united in
the building with its architrave. The fronton, which is over the
portico, has no ornament in the centre; neither has the frieze nor
architrave: but some holes mark where the bronze letters of an
inscription were once inserted.
This inscription has been conjectured, by the ingenious mode of placing
on paper the exact dimensions of the holes which formerly contained the
letters of it, and is now said to be as follows:--
C. CÆSARI AUGUSTI. F. COS. L. CÆSARI AUGUSTI F. COS.
DESIGNATO PRINCIPIBUS JUVENTUTES.
But as more holes are found than would be filled by these letters, the
conclusion does not seem to me to be justified.
At the far end of the portico is the door of entrance, the only opening
by which light is admitted to the building. It is very lofty, and on
each side is a pilaster; beneath the cornice are two long cut stones,
which advance like a kind of architrave, pierced by a square hole of
above twelve inches, supposed to have been intended to support a bronze
door.
The original destination of this beautiful edifice still furnishes a
subject for discussion among the antiquaries; some asserting it to have
been erected by the Emperor Adrian in honour of Plotina, while others
maintain it to have been a forum.
At present, it is used as a museum for the antiquities discovered at
Nismes, and contains some admirable specimens. Among these are a torso
in marble of a Roman knight, in a cuirass, and another colossal torso,
with a charming little draped statue seated in a curule chair, and
holding a cornucopia in the left hand; a cinerary monument, enriched
with bassi-relievi, representing a human sacrifice; a bronze head of
Apollo, much injured; and a Janus.
A funereal monument found in the neighbourhood of Nismes in 1824,
offers a very interesting object, being in a good state of
preservation. It is richly decorated, and by the inscription is proved
to have been that of Marcus Attius, aged twenty-five years, erected to
him by his mother Coelia, daughter of Sextus Paternus.
So fine is the proportion, so exquisite is the finish, and so wonderful
is the preservation of the _Maison Carrée_, that I confess I had much
more pleasure in contemplating its exterior, than in examining all that
it contains, though many of these objects are well worth inspection.
I should like to have a small model of it executed in silver, as an
ornament for the centre of a table; but it would require the hand of a
master to do justice to the olive leaves of the capitals of the
columns; that is, if they were faithfully copied from the original.
It was, if I remember rightly, Cardinal Alberoni who observed that this
beautiful building ought to be preserved in a golden _étui_, and its
compactness and exquisite finish prove that the implied eulogium was
not unmerited.
I have nowhere else noticed the introduction of olive leaves in
Corinthian capitals instead of those of the acanthus; the effect of
which is very good. A design was once formed of removing the _Maison
Carrée_ to Versailles. Colbert was the originator of this barbarous
project, which, however, was fortunately abandoned from the fear of
impairing, if not destroying, the beauty of the building. The Emperor
Napoleon is said to have entertained a similar notion, and meant to
grace Paris with this model of architectural perfection; but it was
found to be too solidly built to admit of removal, and he who could
shake empires, could not stir the _Maison Carrée_.
The transportation of antiquities from their original site can never be
excused, except in cases where it was the only means of insuring their
preservation. All the power of association is lost when they are
transferred to other places; and the view of them ceases to afford that
satisfaction experienced when beheld where they were primarily destined
to stand. I can no more fancy the _Maison Carrée_ appropriately placed
in the bustle and gaiety of Paris, than I could endure to see one of
the temples at Pæstum stuck down at Charing Cross.
One loves, when contemplating such precious memorials of antiquity, to
look around on the objects in nature, still wearing the same aspect as
when they were reared. The hills and mountains, unlike the productions
of man, change not; and nowhere can the fragments of a bygone age
appear to such advantage as on the spots selected for their erection,
where their vicinity to peculiar scenery had been taken into
consideration.
We spent a considerable time in examining the Amphitheatre, and so well
is it preserved, that one can hardly bring one's self to believe that
so many centuries have elapsed since it was built; and that generation
after generation has passed away, who have looked on this edifice which
now meets my view, so little changed by the ravages of that ruthless
conqueror Time, or the still more ruthless Visigoths who converted it
into a citadel, flanking the eastern door with two towers. In 737
Charles Martel besieged the Saracens, and set fire to it, and after
their expulsion it continued to be used as a citadel.
The form of this fine building is elliptical, and some notion of its
vast extent may be formed, when it is stated to have been capable of
containing above 17,000 spectators.
Its façade consists of two rows of porticoes, forming two galleries one
over the other, composing sixty arcades, divided by the same number of
Tuscan pilasters in the first range, and of Doric columns in the upper,
and an attic, which crowns all. Four principal doors, fronting the four
cardinal points, open into the amphitheatre, divided at nearly equal
distances one from the other.
The attic has no arcades, pilasters, or columns; but a narrow ledge
runs along it, which was probably used for the purpose of approaching
the projecting consoles, 120 in number, placed in couples at equal
distances between two columns, and pierced with a large hole, which
corresponds with a similar one in the cornice, evidently meant for
securing the awnings used to prevent the spectators from being
inconvenienced by the rain or sun.
These awnings did not extend to the arena, which was usually left open,
but were universally adopted in all the Roman amphitheatres, after
their introduction by Q. Catullus. The vast extent and extraordinary
commodiousness of the amphitheatres erected by the Romans, prove not
only the love of the sports exhibited in them entertained by that
people, but the attention paid to their health and comfort by the
architects who planned these buildings. The numerous vomitories were
not amongst the least important of these comforts, securing a safe
retreat from the theatre in all cases of emergency, and precluding
those fearful accidents that in our times have not infrequently
occurred, when an alarm of fire has been given. The mode of
arrangements, too, saved the spectators from all the deleterious
results of impure air, while the velarium preserved them from the sun.
But not only were the spectators screened from too fervid heat, but
they could retreat at pleasure, in case of rain or storm, into the
galleries, where they were sheltered from the rain. Our superior
civilization and refinement have not led to an equal attention to
safety and comfort in the mode of our ingress and egress from theatres,
or to their ventilation; but perhaps this omission may be accounted for
by the difference of our habits from those of the Romans. Public
amusements were deemed as essential to their comfort, as the enjoyment
of home is to ours; and, consequently, while we prefer home--and long
may we continue to do so--our theatres will not be either so vast or so
commodious as in those times and countries, where domestic happiness
was so much less understood or provided for.
The erection of this magnificent edifice is attributed to Vespasian,
Titus, or Domitian, from a fragment of an inscription discovered here
some fourteen or fifteen years ago, of which the following is a
transcript:--
VII. TRI. PO.....
And as only these three filled the consulate eight times since
Tiberius, in whose age no amphitheatre had been built in the Roman
provinces, to one of them is adjudged its elevation.
Could I only remember one half the erudition poured forth on my addled
brain by the cicerone, I might fill several pages, and fatigue others
nearly as much as he fatigued me; but I will have pity on my readers,
and spare them the elaborate details, profound speculations, ingenious
hypotheses, and archaiological lore that assailed me, and wish them,
should they ever visit Nismes, that which was denied me--a tranquil and
uninterrupted contemplation of its interesting antiquities, free from
the verbiage of a conscientious cicerone, who thinks himself in duty
bound to relate all that he has ever heard or read relative to the
objects he points out.
Even now my poor head rings with the names of Caius and Lucius Cæsar,
Tiberius, Trajan, Adrian, Diocletian, and Heaven only knows how many
other Roman worthies, to whom Nismes owes its attractions, not one of
whom did this learned Theban omit to enumerate.
Many of the antiquities of Nismes, which we went over to-day, might
well command attention, were they not in the vicinity of two such
remarkable and well-preserved monuments as the Amphitheatre and _Maison
Carrée_.
The Gate of Augustus, which now serves as the entrance to the barracks
of the gendarmerie, is worthy of inspection. It consists of four
arches--two of equal size, for the admittance of chariots and horsemen,
and two less ones for pedestrians. The centres of the two larger arches
are decorated by the head of a bull, in alto-relievo; and above each of
the smaller arches is a niche, evidently meant for the reception of a
statue.
A Corinthian pilaster divides the larger arches from the less, and a
similar one terminates the building on each side; while the two larger
arches are separated by a small Ionic column, which rests on a
projecting abutment whence the arches spring. The Gate of France has
but one arch, and is said to have been flanked by towers; of which,
however, it has little vestige.
The inhabitants of Nismes seem very proud of its antiquities, and even
the humbler classes descant with much erudition on the subject. Most,
if not all of them, have studied the guide-books, and like to display
the extent of their _savoir_ on the subject.
They evince not a little jealousy if any preference seems accorded to
the antiquities of Italy over those of their town; and ask, with an air
of triumph, whether any thing in Italy can be compared with their
_Maison Carrée_, expressing their wonder that so few English come to
look at it.
La Tour-Magne stands on the highest of the hills, at the base of which
is spread the town. It is precisely in the state most agreeable to
antiquaries, as its extreme dilapidation permits them to indulge those
various conjectures and hypotheses relative to its original
destination, in which they delight. They see in their "mind's eye" all
these interesting works of antiquity, _not_ as they _really_ are, but
as it pleases them to imagine they _once_ were; and, consequently, the
less that actually remains on which to base their suppositions, the
wider field have they for their favourite speculations.
This tower is said by some to have been intended for a lighthouse;
others assert it to have been a treasury; a third party declares it to
be the remains of a palace; and, last of all, it is assumed to have
been a mausoleum.
Its form, judging from what remains, must have been pyramidical,
composed of several stages, forming octagons, retreating one above the
other. It suffered much from Charles Martel in 737, who wished to
destroy it, owing to its offering a strong military position to the
Saracens; and still more from the ravages of a certain Francis Trancat,
to whom Henry IV granted permission to make excavations in the interior
of it, on condition that three parts of the product should be given up
to the royal coffer.
The result did not repay the trouble or expense; and one cannot help
being rejoiced that it did not, as probably, had it been otherwise, the
success would have served as an incentive to destroy other buildings.
In the vicinity of the Tour-Magne are the fountain, terrace, and
garden, the last of which is well planted, and forms a very agreeable
promenade for the inhabitants of Nismes. The fountain occupies the site
of the ancient baths--many vestiges of which having been discovered
have been employed for this useful, but not tasteful, work.
It was not until the middle of the eighteenth century, that it was
suspected that the water which served to turn a mill in the immediate
vicinity had been obstructed by the ruins which impeded its course.
This obstruction led to excavations, the result of which was the
discovery of the remains of buildings, columns, statues, inscriptions,
and fragments of rare marbles.
The obstructions being thus removed, and the town enriched by the
precious objects found, the persons to whom the direction of the
excavation was confided, instead of vigorously pursuing the task, were
content with what they had already discovered, and once more closed up
the grave in which so many treasures of antiquity were still
interred--using many of the materials disinterred for the formation of
the terraces which now cover it.
The architect selected to execute this work was Philip Maréchal, an
engineer, never previously employed, except in military architecture: a
fact to which may be attributed the peculiar style that he has
exhibited--bastions and trenches being adopted, instead of the usual
and more appropriate forms generally used for terraces and canals.
To these are subjoined ornaments of the period in which the work was
completed--the fitness of which is not more to HBO commended than that
of the work itself: the whole offering a curious mixture of military
and _rococo_ taste.
It was in the freshness of early morning that I, yesterday, again
visited the garden of the fountain and its fine chesnut trees and
laurel roses; the latter, growing in great luxuriance, looked
beautiful, the sun having not yet scorched them. The fountain, too, in
its natural bed, which is not less than seventy-two French feet in
diameter, and twenty feet in depth, was pellucid as crystal, and
through it the long leaves that nearly cover the gravel appeared green
as emerald.
The hill above the fountain has been tastefully planted with evergreen
trees, which shade a delicious walk, formed to its summit.
This improvement to the appearance, as well as to the _agréments_, of
Nismes, is due to Monsieur d'Haussey[1], prefect, whose popularity is
said to be deservedly acquired, by his unremitting attention to the
interests of the city, and his urbanity to its inhabitants.
Nismes is a gay town, if I may judge by the groups of well-dressed
women and men we have observed at the promenade.
It has a considerable garrison, and the officers are occasionally seen
passing and repassing; but not, as I have often remarked in England,
lazily lounging about as if anxious to kill time, but moving briskly as
if on business.
The various accomplishments acquired by young men in France offer a
great resource in country quarters. Drawing, in which most of them have
attained a facility, if not excellence, enables them to fill albums
with clever sketches; and their love of the fine arts leads them to
devote some hours in most days to their cultivation.
This is surely preferable to loitering in news-rooms, sauntering in the
shops of pretty milliners, breaking down the fences of farmers, or
riding over young wheat--innocent pastimes, sometimes undertaken by
young officers for mere want of some occupation.
The Temple of Diana is in the vicinity of the fountain, which has given
rise to the conjecture that it originally constituted a portion of the
ancient baths. Its shape is rectangular, and a large opening in the
centre forms the entrance.
Twelve niches, five of which open into the partition of the temple, and
two on the right and left of the entrance, are crowned by frontons
alternately circular and triangular, and are said to have contained
statues. This is one of the most picturesque ruins I ever saw. Silence
and solitude reign around it, and wild fig-trees enwreath with their
luxuriant foliage the opening made by Time, and half conceal the wounds
inflicted by barbarian hands.
I could have spent hours in this desecrated temple, pondering on the
brevity of life, as compared with its age. There is something pure and
calm in such a spot, that influences the feelings of those who pause in
it; and by reminding them of the inevitable lot of all sublunary
things, renders the cares incidental to all who breathe, less acutely
felt for the time.
Is not every ruin a history of the fate of generations, which century
after century has seen pass away?--generations of mortals like
ourselves, who have been moved by the same passions, and vexed by the
same griefs; like us, who were instinct with life and spirit, yet whose
very dust has disappeared. Nevertheless, we can yield to the futile
pleasures, or to the petty ills of life, as if their duration was to be
of long extent, unmindful that ages hence, others will visit the
objects we now behold, and find them little changed, while we shall
have in our turn passed away, leaving behind no trace of our existence.
I never see a beautiful landscape, a noble ruin, or a glorious fane,
without wishing that I could bequeath to those who will come to visit
them when I shall be no more, the tender thoughts that filled my soul
when contemplating them; and thus, even in death, create a sympathy.
CHAPTER II.
ARLES.
We stopped but a short time at Beaucaire, where we saw the largo plain
on the banks of the Rhone, on which are erected the wooden houses for
the annual fair which takes place in July, when the scene is said to
present a very striking effect.
These wooden houses are filled with articles of every description, and
are inhabited by the venders who bring their goods to be disposed of to
the crowds of buyers who flock here from all parts, offering, in the
variety of their costumes and habits, a very animated and showy
picture.
The public walk, which edges the grassy plain allotted to the fair, is
bordered by large elm-trees, and the vicinity to the river insures that
freshness always so desirable in summer, and more especially in a
climate so warm as this.
The town of Beaucaire has little worthy of notice, except its
Hòtel-de-Ville and church, both of which are handsome buildings. We
crossed the Rhone over the bridge of boats, from which we had a good
view, and arrived at Tarascon.
The château called the Castle of King René, but which was erected by
Louis II, count of Provence, is an object of interest to all who love
to ponder on the olden time, when gallant knights and lovely dames
assembled here for those tournaments in which the good René delighted.
Alas for the change! In those apartments in which the generous monarch
loved to indulge the effusions of his gentle muse, and where fair
ladies smiled, and belted knights quaffed ruby wine to their healths,
now dwell reckless felons and hopeless debtors; for the château is
converted into a prison.
In the Church of St. Martha we saw a relic of the barbarism of the dark
ages, in the shape of a grotesque representation of a dragon, called
the Tarasque. This image is formed of wood, rudely painted in gandy
colours.
Twice a-year it is borne through the streets of Tarascon, in
commemoration of the destruction of a fabulous monster that long
frequented the Rhone, and devoured many of the inhabitants of the
surrounding country, but was at length vanquished by St. Martha; who,
having secured it round the neck by her veil, delivered it to the just
vengeance of the Tarascons. This legend is received as truth by common
people, and our guide informed us that they warmly resent any _doubt_
of its authenticity.
The monument of St. Martha is shown in the church dedicated to her, and
her memory is held in great reverence at Tarascon.
The country between this place and Tarascon is fertile and well
cultivated, and the cheerfulness of its aspect presents a striking
contrast to the silence and solitude of the town. The streets, however,
are as clean as those of Holland, and the inhabitants are neat and tidy
in their attire.
The houses are for the most part old and dilapidated, looking in nearly
as ruined a condition as the fragments of antiquity which date so many
centuries before them. Nevertheless, some of the streets and dwellings
seem to indicate that a spirit of improvement is abroad.
Our hôtel is a large, crazy, old mansion, reminding me of some of those
at Shrewsbury; and its furniture appears to be coeval with it, as
nothing can be more homely or misshapen. Oak and walnut-tree chairs,
beds, and tables form the chief part, and these are in a very rickety
condition; nevertheless, an air of cleanliness and comfort pervades the
rooms, and with the extreme rusticity of the _ameublement_, give one
the notion of being in some huge old farm-house.
Nor is the manner of the good hostess calculated to dispel this
illusion. When our three carriages drove to her door, though prepared
for our arrival by the courier, she repeatedly said that her poor house
had no accommodation for such guests, and we had some difficulty in
persuading her that we were easily satisfied.
She had donned her fête dress for our reception, and presented a very
picturesque appearance, as she stood smiling and bustling about at the
door. She wore a high cap reminding me of those of the women in
Normandy: brown stays; linsey-woolsey, voluminous petticoats;
handkerchief and apron trimmed with rich old-fashioned lace; and long
gold ear-rings, and chain of the same material, twisted at least ten
times round her neck.
She explained to us, in a _patois_ not easily understood, that her
house was only frequented by the farmers, and their wives and
daughters, who attended the fetes, or occasionally by a stray traveller
who came to explore the antiquities.
Before I had travelled much on the Continent, I confess that the
appearance of this dwelling would have rather startled me as a _séjour_
for two days, but now I can relish its rusticity; for cleanliness, that
most indispensable of all requisites to comfort, is not wanting.
The furniture is scrubbed into brightness, the small diamond-shaped
panes of the old-fashioned casements are clean as hands can make them;
the large antique fireplace is filled with fresh flowers; and the
walnut-tree tables are covered with white napkins.
No sooner had we performed our ablutions, and changed our travelling
dresses for others, than our good hostess, aided by three active young
country maidens, served up a plentiful dinner, consisting of an
excellent _pot-au-feu_, followed by fish, fowl, and flesh, sufficient
to satisfy the hunger of at least four times the number of our party.
Having covered the table until it literally "groaned with the weight of
the feast," she seated herself at a little distance from it, and issued
her commands to her hand-maidens what to serve, and when to change a
plate, what wine to offer, and which dish she most recommended, with a
good-humoured attention to our wants, that really anticipated them.
There was something as novel as patriarchal in her mode of doing the
honours, and it pleased us so much that we invited her to partake of
our repast; but she could not be prevailed on, though she consented to
drink our healths in a glass of her best wine.
She repeatedly expressed her fears that our dinner was not sufficiently
_recherché_, and hoped we would allow her to prepare a good supper.
When we were descending the stairs, she met us with several of her
female neighbours _en grande toilette_, whom she had invited to see the
strangers, and who gazed at us with as much surprise as if we were
natives of Otaheite, beheld for the first time. Cordial greetings,
however, atoned for the somewhat too earnest examination to which we
had been subjected; and many civil speeches from our good hostess, who
seemed not a little proud of displaying her foreign guests, rewarded
the patience with which we submitted to the inspection.
One old lady felt the quality of our robes, another admired our
trinkets, and a third was in raptures with our veils. In short, as a
Frenchwoman would say, we had _un grand succès_; and so, our hostess
assured us.
We went over the Amphitheatre, the dimensions of which exceed those of
the Amphitheatre at Nismes. Three orders of architecture are also
introduced in it, and it has no less than sixty arcades, with four
large doors; that on the north side has a very imposing effect. The
corridor leading to the arena exhibits all the grandeur peculiar to the
public buildings of the Romans, and is well worthy of attention; but
the portion of the edifice that most interested me was the
subterranean, which a number of workmen were busily employed in
excavating, under the superintendence of the Prefect of Arles, a
gentleman with whose knowledge of the antiquities of his native town,
and urbanity towards the strangers who visit them, we have every reason
to be satisfied.
Under his guidance, we explored a considerable extent of the recently
excavated subterranean, a task which requires no slight devotion to
antiquities to induce the visitor to persevere, the inequalities of the
ground exposing one continually to the danger of a fall, or to the
still more perilous chance--as occurred to one of our party--of the
head coming in contact with the roof.
We saw also fragments of a theatre in the garden of the convent of La
Miséricorde, consisting of two large marble columns and two arches.
In the ancient church of St. Anne, now converted into a museum, are
collected all the fragments of antiquity discovered at Arles, and in
its vicinity; some of them highly interesting, and bearing evidences of
the former splendour of the place.
An altar dedicated to the Goddess of Good; the celebrated Mithras with
a serpent coiled round him, between the folds of which are sculptured
the signs of the zodiac; Medea and her children; a mile-stone, bearing
the names of the Emperors Theodosius and Valentinian; a basso-relievo
of the Muses; several sarcophagi, votive altars, cornices, pillars,
mutilated statues, and inscriptions, are here carefully preserved: but
nothing in the collection equals the statue known by the title of the
Venus of Arles, found here, and which is so deservedly admired at the
Louvre.
An obelisk of granite, about sixty feet high, said to be the only
antique one in France, stands on the place of the Hôtel-de-Ville.
Discovered in 1389, it was not disinterred from the earth in which it
was embedded until the reign of Charles IX, and was erected on its
present site in 1676, with a dedication to the then reigning sovereign,
Louis XIV; A globe, ornamented with _fleurs de lis_ placed on its
point, deteriorates, in my opinion, from the beauty of its effect. It
was originally in one block, but it was broken in two by its overturn.
Many houses in the streets have portions of columns, friezes, and
cornices embedded in their walls; and one of them, occupied by a
barber, had a column in front, to which the insignia of his profession
were attached. Ruins, said to be those of the palace of Constantine,
were pointed out to us, as well as fragments of a forum and baths.
Arles is certainly one of the most interesting towns I have ever seen,
whether viewed as a place remarkable for the objects of antiquity it
contains, or for the primitive manners of its inhabitants and its
picturesque appearance.
The quays are spacious and well built, presenting a very different
aspect to the streets; for the former are very populous, being
frequented by the boatmen who ply their busy commerce between Lyons and
Marseilles--dépôts for the merchandise being erected along them, while
the latter are comparatively deserted.
With this facility of communication with two such flourishing towns, it
is extraordinary that Arles should have so long retained the primitive
simplicity that seems to pervade it, and that a good hotel has not yet
been established here.
Our good hostess provided nearly as substantial a supper for us last
night as the early dinner served up on our arrival, and again presided
at the repast, pressing us to eat, and recommending, with genuine
kindness, the various specimens of dainties set before us. Our beds,
though homely, were clean; and I have seldom, in the most luxurious
ones, reposed equally soundly.
When our courier asked for the bill this morning, the landlady declared
she "knew not what to charge, that she never was in the habit of making
out bills, and that we must give her what we thought right."
The courier urged the necessity of having a regular bill, explaining to
her that he was obliged to file all bills, and produce them every week
for the arrangement of his accounts,--but in vain: she could not, she
declared, make one out; and no one in her house was more expert than
herself.
She came to us, laughing and protesting, and ended by saying, "Pay what
you like; things are very cheap at Arles. You have eaten very little;
really, it is not worth charging for." But, when we persisted on having
her at least name a sum, to our infinite surprise she asked, if a
couple of louis would be too much?--And this for a party of six, and
six servants, for two days!
We had some difficulty in inducing her to accept a suitable
indemnification, and parted, leaving her proclaiming what she was
pleased to consider our excessive generosity, and reiterating her good
wishes.
CHAPTER III.
ST.-RÉMY.
The town of St.-Rémy is delightfully situated in a hollow that
resembles the crater of an extinct volcano, and is surrounded by
luxuriant groves of olive. The streets, though generally narrow, are
rendered picturesque by several old houses, the architecture of which
is striking; and the _place_--for even St.-Rémy has its Place Publique
and Hôtel-de-Ville--is not without pretensions to ornament. In the
centre of this _place_ is a pretty fountain, of a pyramidal form.
The antiquities which attracted us to St.-Rémy are at a short distance
from the town, on an eminence to the south of it, and are approached by
a road worthy the objects to which it conducts. They consist of a
triumphal arch, and a mausoleum, about forty-five feet asunder.
Of the triumphal arch, all above the archivault has disappeared,
leaving but the portico, the proportions of which are neither lofty nor
wide. On each side of it are two fluted columns, said to have been of
the Corinthian order, but without capitals, and the intercolumniations,
in each of which are figures of male and female captives.
A tree divides the male from the female; their hands are tied, and
chained to the tree; and a graceful drapery falls from above the heads
down to the consoles on which the figures stand.
On the eastern side of the arch are also figures, representing two
women, by the side of two men. One of the women has her hand on the arm
of a chained warrior, and the other has at her feet military trophies;
among which bucklers, arms, and trumpets, may be seen. The pilasters
that bound the intercolumniations are of the Doric order, and their
capitals support the arch.
The cornice and astragals form a frieze, in which military emblems and
symbols of sacrifice are intermingled. The archivault is ornamented on
each side with sculptured wreaths of ivy, pine cones, branches of
grapes and olives, interlaced with ribands. The ceiling of the portico
is divided into hexagons and squares, enriched by various designs in
the shape of eggs and roses, finely executed.
This interesting monument appears to have been ornamented with equal
care and richness on every side, but its decorations have not enabled
any of the numerous antiquaries who have hitherto examined it to throw
any light on its origin; and the destruction of its architecture must
have caused that of its inscription, if, indeed, it ever bore one.
The mausoleum is even more curious than the arch, as being the only
building of a similar character of architecture to be seen.
Placed on a large square pediment, approached by two steps, the edifice
rises with unequalled lightness and beauty against the blue sky,
forming two stages supported by columns and pilasters, united by a
finely sculptured frieze. The first stage retreats from the pediment;
and the second, which is of a round form, and terminated by a
conical-shaped top, is less in advance than the first, giving a
pyramidal effect.
The four fronts of the pediment are nearly covered by bassi-relievi,
representing battles of infantry; the figures of which are nearly as
large as life, and admirably designed.
On the north front is a combat of cavalry; on the west, an engagement,
in the midst of which the body of a man is lying on the ground, one
party of soldiers endeavouring to take possession of it, while another
band of soldiers are trying to prevent them.
The basso-relievo of the south front represents a field of battle,
strewed with the dead and wounded, and mingled with warriors on
horseback and on foot. On one side is seen a wild boar between the legs
of the soldiers; and on the other, a female figure, quite nude,
prostrate on the earth before a rearing horse, which some soldiers are
endeavouring to restrain.
In the centre of the basso-relievo is an old man expiring, surrounded
by several persons; and at one end a soldier, bearing arms on his
shoulder, has been left unfinished by the sculptor; there not being
sufficient space for the figure, which is partly designed on the
adjoining pilaster.
On the east front is a winged female bearing the attributes of Victory,
with several women and warriors, and an allegorical personage said to
represent a river, because it holds in one hand a symbol of water. This
last figure, also, is partly sculptured on the contiguous pilaster, as
is the one previously noted, which proves that these ornaments were not
executed at the time of the erection of the edifice.
The pediment has a simple cornice around it, and the angles are
finished by voluted pilasters without a base, but with Ionic capitals,
which have an extraordinary effect. Above the basso-relievo is a
massive garland, supported by three boys, at equal distances; and
between them are four heads of old men, as hideously grotesque as the
imaginations of the sculptors could render them.
The first stage of the mausoleum which rises from this pedestal is
pierced by an arch on each side, in the form of a portico, and their
archivaults are ornamented by foliage and scrolls.
The arches rest on plain pilasters, with capitals more resembling the
Doric than any other order of architecture. On the keystone of each
arch is the mark of a youthful male head, surmounted by two wings. The
four angles of the first stage are finished by a fluted column, with a
capital charmingly executed, like, but not quite, the Corinthian. These
columns sustain an entablature or two, which terminate this stage, and
its frieze is enriched with sculpture representing winged sea-monsters
and sirens with sacrificial instruments.
Above the first stage rises the second, which is of a round form, with
ten fluted columns, which support its circular entablature; the
capitals of these columns are similar to those of the first stage, and
the frieze is ornamented with foliage delicately sculptured.
A round cupola terminates this building, through which the light shines
in on every side, although two male statues in togas occupy the centre
of it.
To view the height at which these figures are placed, one would suppose
they were safe from the attacks of the mischievous or the curious;
nevertheless, they did not escape, for, many years ago, during the
night, their heads were taken off, and those that replaced them reflect
little credit on the taste or skill of the modern sculptor who executed
the task.
On the architrave of the entablature of the first stage, and on the
north front, is the following inscription:--
SEX. L. M. JVLIEI. C.F. PARENTIBUS. SVEIS.
Various are the opinions given by the writers who have noticed this
monument as to the cause for which, and person, or persons for whom, it
was erected. Some maintain that the triumphal arch from its vicinity
has a relation to the mausoleum, while others assert them to have been
built at different epochs.
The inscription has only served to base the different hypotheses of
antiquaries, among which that of the Abbé Barthélemy is considered the
most probable; namely, that in the three first words are found two
initials, which he considers may be rendered as follows:--
SEXTUS · LUCIVS · MARCVS;
and the two other initials, C.F., which follow the word JVLIEI, may be
explained in the same manner to signify Caii Filii, and, being joined
to Juliei, which precedes, may be received to mean Julii Caii Filii.
Mantour's reading of the inscription is, Caius Sextius Lucius, Maritus
JULIÆ Incomparabilis, Curavit Fieri PARENTIBUS SUIS; which he
translates into Caius Sextius Lucius, Husband of Julia, caused this
Monument to be erected to the Memory of his Ancestors, and the
victories achieved by them in Provence, which on different occasions
had been the theatre of war of the Romans.
Bouche's version of it is,--
{Lucius, }
Sextus {Lælius, } Maritus Juliæ.
{Liberius,}
Istud Cenotaphium,}
or, } Fecit Parentibus Suis;
Intra Circulum, }
which he asserts to mean,--Sextus, in honour of his Father and Mother,
buried in this place, and represented by the two statues surrounded by
columns in the upper part of the mausoleum.
Monsieur P. Malosse, to whose work on the antiquities of St.-Rémy I am
indebted for the superficial knowledge I have attained of these
interesting objects, explains the inscription to mean,--
SEXTVS · LVCIVS · MARCVS · JVLIEI · CVRAV ·
ERUNT · FIERE · SUEIS;
which he translates into Sextus, Lucius, Marcus (all three), of the
race of Julius, elevated this monument to the glory of their relations.
M. Malosse believes that the mausoleum was erected to Julius, and the
arch to Augustus Cæsar--the first being dead, and the second then
living; and that the statues in the former, in the Roman togas, were
intended to represent the two.
He imagines that the subjects of the bassi-relievi on the four fronts
of the mausoleum bear out this hypothesis. That of the east, he says,
represents the combat of the Romans with the Germans on the bank of the
Rhine (of which river the one on the basso-relievo is the emblem), and
the triumph of Cæsar over Ariovistus, whoso women were taken prisoners.
The basso-relievo on the south front represents Cæsar's conquest of the
Allobroges, and the capture of the daughter of Orgetorix, one of the
most powerful men of the country, and instigator of the war. The
basso-relievo on the north front, representing a combat of cavalry,
refers to the victory over the Britons; and that of the west front, to
the battle gained by the Romans over the Gauls, in which the general of
the latter was killed in the midst of his soldiers, who endeavoured to
prevent his being seized by the enemy.
Passages from the _Commentaries of Cæsar_, favour this ingenious
interpretation of M.P. Malosse; but the abbreviations adopted in the
inscription, while well calculated to give rise to innumerable
hypotheses, will for ever leave in doubt, by whom, and in honour of
whom, these edifices were erected, as well as the epoch at which they
were built.
Who could look on these monuments without reflecting on the vanity of
mortals in thus offering up testimonials of their respect for persons
of whose very names posterity is ignorant? For the identity of those in
whose honour the Arch of Triumph and Mausoleum of St.-Rémy were raised
puzzles antiquaries as much as does that of the individual for whom the
pyramid of Egypt was built. Vain effort, originating in the weakness of
our nature, to preserve the memory of that which was dear to us, and
which we would fain believe will insure the reverence of ages unborn
for that which we venerated!
ON THE TRIUMPHAL ARCH AND MAUSOLEUM AT ST.-RÉMY.
1.
Yon stately tomb that seeks the sky,
Erected to the glorious dead,
Through whose high arches sweeps, the sigh
The night winds heave when day has fled;
2.
How fair its pillared stories rise
'Gainst yon blue firmament so pure;
Fair as they met admiring eyes,
Long ages past, they still endure.
3.
Yes, many a race hath left the earth
Since first this Mausoleum rose;
So many, that the name, or birth,
Of dead, or founder, no one knows.
4.
The sculptured pictures, all may see,
Were by a skilful artist wrought;
But, Time! the secret rests with thee,
Which to unravel men have sought.
5.
Of whom were they, the honoured dead,
Whose mem'ry Love would here record?
Lift up the veil, so long o'erspread,
And tell whose dust yon fane doth guard.
6.
Name those whose love outlived the grave
And sought to give for aye to fame
Mementos of the good and brave,
Of whom thou hast effaced the name.
7.
We know but that they lived and died,--
No more this stately tomb can tell:
Here come and read a lesson, Pride,
This monument can give so well.
8.
They lived--they hoped--they suffered--loved--
As all of Earth have ever done;
Were oft by wild Ambition moved,
And basked, perchance, 'neath glory's Sun.
9.
They deemed that they should leave behind
Undying names. Yet, mark this fane,
For whom it rose, by whom designed,
Learned antiquaries search in vain.
10.
Still doth it wear the form it wore,
Through the dim lapse of by-gone age;
Triumph of Art in days of yore,
Whose Hist'ry fills the classic page.
11.
To honour Victors it is said
'Twas raised, though none their names can trace;
It stands as monument instead,
Unto each long-forgotten race,
12.
Who came, like me, to gaze and brood
Upon it in this lonely spot--
Their minds with pensive thoughts imbued,
That Heroes could be thus forgot.
13.
Yet still the wind a requiem sighs,
And the blue sky above it weeps;
Thu Sun pours down its radiant dyes,
Though none can tell who 'neath it sleeps.
14.
And seasons roll, and centuries pass,
And still unchanged thou keep'st thy place;
While we, like shadows in a glass,
Soon glide away, and leave no trace.
15.
And yon proud Arch, the Victor's meed,
Is nameless as the neighbouring Tomb:
Victor, and Dead, the Fates decreed
Your memory to oblivion's gloom.
CHAPTER IV.
LYONS.
I see little alteration at Lyons since I formerly passed through it.
Its manufactories are, nevertheless, flourishing, though less
improvement than could be expected is visible in the external aspect of
the place.
This being Sunday, and the _Féte-Dieu_, the garrison, with flags
flying, drums beating, trumpets sounding, and all in gala dress,
marched through the streets to attend Divine worship. The train was
headed by our old acquaintance General Le Paultre de la Motte, (whom we
left at Lyons on our route to Italy), and his staff; wearing all their
military decorations, attended by a vast procession, including the
whole of the clergy in their rich attires and all the different
religious communities in the town.
The officers were bare-headed--their spurred heels and warlike
demeanour rendering this homage to a sacred ceremony more picturesque.
The gold and silver brocaded vestments and snowy robes of the priests
glittering in the sun, as they marched along to the sound of martial
music, looked very gorgeous; and this mixture of ecclesiastical and
military pomp had an imposing effect.
The streets through which the procession passed were ornamented with
rich draperies and flowers, reminding me of Italy on similar occasions;
and the intense heat of a sun glowing like a fiery furnace, aided the
recollection.
Since I have been on the continent, it has often struck me with
surprise, that on solemn occasions like the present, sacred music has
not been performed instead of military. Nay, I have heard quadrilles
and waltzes played, fruitful in festive associations little suited to
the feelings which ought to have been excited by solemn ceremonials.
Knowing, by experience, the effect produced on the mind by sacred
music, it is much to be wished that so potent an aid to devotional
sentiment should not be omitted, _malgré_ whatever may be said against
any extraneous assistance in offering up those devotions which the
heart should be ever prompt to fulfil without them.
I leave to casuists to argue whether, or how far, music, sculpture, or
painting, may be employed as excitements to religious fervour: but I
confess, although the acknowledgment may expose me to the censure of
those who differ with me in opinion, that I consider them powerful
adjuncts, and, consequently, not to be resigned because _some_--and
happy, indeed, may they be deemed--stand in no need of such incitements
to devotion.
Who that has heard the "_Miserere_" in the Sistine chapel at Rome, and
seen, while listening to it, "The Last Judgment," by Michael Angelo, on
its walls, without feeling the powerful influence they exercised on the
feelings?
CHAPTER V.
PARIS.
_June_, 1828.--A fatiguing journey, over dusty roads, and in intensely
hot weather, has brought us to Paris, with no accident save the failure
of one of the wheels of our large landau--a circumstance that caused
the last day's travelling to be any thing but agreeable; for though our
courier declared the temporary repair it received rendered it perfectly
safe, I was by no means satisfied on the point.
We have taken up our abode in the Hôtel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli,
are well-lodged, but somewhat incommoded by the loud reverberation of
the pavement, as the various vehicles roll rapidly over it. We were
told that "it would be nothing when we got used to it"--an assertion,
the truth of which, I trust, we shall not remain sufficiently long to
test; for I have a peculiar objection to noise of every kind, and a
long residence in Italy has not conquered it.
So here we are, once more, at Paris, after six years' absence from it;
and I find all that has hitherto met my eyes in it _in statu quo_. How
many places have I seen during that period; how many associations
formed; how many and what various impressions received; and here is
every thing around looking so precisely as I left them, that I can
hardly bring myself to believe that I have indeed been so many years
absent!
When we bring back with us the objects most dear, and find those we
left unchanged, we are tempted to doubt the lapse of time; but one link
in the chain of affection broken, and every thing seems altered.
On entering Paris, I felt my impatience to see our dear friends there
redouble; and, before we had despatched the dinner awaiting our
arrival, the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, came to us. How warm was our
greeting; how many questions to be asked and answered; how many
congratulations and pleasant plans for the future to be formed; how
many reminiscences of our mutual _séjour_ in dear Italy to be talked
over!
The Duchesse was radiant in health and beauty, and the Duc looking, as
he always does, more _distingué_, than any one else--the perfect _beau
idéal_ of a nobleman.
We soon quitted the _salle à manger_; for who could eat during the joy
of a first meeting with those so valued?--Not I, certainly; and all the
rest of our party were as little disposed to do honour to the repast
commanded for us.
It was a happy evening. Seated in the _salon_, and looking out on the
pleasant gardens of the Tuileries, the perfume of whose orange-trees
was wafted to us by the air as we talked over old times, and indulged
in cheerful anticipations of new ones, and the tones of voices familiar
to the ears thus again restored, were heard with emotion.
Yes, the meeting of dear friends atones for the regret of separation;
and like it so much enhances affection, that after absence one wonders
how one has been able to stay away from them so long.
Too excited to sleep, although fatigued, I am writing down my
impressions; yet how tame and colourless they seem on paper when
compared with the emotions that dictate them! How often have I
experienced the impossibility of painting strong feelings during their
reign!
[_Mem_.--We should be cautious in giving implicit credit to
descriptions written with great power, as I am persuaded they indicate
a too perfect command of the faculties of the head to admit the
possibility of those of the heart having been much excited when they
were written.
This belief of mine controverts the assertion of the poet--
"He best can paint them who has felt them most."
Except that the poet says who _has_ felt; yes, it is after, and not
when most felt that sentiments can be most powerfully expressed. But to
bed! to bed!]
I have had a busy day; engaged during the greater portion of it in the
momentous occupation of shopping. Every thing belonging to my toilette
is to be changed, for I have discovered--"tell it not in Gath"--that my
hats, bonnets, robes, mantles, and pelisses, are totally _passée de
mode_, and what the _modistes_ of Italy declared to be _la dernière
mode de Paris_ is so old as to be forgotten here.
The woman who wishes to be a philosopher must avoid Paris! Yesterday I
entered it, caring or thinking as little of _la mode_ as if there were
no such tyrant; and lo! to-day, I found myself ashamed, as I looked
from the Duchess de Guiche, attired in her becoming and pretty
_peignoir à la neige_ and _chapeau du dernier goût_, to my own dress
and bonnet, which previously I had considered very wearable, if not
very tasteful.
Our first visit was to Herbault's, the high-priest of the Temple of
Fashion at Paris; and I confess, the look of astonishment which he
bestowed on my bonnet did not help to reassure my confidence as to my
appearance.
The Duchesse, too quick-sighted not to observe his surprise, explained
that I had been six years absent from Paris, and only arrived the night
before from Italy. I saw the words _à la bonne heure_ hovering on the
lips of Herbault, he was too well-bred to give utterance to them, and
immediately ordered to be brought forth the choicest of his hats, caps,
and turbans.
Oh, the misery of trying on a new _mode_ for the first time, and before
a stranger! The eye accustomed to see the face to which it appertains
enveloped in a _chapeau_ more or less large or small, is shocked at the
first attempt to wear one of a different size; and turns from the
contemplation of the image presented in the glass with any thing but
self-complacency, listening incredulously to the flattering encomiums
of the not disinterested _marchand de modes_, who avers that "_Ce
chapeau sied parfaitement à Madame la Comtesse, et ce bonnet lui va à
ravir_."
I must, however, render M. Herbault the justice to say, that he evinced
no ordinary tact in suggesting certain alterations in his _chapeaux_
and caps, in order to suit my face; and, aided by the inimitable good
taste of the Duchesse, who passes for an oracle in _affaires de modes à
Paris_, a selection was made that enabled me to leave M. Herbault's,
looking a little more like other people.
From his Temple of Fashion we proceeded to the _lingère à la mode_,
Mdlle. La Touche, where _canezous_ and _robes de matin_ were to be
chosen and ordered; and we returned to the Hôtel de la Terrasse, my
head filled with notions of the importance of dressing _à la mode_, to
which yesterday it was a stranger, and my purse considerably lightened
by the two visits I had paid.
Englishwomen who have not made their purchases at the houses of the
_marchandes de modes_ considered the most _recherché_ at Paris, have no
idea of the extravagance of the charges. Prices are demanded that
really make a prudent person start; nevertheless, she who wishes to
attain the distinction so generally sought, of being perfectly well
dressed, which means being in the newest fashion, must submit to pay
largely for it.
Three hundred and twenty francs for a crape hat and feathers, two
hundred for a _chapeau à fleurs_, one hundred for a _chapeau négligé de
matin_, and eighty-five francs for an evening-cap composed of tulle
trimmed with blonde and flowers, are among the prices asked, and, to my
shame be it said, given.
It is true, hats, caps, and bonnets may be had for very reasonable
prices in the shops in the Rue Vivienne and elsewhere at Paris, as I
and many of my female compatriots found out when I was formerly in this
gay capital; but the bare notion of wearing such would positively shock
a lady of fashion at Paris, as much as it would an English one, to
appear in a hat manufactured in Cranbourn Alley.
Here Fashion is a despot, and no one dreams of evading its dictates.
Having noticed the extravagance of the prices, it is but fair to remark
the elegance and good taste of the millinery to be found at Monsieur
Herbault's. His _chapeaux_ look as if made by fairy fingers, so fresh,
so light, do they appear; and his caps seem as if the gentlest sigh of
a summer's zephyr would bear them from sight, so aerial is their
texture, and so delicate are the flowers that adorn them, fresh from
the _ateliers_ of Natier, or Baton.
Beware, O ye uxorious husbands! how ye bring your youthful brides to
the dangerous atmosphere of Paris, while yet in that paradise of fools
ycleped the honey-moon, ere you have learned to curve your brows into a
frown, or to lengthen your visages at the sight of a long bill.
In that joyful season, when having pleased your eyes and secured your
hearts, your fair brides, with that amiability which is one of the
peculiar characteristics of their sex, are anxious to please all the
world, and from no other motive than that _your_ choice should be
admired, beware of entering Paris, except _en passant_. Wait until you
have recovered that firmness of character which generally comes back to
a Benedict after the first year of his nuptials, before you let your
wives wander through the tempting mazes of the _magasins de modes_ of
this intoxicating city.
And you, fair dames, "with stinted sums assigned," in the shape of
pin-money, beware how you indulge that taste for pretty bonnets, hats,
caps, and turbans, with which all bountiful Nature has so liberally
gifted you; for, alas! "beneath the roses fierce Repentance rears her
snaky crest" in form of a bill, the payment of which will "leave you
poor indeed" for many a long day after, unless your liege lord, melted
by the long-drawn sighs heaved when you remark on the wonderfully high
prices of things at Paris, opens his purse-strings, and, with something
between a pshaw and a grunt, makes you an advance of your next
quarter's pin-money; or, better still, a present of one of the hundred
pounds with which he had intended to try his good luck at the club.
Went yesterday to the Rue d'Anjou, to visit Madame Craufurd. Her hôtel
is a charming one, _entre cour et jardin_; and she is the most
extraordinary person of her age I have ever seen. In her eightieth
year, she does not look to be more than fifty-five; and possesses all
the vivacity and good humour peculiar only to youth.
Scrupulously exact in her person, and dressed with the utmost care, as
well as good taste, she gives me a notion of the appearance which the
celebrated Ninon de l'Enclos must have presented at the same age, and
has much of the charm of manner said to have belonged to that
remarkable woman.
It was an interesting sight to see her surrounded by her grand-children
and great-grand-children, all remarkable for their good looks, and
affectionately attached to her, while she appears not a little proud of
them. The children of the Duc de Guiche have lost nothing of their
beauty since their _séjour_ at Pisa, and are as ingenuous and amusing
as formerly.
I never saw such handsome children before, nor so well brought up. No
trouble or expense is spared in their education; and the Duc and
Duchesse devote a great portion of their time to them.
All our friends are occupied in looking out for a house for us; and I
have this day been over, at least, ten--only one of which seems likely
to suit.
I highly approve the mode at Paris of letting unfurnished houses, or
apartments, with mirrors and decorations, as well as all fixtures (with
us, in England, always charged separately) free of any extra expense.
The good taste evinced in the ornaments is in general remarkable, and
far superior to what is to be met with in England; where, if one
engages a new house lately papered or painted, one is compelled to
recolour the rooms before they can be occupied, owing to the gaudy and
ill-assorted patterns originally selected.
The house of the Maréchal Lobau, forming the corner of the Rue de
Bourbon, is the one I prefer of all those I have yet seen, although it
has many _désagrémens_ for so large an establishment as ours. But I am
called to go to the review in the Champ-de-Mars, so _allons_ for a
_spectacle militaire_, which, I am told, is to be very fine.
The review was well worth seeing; and the troops performed their
evolutions with great precision. The crowd of spectators was immense;
so much so, that those only who formed part of the royal _cortège_
could reach the Champ-de-Mars in time to see its commencement. No
carriages, save those of the court, were allowed to enter the file.
The dust was insupportable; and the pretty dresses of the ladies
suffered from it nearly as much as did the smart uniforms of the
officers.
The _coup d'oeil_ from the pavilion (where we had, thanks to our
_chaperon_, the Duchesse de Guiche, front seats) was very fine. The
various and splendid uniforms, floating standards, waving plumes,
glittering arms, and prancing steeds, gave to the vast plain over which
the troops were moving a most animated aspect, while the sounds of
martial music exhilarated the spirits.
Nor was the view presented by the interior of the pavilion without its
charms. A number of ladies, some of them young and handsome, and all
remarkably well-dressed, gave to the benches ranged along it the
appearance of a rich _parterre_, among the flowers of which the
beautiful Duchesse de Guiche shone pre-eminent.
I was seated next to a lady, with large lustrous eyes and a pale olive
complexion, whose countenance, from its extreme mobility, attracted my
attention; at one moment, lighting up with intelligence, and the next,
softening into pensiveness.
A remarkably handsome young man stood behind her, holding her shawl,
and lavishing on her those attentions peculiar to young Benedicts. The
lady proved to be the Marchioness de Loulé, sister to the King of
Portugal; and the gentleman turned out to be her husband, for whose
_beaux yeux_ she contracted what is considered a _mésalliance_.
The simplicity of her dress, and unaffectedness of her manner, invested
her with new attractions in my eyes; which increased when I reflected
on the elevated position she had resigned, to follow the more humble
fortunes of her handsome husband.
How strange, yet how agreeable too, must the change be, from the most
formal court, over which Etiquette holds a despotic sway, to the
freedom from such disagreeable constraint permitted to those in private
life, and now enjoyed by this Spanish princess!
She appears to enjoy this newly acquired liberty with a zest in
proportion to her past enthralment, and has proved that the daughter of
a King of Portugal has a heart, though the queens of its neighbour,
Spain, were in former days not supposed to have legs.
During the evolutions, a general officer was thrown from his horse; and
a universal agitation among a group of ladies evinced that they were in
a panic. Soon the name of the general, Count de Bourmont, was heard
pronounced; and a faint shriek, followed by a half swoon from one of
the fair dames, announced her deep interest in the accident.
Flacons and vinaigrettes were presented to her on every side, all the
ladies present seeming to have come prepared for some similar
catastrophe; but in a few minutes a messenger, despatched by the
general, assured Madame la Comtesse of his perfect safety; and tears of
joy testified her satisfaction at the news.
This little episode in the review shewed me the French ladies in a very
amiable point of view. Their sensibility and agitation during the
uncertainty as to the person thrown, vouched for the liveliness of
their conjugal affection; and their sympathy for Madame la Comtesse de
Bourmont when it was ascertained that her husband was the sufferer,
bore evidence to the kindness of their hearts, as well as to their
facility in performing the little services so acceptable in moments
like those I had just witnessed.
Charles X, the Dauphin and Dauphine, and the Duchesse de Berri, were
present--the two latter in landaus, attended by their ladies. The king
looked well, his grey hair and tall thin figure giving him a very
venerable aspect.
The Dauphine is much changed since I last saw her, and the care and
sorrow of her childhood have left their traces on her countenance. I
never saw so melancholy a face, and the strength of intellect which
characterises it renders it still more so, by indicating that the marks
of sorrow so visible were not indented on that brow without many an
effort from the strong mind to resist the attacks of grief.
I remember reading years ago of the melancholy physiognomy of King
Charles I, which when seen in his portrait by a Florentine sculptor, to
whom it was sent in order that a bust should be made from it, drew
forth the observation that the countenance indicated that its owner
would come to a violent death.
I was reminded of this anecdote by the face of the Duchesse
d'Angoulême; for though I do not pretend to a prescience as to her
future fate, I cannot help arguing from it that, even should a peaceful
reign await her, the fearful trials of her youth have destroyed in her
the power of enjoyment; and that on a throne she can never forget the
father and mother she saw hurried from it, to meet every insult that
malice could invent, or cruelty could devise, before a violent death
freed them from their sufferings.
Who can look on this heroic woman without astonishment at the power of
endurance that has enabled her to live on under such trials? Martyr is
written in legible characters on that brow, and on those lips; and her
attempt to smile made me more sad than the tears of a mourner would
have done, because it revealed "a grief too deep for tears."
Must she not tremble for the future, if not for the present, among a
people so versatile as those among whom she is now thrown? And can she
look from the windows of the palace she has been recalled to inhabit,
without seeing the spot where the fearful guillotine was reared that
made her an orphan?
The very plaudits that now rend the skies for her uncle must remind her
of the shouts that followed her father to the scaffold: no wonder,
then, that she grows pale as she hears them; and that the memory of the
terrible past, written in characters of blood, gives a sombre hue to
the present and to the future.
The sight of her, too, must awaken disagreeable recollections in those
over whom her husband may be soon called to reign, for the history of
the crimes of the Revolution is stamped on her face, whose pallid lint
and rigid muscles tell of the horror and affliction imprinted on her
youth; the reminiscence of which cannot be pleasant to them.
The French not only love their country passionately, but are
inordinately proud of it; hence, aught that reminds them of its
sins--and cruelty is one of a deep dye--must be humiliating to them; so
that the presence of the Duchesse d'Angoulême cannot be flattering to
their _amor patriæ_ or _amour propre_. I thought of all this to-day, as
I looked on the face of Madame la Dauphine; and breathed a hope that
the peace of her life's evening may console her for the misfortunes of
its morning and its noon.
The Duchesse de Berri has an animated and peculiarly good-natured
expression of countenance. Her restored gaiety makes the French forget
why it was long and cruelly overclouded, and aids the many good
qualities which she possesses, in securing the popularity she has so
generally acquired in the country of her adoption.
House-hunting again, and still unsuited. Dined yesterday at the
Duchesse de Guiche's; a very pleasant party, increased by some
agreeable people in the evening. Our old acquaintance, William Lock,
was among the guests at dinner, and is as good-looking and
light-hearted as ever.
The Marquis l'Espérance de l'Aigle was also present, and is a perfect
specimen of the fine gentleman of _la Vieille Cour_--a race now nearly
extinct. Possessing all the gaiety and vivacity of youth, with that
attention to the feelings of others peculiar only to maturity and
high-breeding, the Count l'Espérance de l'Aigle is universally beloved.
He can talk over old times with the grand-mother with all the wit that
we read of, oftener than we meet with; give his opinion of _la dernière
mode_ to the youthful mother, with rare tact and good taste; dance with
the young daughter as actively and gracefully as any _garçon de
dix-huit ans_ in Paris; and gallop through the Bois de Boulogne with
the young men who pride themselves on their riding, without being ever
left behind. I had frequently heard his praises from the Duchesse de
Guiche, and found that her description of him was very accurate.
The house of the Duc de Guiche is a picture of English comfort and
French elegance united; and that portion of it appropriated to its fair
mistress is fitted up with exquisite taste. Her _salons_ and _boudoir_
are objects of _vertù, bijouterie_, and vases of old Sèvre, enough to
excite envy in those who can duly appreciate such treasures, and tempt
to the violation of the tenth commandment. Order reigns in the whole
arrangement of the establishment, which, possessing all the luxurious
appliances of a _maison montée_, has all the scrupulous cleanliness of
that of a Quaker.
Went to the Opera last night, where I saw the _début_ of the new
_danseuse_ Taglioni. Hers is a totally new style of dancing; graceful
beyond all comparison, wonderful lightness, an absence of all violent
effort, or at least of the appearance of it, and a modesty as new as it
is delightful to witness in her art. She seems to float and bound like
a sylph across the stage, never executing those _tours de force_ that
we know to be difficult and wish were impossible, being always
performed at the expense of decorum and grace, and requiring only
activity for their achievement.
She excited the most rapturous applause, and received it with a "decent
dignity," very unlike the leering smiles with which, in general, a
_danseuse_ thinks it necessary to advance to the front of the
proscenium, shewing all her teeth, as she lowly courtesies to the
audience.
There is a sentiment in the dancing of this charming votary of
Terpsichore that elevates it far beyond the licentious style generally
adopted by the ladies of her profession, and which bids fair to
accomplish a reformation in it.
The Duc de Cazes, who came in to the Duchesse de Guiche's box, was
enthusiastic in his praises of Mademoiselle Taglioni, and said hers was
the most poetical style of dancing he had ever seen. Another observed,
that it was indeed the poetry of motion. I would describe it as being
the epic of dancing.
The Duc de Cazes is a very distinguished looking man, with a fine and
intelligent countenance, and very agreeable manners.
_À propos_ of manners, I am struck with the great difference between
those of Frenchmen and Englishmen, of the same station in life. The
latter treat women with a politeness that seems the result of habitual
amenity; the former with a homage that appears to be inspired by the
peculiar claims of the sex, particularised in the individual woman, and
is consequently more flattering.
An Englishman seldom lays himself out to act the agreeable to women; a
Frenchman never omits an opportunity of so doing: hence, the attentions
of the latter are less gratifying than those of the former, because a
woman, however free from vanity, may suppose that when an Englishman
takes the trouble--and it is evidently a trouble, more or less, to all
our islanders to enact the agreeable--she had really inspired him with
the desire to please.
In France, a woman may forget that she is neither young nor handsome;
for the absence of these claims to attention does not expose her to be
neglected by the male sex. In England, the elderly and the ugly "could
a tale unfold" of the _naïveté_ with which men evince their sense of
the importance of youth and beauty, and their oblivion of the presence
of those who have neither.
France is the paradise for old women, particularly if they are
_spirituelle_; but England is the purgatory.
The Comtesses de Bellegarde called on me to-day, and two more
warm-hearted or enthusiastic persons I never saw. Though no longer
young, they possess all the gaiety of youth, without any of its
thoughtlessness, and have an earnestness in their kindness that is very
pleasant.
Dined yesterday at Madame Craufurd's--a very pleasant party. Met there
the Duc de Gramont, Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, Colonel and lady
Barbara Craufurd, and Count Valeski.
The Duc de Gramont is a fine old man who has seen much of the world,
without having been soured by its trials. Faithful to his sovereign
during adversity, he is affectionately cherished by the whole of the
present royal family, who respect and love him; and his old age is
cheered by the unceasing devotion of his children, the Duc and Duchesse
de Guiche, who are fondly attached to him.
He gives up much of his time to the culture of flowers, and is more
interested in the success of his dahlias than in those scenes of
courtly circles in which he is called to fill so distinguished a part.
It pleased me to hear him telling his beautiful daughter-in-law of the
perfection of a flower she had procured him with some trouble; and then
adding: "_À propos_ of flowers, how is our sweet Ida, to-day? There is
no flower in my garden like her!--Ay, she will soon be two years old."
There is something soothing to the mind in the contemplation of a man
in the evening of life, whose youth was spent in all the splendour of a
court, and whose manhood has been tried by adversity, turning to Nature
for her innocent pleasures, when the discovery of the futility of all
others has been made. This choice vouches for the purity of heart and
goodness of him who has adopted it, and disposes me to give ample
credit to all the commendation the Duchesse de Guiche used to utter of
him in Italy.
Lady Barbara Craufurd is an excellent specimen of an English woman.
Pretty, without vanity or affectation; gentle, without insipidity; and
simple, yet highly polished, in mariners. She has, too, a low, "sweet
voice, an excellent thing in woman," and, to me, whose ears offer even
a more direct road to the heart than do the eyes, is a peculiar
attraction.
Colonel Craufurd seems to be the quintessence of good nature and of
good sense. Count Valeski is an intelligent young man, greatly _à la
mode_ at Paris, and wholly unspoilt by this distinction. Handsome,
well-bred, and agreeable, he is very popular, not only among the fine
ladies but fine gentlemen here, and appears worthy of the favour he
enjoys.
Several people of both sexes came in the evening to Madame Craufurd's,
and we had some excellent music. Madame C. does the honours of her
_salon_ with peculiar grace. She has a bright smile and a kind word for
every guest, without the slightest appearance of effort.
Still house-hunting; continually tempted by elegantly decorated
_salons_, and as continually checked by the want of room and comfort of
the rest of the apartments.
We have been compelled to abandon the project of taking the Maréchal
Lobau's house, or at least that portion of it which he wishes to
dispose of, for we found it impossible to lodge so large an
establishment as ours in it; and, though we communicated this fact with
all possible courtesy to the Maréchal, we have received a note in
answer, written in a different style, as he is pleased to think that,
having twice inspected his apartments, we ought to have taken them.
In England, a person of the Maréchal's rank who had a house to let
would not show it _in propriâ personâ_, but would delegate that task,
as also the terms and negotiations, to some agent; thus avoiding all
personal interference, and, consequently, any chance of offence: but if
people _will_ feel angry without any just cause, it cannot be helped;
and so Monsieur le Maréchal must recover his serenity and acquire a
temper more in analogy with his name; for, though a brave and
distinguished officer, as well as a good man, which he is said to be,
he certainly is _not Bon comme un mouton_, which is his cognomen.
Paris is now before us,--where to choose is the difficulty. We saw
to-day a house in the Rue St.-Honoré, _entre cour et jardin_, a few
doors from the English embassy. The said garden is the most tempting
part of the affair; for, though the _salons_ and sleeping-rooms are
good, the only entrance, except by a _passage dérobé_ for servants, is
through the _salle à manger_, which is a great objection.
Many of the houses I have seen here have this defect, which the
Parisians do not seem to consider one, although the odour of dinner
must enter the _salons_, and that in the evening visitors must find
servants occupied in removing the dinner apparatus, should they, as
generally happens, come for the _prima sera_.
French people, however, remain so short a time at table, and dine so
much earlier than the English people do, that the employment of their
_salle à manger_ as a passage does not annoy them.
Went to the opera last night, and saw the _Muette de Portici_. It is
admirably got up, and the costumes and scenery, as well as the
_tarantulas_, transported me back to Naples--dear, joyous
Naples--again. Nourrit enacted "Massaniello," and his rich and flexible
voice gave passion and feeling to the music. Noblet was the "Fenella,"
and her pantomime and dancing were good; but Taglioni spoils one for
any other dancing.
The six years that have flown over Noblet since I last saw her have
left little trace of their flight, which is to be marvelled at, when
one considers the violent and constant exercise that the profession of
a _danseuse_ demands.
When I saw the sylph-like Taglioni floating through the dance, I could
not refrain from sighing at the thought that grace and elegance like
hers should be doomed to know the withering effect of Time; and that
those agile limbs should one day become as stiff and helpless as those
of others. An _old danseuse_ is an anomaly. She is like an old rose,
rendered more displeasing by the recollection of former attractions.
Then to see the figure bounding in air, habit and effort effecting
something like that which the agility peculiar to youth formerly
enabled her to execute almost _con amore_; while the haggard face, and
distorted smile revealing yellow teeth, tell a sad tale of departed
youth. Yes, an old _danseuse_ is a melancholy object; more so, because
less cared for, than the broken-down racer, or worn-out hunter.
Went to Tivoli last night, and was amused by the scene of gaiety it
presented. How unlike, and how superior to, our Vauxhall! People of all
stations, of all ages, and of both sexes, threading the mazy dance with
a sprightliness that evinced the pleasure it gave them.
We paused to look at group after group, all equally enjoying
themselves; and the Duchesse de Guiche, from her perfect knowledge of
Paris, was enabled, by a glance, to name the station in life occupied
by each: a somewhat difficult task for a stranger, as the remarkably
good taste of every class of women in Paris in dress, precludes those
striking contrasts between the appearance of a _modiste_ and a
_marquise_, the wife of a _boutiquier_ and a _duchesse_, to be met with
in all other countries.
But it is not in dress alone that a similarity exists in the exteriors
of Parisian women. The air _comme il faut_, the perfect freedom from
all _gaucherie_, the ease of demeanour, the mode of walking, and, above
all, the decent dignity equally removed from _mauvaise honte_ and
effrontery, appertain nearly alike to all. The class denominated
_grisettes_ alone offered an exception, as their demonstrations of
gaiety, though free from boisterousness, betrayed stronger symptoms of
hilarity than were evinced by women belonging to a more elevated class
in society.
The dancing, too, surprised as well as pleased me; and in this
accomplishment the French still maintain their long-acknowledged
superiority, for among the many groups I did not see a single bad
dancer.
Around one quadrille party a more numerous audience was collected than
around the others, and the _entrechats_ of one of the gentlemen were
much applauded. Nods and smiles passing between the dancers and the
Duchesse de Guiche, revealed to me that they were among the circle of
her acquaintance; and, approaching nearer, I recognised in the
gentleman whose _entrechats_ were so much admired, my new acquaintance
the Marquis l'Espérance de l'Aigle, of whose excellence in the mazy
dance I now had an opportunity of seeing that Fame had not said too
much.
The ladies who formed the quadrille were la Marquise de Marmier, the
Vicomtesse de Noailles, and Madame Standish; all excellent dancers, and
attired in that most becoming of all styles of dress, the
_demi-toilette_, which is peculiar to France, and admits of the
after-dinner promenades or unceremonious visits in which French ladies
indulge. A simple robe of _organdie_, with long sleeves, a _canezou_ of
net, a light scarf, and a pretty _chapeau_ of _paille de riz_, form
this becoming toilette, which is considered a suitable one for all
theatres, except the Opera, where ladies go in a richer dress.
On our return from Tivoli, we had a small party to drink tea, and
remained chatting till one o'clock--a late hour for Paris. Among the
guests was our old friend Mr. T. Steuart, the nephew of Sir William
Drummond, who continues to be as clever and original as ever. His
lively remarks and brilliant sallies were very amusing.
Having complained of the want of a comfortable chair last evening, I
found a _chef d'oeuvre_ of Rainguet's in my _salon_ this morning, sent
me by my thoughtful and ever-kind friend the Duc de Guiche. A
connoisseur in chairs and sofas, being unhappily addicted to "taking
mine ease" not only in "mine inn," but wherever I meet these requisites
to it, I am compelled to acknowledge the superiority of Rainguet over
any that I have previously seen; and my only fear is, that this
luxurious chair will seduce me into the still greater indulgence of my
besetting or _besitting_ sin, sedentary habits.
At length, we have found a house to suit us, and a delightful one it
is; once the property of the Maréchal Ney, but now belonging to the
Marquis de Lillers. It is situated in the Rue de Bourbon, but the
windows of the principal apartments look on the Seine, and command a
delightful view of the Tuilerie Gardens. It is approached by an avenue
bounded by fine trees, and is enclosed on the Rue de Bourbon side by
high walls, a large _porte-cochère_, and a porter's lodge; which give
it all the quiet and security of a country house.
This hôtel may be viewed as a type of the splendour that marked the
dwellings of the imperial _noblesse_, and some notion of it may be
conceived from the fact that the decorations of its walls alone cost a
million of francs. These decorations are still--thanks to the purity of
the air of Paris--as fresh as if only a year painted, and are of great
beauty; so much so, that it will be not only very expensive but very
difficult to assort the furniture to them; and, unfortunately, there is
not a single _meuble_ in the house.
The rent is high, but there are so many competitors for the hôtel,
which has only been three days in the market, that we consider
ourselves fortunate in having secured it.
A small garden, or rather terrace, with some large trees and plenty of
flowers, separates the house from the Quai d'Orsay, and runs back at
its left angle. The avenue terminates in a court, from which, on the
right, a gate opens into the stable offices; and a vestibule, fitted up
as a conservatory, forms an entrance to the house. A flight of marble
steps on each side of the conservatory, leads to a large ante-room,
from which a window of one immense plate of glass, extending from the
ceiling to the floor, divides the centre, permitting the pyramids of
flowers to be seen through it. A glass door on each side opens from the
vestibule to the steps of the conservatory.
The vestibule, lofty and spacious, is lighted also by two other
windows, beyond the conservatory, and is ornamented with pilasters with
Corinthian capitals.
On the right hand is the _salle à manger_, a fine room, lighted by
three windows looking into the court-yard, and architecturally arranged
with pilasters, a rich cornice and ceiling: the hall is stuccoed,
painted in imitation of marble, and has so fine a polish as really to
deceive the eye. In the centre of this apartment is a large door
between the pilasters, opening into a drawing-room, and at the opposite
end from the door that opens from the vestibule is that which leads to
the kitchen offices, and by which dinner is served.
_Vis-à-vis_ to the _salle à manger_, and divided from it by the large
vestibule, is a dressing and bed-chamber with an alcove, both rooms
being ornamented with columns and pilasters, between which are mirrors
of large dimensions inserted in recesses. A corridor and _escalier
dérobé_ at the back of these two apartments admit the attendance of
servants, without their passing through the vestibule.
In the centre of this last, and opposite to the large plate of glass
that divides it from the conservatory, large folding doors open into
the principal drawing-room, which is lighted by three large and lofty
windows, the centre one exactly facing the folding doors, and, like
them, supported by pilasters.
This room is of large dimensions, and finely proportioned; the sides
and ends are divided by fluted pilasters with Corinthian capitals
richly gilt. At one extremity is a beautifully sculptured chimney-piece
of Parian marble, over which is a vast mirror, bounded by pilasters,
that separate it from a large panel on each side, in the centre of
which are exquisitely designed allegorical groups.
At the opposite end, a mirror, of similar dimensions to that over the
chimney-piece, and resting like it on a white marble slab, occupies the
centre, on each side of which are panels with painted groups. Doors at
each end, and exactly facing, lead into other _salons_; opposite to the
two end windows are large mirrors, resting on marble slabs, bounded by
narrow panels with painted figures, and between the windows are also
mirrors to correspond. The pictorial adornments in this _salon_ are
executed by the first artists of the day, and with a total disregard of
expense, so that it is not to be wondered at that they are beautiful.
Military trophies are mingled with the decorations, the whole on a
white ground, and richly ornamented with gilding. The Seine, with its
boats, and the gay scene of the Tuilerie Gardens, are reflected in the
mirrors opposite to the windows, while the groups on the panels are
seen in the others.
Nothing can exceed the beauty of this room, in which such fine
proportion, architectural decoration, and exquisite finish reign, that
the eye dwells on it with delight, and can trace no defect.
The door on the right-hand end, on entering, opens to a less richly
ornamented _salon_, inside which are two admirable bed-chambers and
dressing-rooms, communicating by an _escalier dérobé_ with a suite of
servants' apartments.
The door on the left-hand end of the large _salon_ opens into a
beautiful room, known as the _Salle de la Victoire_, from its being
decorated by paintings allegorical of Victory. This apartment is
lighted by two large windows, and opposite to them is a deep recess, or
alcove.
A cornice extends around the room, about four feet beneath the ceiling,
and is supported by white columns, projecting into the chamber, on each
of which stands a figure of Victory offering a wreath of laurels. This
cornice divides the room from the recess before mentioned.
The chimney-piece is in a recess, with columns on each side; and the
large mirror over it, and which is finished by the cornice, is faced by
a similar one, also in a recess, with white columns, standing on a
plinth on each side. The windows are finished by the former cornice,
that extends round the rooms, and have similar columns on each side
with Victories on them, and a mirror between. The room is white and
gold, with delicate arabesques, and medallions exquisitely painted.
This _salon_ communicates with a corridor behind it, which admits the
attendance of servants without the necessity of their passing through
the other apartments. Inside this _salon_ is a _chambre à coucher_,
that looks as if intended for some youthful queen, so beautiful are its
decorations. A recess, the frieze of which rests on two white columns
with silvered capitals, is meant to receive a bed.
One side of the room is panelled with mirrors, divided by pilasters
with silver capitals; and on the opposite side, on which is the
chimney, similar panels occupy the same space. The colour of the
apartment is a light blue, with silver mouldings to all the panels, and
delicate arabesques of silver. The chimney-piece and dogs for the wood
have silvered ornaments to correspond.
Inside this chamber is the dressing-room, which is of an octagon shape,
and panelled likewise with mirrors, in front of each of which are white
marble slabs to correspond with that of the chimney-piece. The
mouldings and architectural decorations are silvered, and arabesques of
flowers are introduced.
This room opens into a _salle de bain_ of an elliptical form; the bath,
of white marble, is sunk in the pavement, which is tessellated. From
the ceiling immediately over the bath hangs an alabaster lamp, held by
the beak of a dove; the rest of the ceiling being painted with Cupids
throwing flowers. The room is panelled with alternate mirrors and
groups of allegorical subjects finely executed; and is lighted by one
window, composed of a single plate of glass opening into a little spot
of garden secluded from the rest. A small library completes the suite I
have described, all the apartments of which are on the ground floor.
There are several other rooms in a wing in the court-yard, and the
whole are in perfect order.
I remembered to-day, when standing in the principal drawing-room, the
tragic scene narrated to me by Sir Robert Wilson as having taken place
there, when he had an interview with the Princesse de la Moskowa, after
the condemnation of her brave husband.
He told me, years ago, how the splendour of the decorations of the
_salon_--decorations meant to commemorate the military glory of the
Maréchal Ney--added to the tragic effect of the scene in which that
noble-minded woman, overwhelmed with horror and grief, turned away with
a shudder from objects that so forcibly reminded her of the brilliant
past, and so fearfully contrasted with the terrible present.
He described to me the silence, broken only by the sobs that heaved her
agonised bosom; the figures of the few trusted friends permitted to
enter the presence of the distracted wife, moving about with noiseless
steps, as if fearful of disturbing the sacredness of that grief to
offer consolation for which they felt their tongues could form no
words, so deeply did their hearts sympathise with it.
He told me that the images of these friends in the vast mirrors looked
ghostly in the dim twilight of closed blinds, the very light of day
having become insupportable to the broken-hearted wife, so soon to be
severed for ever, and by a violent death, from the husband she adored.
Ah, if these walls could speak, what agony would they reveal! and if
mirrors could retain the shadows replete with despair they once
reflected, who dare look on them?
I thought of all this to-day, until the tears came into my eyes, and I
almost determined not to hire the house, so powerfully did the
recollection of the past affect me: but I remembered that such is the
fate of mankind; that there are no houses in which scenes of misery
have not taken place, and in which breaking hearts have not been ready
to prompt the exclamation "There is no sorrow like mine."
How is the agony of such moments increased by the recollection that in
the same chamber where such bitter grief now reigns, joy and pleasure
once dwelt, and that those who shared it can bless us no more! How like
a cruel mockery, then, appear the splendour and beauty of all that
meets the eye, unchanged as when it was in unison with our feelings,
but which now jars so fearfully with them!
I wonder not that the bereaved wife fled from this house, where every
object reminded her of a husband so fondly loved, so fearfully lost, to
mourn in some more humble abode over the fate of _him_ who could no
more resist the magical influence of the presence of that glorious
chief, who had so often led him to victory, than the war-horse can
resist being animated by the sound of that trumpet which has often
excited the proud animal into ardour.
Peace be to thy manes, gallant Ney; and if thy spirit be permitted to
look down on this earth, it will be soothed by the knowledge that the
wife of thy bosom has remained faithful to thy memory; and that thy
sons, worthy of their sire--brave, noble, and generous-hearted--are
devoted to their country, for which thou hadst so often fought and
bled!
CHAPTER VI.
To my surprise and pleasure, I find that a usage exists at Paris which
I have nowhere else met with, namely, that of letting out rich and fine
furniture by the quarter, half, or whole year, in any quantity required
for even the largest establishment, and on the shortest notice.
I feared that we should be compelled to buy furniture, or else to put
up with an inferior sort, little imagining that the most costly can be
procured on hire, and even a large mansion made ready for the reception
of a family in forty-eight hours. This is really like Aladdin's lamp,
and is a usage that merits being adopted in all capitals.
We have made an arrangement, that if we decide on remaining in Paris
more than a year, and wish to purchase the furniture, the sum agreed to
be paid for the year's hire is to be allowed in the purchase-money,
which is to be named when the inventory is made out.
We saw the house for the first time yesterday; engaged it to-day for a
year; to-morrow, the upholsterer will commence placing the furniture in
it; and to-morrow night we are to sleep in it. This is surely being
very expeditious, and saves a world of trouble as well as of wailing.
Spent last evening at Madame Craufurd's. Met there the Prince and
Princesse Castelcicala, with their daughter, who is a very handsome
woman. The Prince was a long time Ambassador from Naples at the Court
of St. James, and he now fills the same station at that of France.
The Princesse is sister to our friend Prince Ischetella at Naples, and,
like all her country-women, appears sensible and unaffected. She and
Mademoiselle Dorotea speak English perfectly well, and profess a great
liking to England and its inhabitants. The Dowager Lady Hawarden, the
Marquise de Brehan, the Baroness d'Etlingen, Madame d'Ocaris, Lady
Barbara Craufurd, and Lady Combermere, composed the rest of the female
portion of the party.
Lady Hawarden has been very pretty: what a melancholy phrase is this
same _has been_! The Marquise de Brehan is still a very fine woman;
Lady Combermere is very agreeable, and sings with great expression; and
the rest of the ladies, always excepting Lady Barbara Craufurd, who is
very pretty, were very much like most other ladies of a certain time of
life--addicted to silks and blondes, and well aware of their relative
prices.
Madame Craufurd is very amusing. With all the _naïveté_ of a child, she
possesses a quick perception of character and a freshness of feeling
rarely found in a person of her advanced age, and her observations are
full of originality.
The tone of society at Paris is very agreeable. Literature, the fine
arts, and the general occurrences of the day, furnish the topics for
conversation, from which ill-natured remarks are exploded. A
ceremoniousness of manner, reminding one of _la Vieille Cour_, and
probably rendered _à la mode_ by the restoration of the Bourbons,
prevails; as well as a strict observance of deferential respect from
the men towards the women, while these last seem to assume that
superiority accorded to them in manner, if not entertained in fact, by
the sterner sex.
The attention paid by young men to old women in Parisian society is
very edifying, and any breach of it would be esteemed nothing short of
a crime. This attention is net evinced by any flattery, except the most
delicate--a profound silence when these belles of other days recount
anecdotes of their own times, or comment on the occurrences of ours, or
by an alacrity to perform the little services of picking up a fallen
_mouchoir de poche, bouquet_, or fan, placing a shawl, or handing to a
carriage.
If flirtations exist at Paris, they certainly are not exhibited in
public; and those between whom they are supposed to be established
observe a ceremonious decorum towards each other, well calculated to
throw discredit on the supposition. This appearance of reserve may be
termed hypocrisy; nevertheless, even the semblance of propriety is
advantageous to the interests of society; and the entire freedom from
those marked attentions, engrossing conversations, and from that
familiarity of manner often permitted in England, without even a
thought of evil on the part of the women who permit these
indiscretions, leaves to Parisian circles an air of greater dignity and
decorum, although I am not disposed to admit that the persons who
compose them really possess more dignity or decorum than my
compatriots.
Count Charles de Mornay was presented to me to-day. Having heard of him
only as--
"The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers,"
I was agreeably surprised to find him one of the most witty,
well-informed, and agreeable young men I have ever seen. Gay without
levity, well-read without pedantry, and good-looking without vanity. Of
how few young men of fashion could this be said! But I am persuaded
that Count Charles de Mornay is made to be something better than a mere
man of fashion.
Spent all the morning in the Hôtel Ney, superintending the placing of
the furniture. There is nothing so like the magicians we read of as
Parisian upholsterers; for no sooner have they entered a house, than,
as if touched by the hand of the enchanter, it assumes a totally
different aspect. I could hardly believe my eyes when I entered our new
dwelling, to-day.
Already were the carpets--and such carpets, too--laid down on the
_salons_; the curtains were hung; _consoles_, sofas, tables, and chairs
placed, and lustres suspended. In short, the rooms looked perfectly
habitable.
The principal drawing-room has a carpet of dark crimson with a
gold-coloured border, on which is a wreath of flowers that looks as if
newly culled from the garden, so rich, varied, and bright are their
hues. The curtains are of crimson satin, with embossed borders of
gold-colour; and the sofas, _bergères, fauteuils_, and chairs, richly
carved and gilt, are covered with satin to correspond with the
curtains.
Gilt _consoles_, and _chiffonnières_, with white marble tops, are
placed wherever they could be disposed; and, on the chimney pieces, are
fine _pendules_.
The next drawing-room, which I have appropriated as my sitting-room, is
furnished with blue satin, with rich white flowers. It has a carpet of
a chocolate-coloured ground with a blue border, round which is a wreath
of bright flowers, and carved and gilt sofas, _bergères_, and
_fauteuils_, covered with blue satin like the curtains.
The recess we have lined with fluted blue silk, with a large mirror
placed in the centre of it, and five beautiful buhl cabinets around, on
which I intend to dispose all my treasures of old _Sèvre_ china, and
ruby glass.
I was told by the upholsterer, that he had pledged himself to _milord_
that _miladi_ was not to see her _chambre à coucher_, or dressing-room,
until they were furnished. This I well knew was some scheme laid by
Lord B. to surprise me, for he delights in such plans.
He will not tell me what is doing in the rooms, and refuses all my
entreaties to enter them, but shakes his head, and says he _thinks_ I
will be pleased when I see them; and so I think, too, for the only
complaint I ever have to make of his taste is its too great
splendour--a proof of which he gave me when I went to Mountjoy Forest
on my marriage, and found my private sitting-room hung with crimson
Genoa silk velvet, trimmed with gold bullion fringe, and all the
furniture of equal richness--a richness that was only suited to a state
room in a palace.
We feel like children with a new plaything, in our beautiful house; but
how, after it, shall we ever be able to reconcile ourselves to the
comparatively dingy rooms in St. James's Square, which no furniture or
decoration could render any thing like the Hôtel Ney?
The Duc and Duchesse de Guiche leave Paris, to my great regret, in a
few days, and will be absent six weeks. He is to command the encampment
at Luneville, and she is to do the honours--giving dinners, balls,
concerts, and soirées, to the ladies who accompany their lords to "the
tented field," and to the numerous visitors who resort to see it. They
have invited us to go to them, but we cannot accept their kindness.
They are
"On hospitable thoughts intent,"
and will, I doubt not, conciliate the esteem of all with whom they come
in contact.
He is so well bred, that the men pardon his superiority both of person
and manner; and she is so warm-hearted and amiable, that the women,
with a few exceptions, forgive her rare beauty. How we shall miss them,
and the dear children, too!
Drove in the Bois de Boulogne yesterday, with the Duchesse de Guiche:
met my old acquaintance, Lord Yarmouth, who is as amusing and original
as ever.
He has great natural talent and knowledge of the world, but uses both
to little purpose, save to laugh at its slaves. He might be any thing
he chose, but he is too indolent for exertion, and seems to think _le
jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle_. He is one of the many clever people
spoilt by being born to a great fortune and high rank, advantages which
exclude the necessity of exercising the talents he possesses.
It is, however, no trifling merit, that born to immense wealth and high
station, he should he wholly free from arrogance, or ostentation.
At length, the secret is out, the doors of my _chambre à coucher_ and
dressing-room are opened, and I am delighted with both. The whole
fitting up is in exquisite taste, and, as usual, when my most gallant
of all gallant husbands that it ever fell to the happy lot of woman to
possess, interferes, no expense has been spared.
The bed, which is silvered, instead of gilt, rests on the backs of two
large silver swans, so exquisitely sculptured that every feather is in
alto-relievo, and looks nearly as fleecy as those of the living bird.
The recess in which it is placed is lined with white fluted silk,
bordered with blue embossed lace; and from the columns that support the
frieze of the recess, pale blue silk curtains, lined with white, are
hung, which, when drawn, conceal the recess altogether.
The window curtain is of pale blue silk, with embroidered muslin
curtains, trimmed with lace inside them, and have borders of blue and
white lace to match those of the recess.
A silvered sofa has been made to fit the side of the room opposite the
fire-place, near to which stands a most inviting _bergère_. An
_ècritoire_ occupies one panel, a bookstand the other, and a rich
coffer for jewels forms a pendant to a similar one for lace, or India
shawls.
A carpel of uncut pile, of a pale blue, a silver lamp, and a Psyche
glass, the ornaments silvered to correspond with the decorations of the
chamber, complete the furniture. The hangings of the dressing-room are
of blue silk, covered with lace, and trimmed with rich frills of the
same material, as are also the dressing-stools and _chaise longue_, and
the carpet and lamp are similar to those of the bed-room.
A toilette table stands before the window, and small _jardinières_ are
placed in front of each panel of looking-glass, but so low as not to
impede a full view of the person dressing in this beautiful little
sanctuary.
The _salle de bain_ is draped with white muslin trimmed with lace, and
the sofa and _bergère_ are covered with the same. The bath is of white
marble, inserted in the floor, with which its surface is level. On the
ceiling over it, is a painting of Flora scattering flowers with one
hand while from the other is suspended an alabaster lamp, in the form
of a lotos.
A more tasteful or elegant suite of apartments cannot be imagined; and
all this perfection of furniture has been completed in three days! Lord
B. has all the merit of the taste, and the upholsterer that of the
rapidity and excellence of the execution.
The effect of the whole suite is chastely beautiful; and a queen could
desire nothing better for her own private apartments. Few queens, most
probably, ever had such tasteful ones.
Our kind friend, Charles Mills, has arrived from Rome,--amiable and
agreeable as ever. He dined with us yesterday, and we talked over the
pleasant days spent in the Vigna Palatina, his beautiful villa.
Breakfasted to-day in the Rue d'Anjou, a take-leave repast given to the
Duc and Duchesse de Guiche by Madame Craufurd. Lady Barbara and Colonel
Craufurd were of the party, which was the only _triste_ one I have seen
in that house. The Duc de Gramont was there, and joined in the regret
we all felt at seeing our dear friends drive away.
It was touching to behold Madame Craufurd, kissing again and again her
grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the tears streaming down her
cheeks, and the venerable Duc de Gramont, scarcely less moved,
embracing his son and daughter-in-law, and exhorting the latter to take
care of her health, while the dear little Ida, his granddaughter, not
yet two years old, patted his cheeks, and smiled in his face.
It is truly delightful to witness the warm affection that subsists
between relatives in France, and the dutiful and respectful attention
paid by children to their parents. In no instance have I seen this more
strongly exemplified than in the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, whose
unceasing tenderness towards the good Duc de Gramont not only makes his
happiness, but is gratifying to all who behold it, as is also their
conduct to Madame Craufurd.
I wish the encampment was over, and those dear friends back again.
CHAPTER VII.
Took possession of our new house to-day, and are delighted with it. Its
repose and quiet are very agreeable, after the noise and bustle of the
Rue de Rivoli. Spent several hours in superintending the arrangement of
my books, china, _bijouterie_, and flowers, and the rooms look as
habitable as if we had lived in them for weeks. How fortunate we are to
have found so charming an abode!
A chasm here occurs in my journal, occasioned by the arrival of some
dear relatives from England, with whom I was too much occupied to have
time to journalise. What changes five years effect in young people! The
dear girls I left children are now grown into women, but are as artless
and affectionate as in childhood. I could hardly believe my eyes when I
saw them, yet I soon traced the same dear countenances, and marvelled
that though changed from the round, dimpled ones of infancy, to the
more delicate oval of maidenly beauty, the expression of gaiety and
innocence of their faces is still the same.
A week has passed rapidly by, and now that they have returned to
England, their visit appears like a dream. I wish it had been longer,
for I have seen only enough of them to wish to see a great deal more.
The good Mrs. W. and her lively, clever, and her pretty daughter, Mrs.
R., dined with us yesterday. They are _en route_ for England, but give
many a sigh to dear Italy. It was pleasant to talk over the happy days
passed there, which we did with that tender regret with which the past
is always referred to by those who have sensibility, and they possess
no ordinary portion of this lovable quality. Les Dames Bellegarde also
dined with us, and they English friends took a mutual fancy to each
other. I like the Bellegardes exceedingly.
Our old friend, Lord Lilford, is at Paris, and is as amiable and
kind-hearted as ever. He dined with us yesterday, and we talked over
the pleasant days we spent at Florence. Well-educated, and addicted to
neither of the prevalent follies of the day, racing nor gaming, he only
requires a little ambition to prompt him to exertion, in order to
become a useful, as well as an agreeable member of the community, but
with a good fortune and rank, he requires an incentive to action.
Met last evening at Madame Craufurd's the Marquis and Marquise Zamperi
of Bologna. She is pretty and agreeable, and he is original and
amusing. They were very civil, and expressed regret at not having been
at Bologna when we were there.
Had a visit from Count Alexandre de Laborde to-day. His conversation is
lively and entertaining. Full of general information and good sense, he
is no niggard in imparting the results of both to those with whom he
comes in contact, and talks fluently, if not always faultlessly, in
Italian and English.
The Marquis de Mornay and his brother Count Charles de Mornay dined
here yesterday. How many associations of the olden time are recalled by
this ancient and noble name, Mornay du Plessis!
The Marquis is agreeable, sensible, well-informed, and well-bred.
Though justly proud of his high descent, the consciousness of it is
never rendered visible by any symptom of that arrogance too often met
with in those who have less cause for pride, and can only be traced by
a natural dignity and bearing, worthy a descendant of the noble Sully.
Count Charles de Mornay is a very remarkable young man. With a
brilliant wit, the sallies of which can "set the table in a roar;" it
is never used at the expense of others, and, when he chooses to be
grave, the quickness and justice of his perception, and the fine tact
and good sense which mark his reflections, betray a mind of no common
order, and give the promise of future distinction.
Nothing can be more agreeable than the mode in which I pass my time
here. I read from nine until twelve: order the household arrangements,
and inspect the _menu_ at twelve: write letters or journalise from one
until four; drive out till six or half-past; return home, dress, dine,
pay visits, or receive them at home, and get to bed at one o'clock.
How much preferable is the French system of evening visits, to the
English custom of morning ones, which cut up time so abominably! Few
who have lived much abroad could submit patiently to have their
mornings broken in upon, when evening, which is the most suitable time
for relaxation, can be enlivened by the visits that are irksome at
other hours.
Paris is now nearly as empty as London is in September; all the _élite_
of French fashionable society having taken their departure for their
country houses, or for the different baths they frequent. I, who like
not crowds, prefer Paris at this season to any other, and shall be
rather sorry than glad when it fills again.
Madame Craufurd, Lady Barbara and Colonel Craufurd, the Ducs de
Gramont, Dalberg, and Mouchy, dined with us yesterday. We had music in
the evening, The Duc Dalberg is agreeable and well-bred, and his manner
has that suavity, mingled with reserve, said to be peculiar to those
who have lived much at courts, and filled diplomatic situations.
The Duc was Minister Plenipotentiary from Baden at Paris, when Napoleon
was First Consul, and escaped not censure on the occasion of the
seizure of the unfortunate Duc d'Enghien; of the intention of which it
was thought he ought to have apprised his court, and so have prevented
an event which has entailed just blame on all concerned in it, as well
as on some who were innocent.
There is nothing in the character of the Duc Dalberg to warrant a
belief of his being capable of lending himself to aught that was
disloyal, for he is an excellent man in all the relations of life, and
is esteemed and respected by as large a circle of friends as most
persons who have filled high situations can boast of.
The Duc de Mouchy is a very amiable as well as high-bred man; he has
been in England, and speaks English with fluency.
Letters from the camp of Luneville, received from our dear friends
to-day, give a very animated description of their doings there. The Duc
de Mouchy told me yesterday that they were winning golden opinions from
all with whom they came in contact there, by their urbanity and
hospitality. He said that people were not prepared to find the
handsomest and most fashionable woman at Paris, "the observed of all
observers," and the brightest ornament of the French court, doing the
honours to the wives of the officers of the camp with an amiability
that has captivated them all. The good Duc de Gramont was delighted at
hearing this account, for never was there a more affectionate father.
Went with a party yesterday to Montmorency. Madame Craufurd, the
Comtesse de Gand, the Baronne d'Ellingen, Comte F. de Belmont, and our
own circle, formed the party. It was gratifying to witness how much
dear Madame Craufurd enjoyed the excursion; she even rode on a donkey
through the woods, and the youngest person of the party did not enter
into the amusement with more spirit and gaiety. Montmorency is a
charming place, but not so the road to it, which, being paved, is very
tiresome.
We visited the hermitage where Rousseau wrote so many of his works, but
in which this strange and unhappy man found not that peace so long
sought by him in vain, and to which his own wayward temper and
suspicious nature offered an insurmountable obstacle.
As I sat in this humble abode, and looked around on the objects once
familiar to his eyes, I could not resist the sentiment of pity that
filled my breast, at the recollection that even in this tranquil
asylum, provided by friendship [2], and removed from the turmoil of the
busy world, so repugnant to his taste, the jealousies, the
heart-burnings, and the suspicions, that empoisoned his existence
followed him, rendering his life not only a source of misery to
himself, but of pain to others; for no one ever conferred kindness on
him without becoming the object of his suspicion, if not of his
aversion.
The life of Rousseau is one of the most humiliating episodes in the
whole history of literary men, and the most calculated to bring genius
into disrepute: yet the misery he endured more than avenged the wrongs
he inflicted; and, while admiring the productions of a genius, of which
even his enemies could not deny him the possession, we are more than
ever compelled to avow how unavailing is this glorious gift to confer
happiness on its owner, or to secure him respect or esteem, if
unaccompanied by goodness.
Who can reflect on the life of this man without a sense of the danger
to which Genius exposes its children, and a pity for their sufferings,
though too often self-inflicted? Alas! the sensibility which is one of
the most invariable characteristics of Genius, and by which its most
glorious efforts are achieved, if excited into unhealthy action by
over-exercise, not unseldom renders its possessor unreasonable and
wretched, while his works are benefiting or delighting others, and
while the very persons who most highly appreciate them are often the
least disposed to pardon the errors of their author.
As the dancer, by the constant practice of her art, soon loses that
roundness of _contour_ which is one of the most beautiful peculiarities
of her sex, the muscles of the legs becoming unnaturally developed at
the expense of the rest of the figure, so does the man of genius, by
the undue exercise of this gift, acquire an irritability that soon
impairs the temper, and renders his excess of sensibility a torment to
himself and to others.
The solitude necessary to the exercise of Genius is another fruitful
source of evil to its children. Abstracted from the world, they are apt
to form a false estimate of themselves and of it, and to entertain
exaggerated expectations from it. Their morbid feelings are little able
to support the disappointment certain to ensue, and they either rush
into a reprisal of imaginary wrongs, by satire on others, or inflict
torture on themselves by the belief, often erroneous, of the injuries
they have sustained.
I remembered in this abode a passage in one of the best letters ever
written by Rousseau, and addressed to Voltaire, on the subject of his
poem, entitled _Sur la Loi Naturelle, et sur le Désastre de Lisbonne_;
in which, referring to an assertion of Voltaire's that few persons
would wish to live over again on the condition of enduring the same
trials, and which Rousseau combats by urging that it is only the rich,
fatigued by their pleasures, or literary men, of whom he writes--"_Des
gens de lettres, de tous les ordres d'hommes le plus sédentaire, le
plus malsain, le plus réfléchissant, et, par conséquent, le plus
malheureux_," who would decline to live over again, had they the power.
This description of men of letters, written by one of themselves, is a
melancholy, but, alas! a true one, and should console the enviers of
genius for the want of a gift that but too often entails such misery on
its possessors.
The church of Montmorency is a good specimen of Gothic architecture,
and greatly embellishes the little town, which is built on the side of
a hill, and commands a delicious view of the chestnut forest and
valley, clothed with pretty villas, that render it so much and so
justly admired.
It was amusing to listen to the diversity of opinions entertained by
our party relative to Rousseau, as we wandered through the scenes which
he so often frequented; each individual censuring or defending him,
according to the bias of his or her disposition. On one point all
agreed; which was, that, if judged by his actions, little could be said
in mitigation of the conduct of him who, while writing sentiments
fraught with passion and tenderness, could consign his offspring to a
foundling hospital!
Having visited every object worthy of attention at Montmorency, we
proceeded to Enghien, to examine the baths established there. The
building is of vast extent, containing no less than forty chambers,
comfortably furnished for the accommodation of bathers; and a good
_restaurateur_ furnishes the repasts. The apartments command a
beautiful view, and the park of St.-Gratien offers a delightful
promenade to the visitors of Enghien.
Our route back to Paris was rendered very agreeable by the lively and
clever conversation of the Comtesse de Gand. I have rarely met with a
more amusing person.
With a most retentive memory, she possesses the tact that does not
always accompany this precious gift--that of only repeating what is
perfectly _à propos_ and interesting, with a fund of anecdotes that
might form an inexhaustible capital for a professional diner-out to set
up with; an ill-natured one never escapes her lips, and yet--hear it
all ye who believe, or act as if ye believe, that malice and wit are
inseparable allies!--it would be difficult to find a more entertaining
and lively companion.
Our old friend, Col. E. Lygon, came to see us to-day, and is as amiable
as ever. He is a specimen of a military man of which England may well
be proud.
The Ducs de Talleyrand and Dino, the Marquis de Mornay, the Marquis de
Dreux-Brezé, and Count Charles de Mornay, dined here yesterday. The
Marquis de Brezé is a clever man, and his conversation is highly
interesting. Well-informed and sensible, he has directed much of his
attention to politics without being, as is too often the case with
politicians, wholly engrossed by them. He appears to me to be a man
likely to distinguish himself in public life.
There could not be found two individuals more dissimilar, or more
formed for furnishing specimens of the noblemen of _la Vieille Cour_
and the present time, than the Duc de Talleyrand and the Marquis de
Dreux-Brezé. The Duc, well-dressed and well-bred, but offering in his
toilette and in his manners irrefragable evidence that both have been
studied, and his conversation bearing that high polish and urbanity
which, if not always characteristics of talent, conceal the absence of
it, represents _l'ancien régime_, when _les grands seigneurs_ were more
desirous to serve _les belles dames_ than their country, and more
anxious to be distinguished in the _salons_ of the Faubourg St.-Germain
than in the _Chambre de Parlement_.
The Marquis de Dreux-Brezé, well-dressed and well-bred, too, appears
not to have studied either his toilette or his manners; and, though by
no means deficient in polite attention to women, seems to believe that
there are higher and more praiseworthy pursuits than that of thinking
only how to please them, and bestows more thought on the _Chambre des
Pairs_ than on the _salons à la mode_.
One is a passive and ornamental member of society, the other a useful
and active politician, I have remarked that the Frenchmen of high birth
of the present time all seem disposed to take pains in fitting
themselves for the duties of their station. They read much and with
profit, travel much more than formerly, and are free from the narrow
prejudices against other countries, which, while they prove not a man's
attachment to his own, offer one of the most insurmountable of all
barriers to that good understanding so necessary to be maintained
between nations.
Dined yesterday at St.-Cloud with the Baron and Baroness de Ruysch; a
very agreeable and intellectual pair, who have made a little paradise
around them in the shape of an English pleasure ground, blooming with
rare shrubs and flowers.
Our old friend, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird--"the honourable Dug," as poor
Lord Byron used to call him--paid me a visit to-day. I had not seen him
for seven years, and these same years have left their traces on his
brow. He is in delicate health, and is only come over to Paris for a
very few days.
He has lived in the same scenes and in the same routine that we left
him, wholly engrossed by them, while
"I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger;"
and wonder how people can be content to dwell whole years in so
circumscribed, however useful, a circle.
Those who live much in London seem to me to have tasted the lotus
which, according to the fable of old, induced forgetfulness of the
past, so wholly are they engrossed by the present, and by the vortex in
which they find themselves plunged.
Much as I like England, and few love it more dearly, I should not like
to pass all the rest of my life in it. _All, all_: it is thus we ever
count on futurity, reckoning as if our lives were certain of being
prolonged, when we know not that the _all_ on which we so boldly
calculate may not be terminated in a day, nay, even in an hour. Who is
there that can boast an English birth, that would not wish to die at
home and rest in an English grave?
Sir Francis Burdett has arrived, and means to stay some time here. He
called on us yesterday with Colonel Leicester Stanhope, and is as
agreeable and good-natured as ever. He is much _fêted_ at Paris, and
receives great attention from the Duc d'Orléans, who has offered him
his boxes at the theatres, and shews him all manner of civilities.
Colonel Leicester Stanhope gave me some interesting details of poor
Byron's last days in Greece, and seems to have duly appreciated his
many fine qualities, in spite of the errors that shrouded but could not
eclipse them. The fine temper and good breeding that seem to be
characteristic of the Stanhope family, have not degenerated in this
branch of it; and his manner, as well as his voice and accent, remind
me very forcibly of my dear old friend his father, who is one of the
most amiable, as well as agreeable men I ever knew, and who I look
forward with pleasure to meeting on my return home.
The Marquise Palavicini from Genoa, her daughter-in-law the Princesse
Doria, sir Francis Burdett, and Colonel Leicester Stanhope, dined with
us yesterday. The marquise Palavicini is a very sensible and agreeable
woman, and the Princesse Doria is very pretty and amiable. Like most of
her countrywomen, this young and attractive person is wholly free from
that affectation which deteriorates from so many of the women of other
countries; and the simplicity of her manner, which is as remote from
_gaucherie_ as it is from affectation, invests her with a peculiar
charm.
We talked over Genoa, where we have spent so many pleasant days, and
the beautiful gardens of the villa Palavicini, the possession of which
has always tempted me to envy its owner. I have never passed an hour in
the society of Italian women without feeling the peculiar charm of
their manner, and wishing that its ease and simplicity were more
generally adopted.
The absence of any effort to shine, the gentleness without insipidity,
the liveliness without levity, and above all, the perfect good nature
that precludes aught that could be disagreeable to others, form the
distinguishing characteristics of the manner of Italian women from the
princess to the peasant, and are alike practised by both towards all
with whom they converse.
Lord Darnley and Lord Charlemont dined here yesterday. It is pleasant
to see old and familiar faces again, even though the traces of Time on
their brows recall to mind the marks which the ruthless tyrant must
have inflicted on our own. We all declared that we saw no change in
each other, but the looks of surprise and disappointment exchanged at
meeting contradicted the assertion.
Mr. Charles Young, the tragedian, dined here to-day. We were very glad
to see him again, for he is a very estimable as well as agreeable
member of society, and reflects honour on his profession.
Lord Lansdowne came here with Count Flahault this evening. It is now
seven years since I last saw him, but time has dealt kindly with him
during that period, as it ever does to those who possess equanimity of
mind and health of body. Lord Lansdowne has always appeared to me to be
peculiarly formed for a statesman.
With a fortune that exempts him from incurring even the suspicion of
mercenary motives for holding office, and a rank which precludes that
of entertaining the ambition of seeking a higher, he is free from the
angry passions that more or loss influence the generality of other men.
To an unprejudiced mind, he joins self-respect without arrogance,
self-possession without effrontery, solid and general information,
considerable power of application to business, a calm and gentlemanly
demeanour, and an urbanity of manner which, while it conciliates good
will, never descends to, or encourages, familiarity.
A lover and liberal patron of the fine arts, he is an encourager of
literature, and partial to the society of literary men; irreproachable
in private life, and respected in public, what is there wanting to
render him faultless?
I, who used to enjoy a good deal of his society in England, am of
opinion, that the sole thing wanting is the warmth and cordiality of
manner which beget friends and retain partisans, and without which no
minister can count on constant supporters.
It is a curious circumstance, that the political party to which Lord
Lansdowne is opposed can boast a man among those most likely to hold
the reins of government, to whom all that I have said of Lord Lansdowne
might, with little modification, be applied. I refer to Sir Robert
Peel, whose acquaintance I enjoyed in England; and who is much younger,
and perhaps bolder, than Lord Lansdowne.
Happy, in my opinion, is the country which possesses such men; though
the friends and admirers of each would probably feel little disposed to
admit any comparison to be instituted between them, and would deride,
if not assail, any one for making it.
Sir Francis Burdell dined here yesterday, and we had the Count
Alexandra de Laborde and Count Charles de Mornay, to meet him. Several
people came in the evening. I have lent a pile of books to Sir F. B.,
who continues to read as much as formerly, and forgets nothing that he
peruses. His information is, consequently, very extensive, and renders
his conversation very interesting. His thirst for knowledge is
insatiable, and leads him to every scientific resort where it may be
gratified.
Spent last evening at Madame Craufurd's. Met there, the Princesse
Castelcicala and her daughter, Lady Drummond, Mr. T. Steuart, and
various others--among them, a daughter of the Marquess of Ailesbury,
who has married a French nobleman, and resides in Paris.
Lady Drummond talked to me a good deal of Sir William, and evinced much
respect for his memory. She is proud, and she may well be so, of having
been the wife of such a man; though there was but little sympathy
between their tastes and pursuits, and his death can produce so little
change in her habits of life, that she can scarcely be said to miss
him.
He passed his days and the greater portion of his nights in reading or
writing, living in a suite of rooms literally filled with books; the
tables, chairs, sofas, and even the floors, being encumbered with them,
going out only for a short time in a carriage to get a little air, or
occasionally to dine out.
He seldom saw Lady Drummond, except at dinner, surrounded by a large
party. She passed, as she still passes her time, in the duties of an
elaborate toilette, paying or receiving visits, giving or going to
_fêtes_, and playing with her lap-dog. A strange wife for one of the
most intellectual men of his day! And yet this total dissimilarity
produced no discord between them; for she was proud of his
acquirements, and he was indulgent to her less _spirituelle_ tastes.
Lady Drummond does much good at Naples; for, while the _beau monde_ of
that gay capital are entertained in a style of profuse hospitality at
her house, the poor find her charity dispensed with a liberal hand in
all their exigencies; so that her vast wealth is a source of comfort to
others as well as to herself.
I have been reading _Vivian Grey_--a very wild, but very clever
book, full of genius in its unpruned luxuriance; the writer revels
in all the riches of a brilliant imagination, and expends them
prodigally--dazzling, at one moment, by his passionate eloquence, and,
at another, by his touching pathos.
A pleasant dinner-party, yesterday. The Duc de Mouchy, the Marquis de
Mornay, Count Flahault, the Count Maussion, Mons. de Montrond, and Mr.
Standish, were the guests. Count Flahault is so very agreeable and
gentlemanly a man, that no one can call in question the taste of the
Baroness Keith in selecting him for her husband.
Mr. Standish has married a French lady, accomplished, clever, and
pretty. Intermarriages between French and English are now not
unfrequent; and it is pleasant to observe the French politeness and
_bon ton_ ingrafted on English sincerity and good sense. Of this, Mr.
Standish offers a very good example; for, while he has acquired all the
Parisian ruse of manner, he has retained all the English good qualities
for which he has always been esteemed.
CHAPTER VIII.
Charles Kemble dined here yesterday, and in the evening read to us his
daughter Fanny's Tragedy of _Francis the First_--a very wonderful
production for so young a girl. There is considerable vigour in many
parts of this work, and several passages in it reminded me of the old
dramatists. The character of "Louisa of Savoy" is forcibly
drawn--wonderfully so, indeed, when considered as the production of so
youthful a person. The constant association with minds deeply imbued
with a love of the old writers, must have greatly influenced the taste
of Miss Kemble.
_Francis the First_ bears irrefragable evidence that her reading has
lain much among the old poets, and that Shakspeare is one of her most
favourite ones. "Triboulet," the king's jester, may be instanced as an
example of this; and "Margaret of Valois" furnishes another. "Françoise
de Foix" is a more original conception; timid, yet fond, sacrificing
her honour to save her brother's life, but rendered wretched by
remorse; and not able to endure the presence of her affianced husband,
who, believing her pure and sinless as he left her, appeals to her,
when "Gonzales" reveals her shame.
This same "Gonzales," urged on by vengeance, and ready to do
aught--nay, more than "may become a man,"--to seek its gratification,
is a boldly drawn character.
The introduction of the poet "Clément Marot" is no less happy than
judicious; and Miss Kemble gives him a very beautiful speech, addressed
to his master "Francis the First," in which the charm that reigns about
the presence of a pure woman is so eloquently described, as to have
reminded me of the exquisite passage in _Comus_, although there is not
any plagiary in Miss Kemble's speech.
A poetess herself, she has rendered justice to the character of Clement
Marot, whose honest indignation at being employed to bear a letter from
the amorous "Francis" to the sister of "Lautrec," she has very
gracefully painted.
The "Constable Bourbon" is well drawn, and has some fine speeches
assigned to him; and "Gonzales" gives a spirited description of the
difference between encountering death in the battle-field, surrounded
by all the spirit-stirring "pomp and circumstance of glorious war," and
meeting the grisly tyrant on the scaffold, attended by all the
ignominious accessories of a traitor's doom.
This Tragedy, when given to the public, will establish Miss Kemble's
claims to distinction in the literary world, and add another laurel to
those acquired by her family.
There are certain passages in the speeches of "Gonzales," that, in my
opinion, require to be revised, lest they should provoke censures from
the fastidious critics of the present time, who are prone to detect
evil of which the authors, whose works they analyse, are quite
unconscious. Innocence sometimes leads young writers to a freedom of
expression from which experienced ones would shrink back in alarm; and
the perusal of the old dramatists gives a knowledge of passions, and of
sins, known only through their medium, but the skilful developement of
which, subjects a female writer, and more particularly a youthful one,
to ungenerous animadversion. It is to be hoped, that the friends of
this gifted girl will so prune the luxuriance of her pen, as to leave
nothing to detract from a work so creditable to her genius.
Charles Kemble rendered ample justice to his daughter's Tragedy by his
mode of reading it; and we counted not the hours devoted to the task.
How many reminiscences of the olden time were called up by hearing him!
I remembered those pleasant evenings when he used to read to us in
London, hour after hour, until the timepiece warned us to give over. I
remembered, too, John Kemble--"the great John Kemble," as Lord
Guildford used to call him--twice or thrice reading to us with Sir T.
Lawrence; and the tones of Charles Kemble's voice, and the expression
of his face, forcibly reminded me of our departed friend.
I have scarcely met with a more high-bred man, or a more agreeable
companion, than Charles Kemble. Indeed, were I called on to name the
professional men I have known most distinguished for good breeding and
manners, I should name our four tragedians,--the two Kembles, Young,
and Macready.
Sir Francis Burdett dined here yesterday _en famille_, and we passed
two very pleasant hours. He related to us many amusing and interesting
anecdotes connected with his political life.
Went to the Opera in the evening, whither he accompanied us. I like my
box very much. It is in the centre of the house, is draped with pale
blue silk, and has very comfortable chairs. The Parisians are, I find,
as addicted to staring as the English; for many were the glasses
levelled last night at Sir Francis Burdett who, totally unconscious of
the attention he excited, was wholly engrossed by the "Count Ory," some
of the choruses in which pleased me very much.
A visit to-day from our excellent and valued friend, Sir A. Barnard,
who has promised to dine with us to-morrow. Paris is now filling very
fast, which I regret, as I dislike crowds and having my time broken in
upon.
I become more convinced every day I live, that quiet and repose are the
secrets of happiness, for I never feel so near an approach to this
blessing as when in the possession of them. General society is a heavy
tax on time and patience, and one that I feel every year less
inclination to pay, as I witness the bad effect it produces not only on
the habits but on the mind.
Oh! the weariness of listening for hours to the repetition of past
gaieties, or the anticipation of future ones, to the commonplace
remarks or stupid conversation of persons whose whole thoughts are
engrossed by the frivolous amusements of Paris, which are all and every
thing to them!
How delicious is it to shut out all this weariness, and with a book, or
a few rationally minded friends, indulge in an interchange of ideas!
But the too frequent indulgence of this sensible mode of existence
exposes one to the sarcasms of the frivolous who are avoided.
One is deemed a pedant--a terrible charge at Paris!--or a _bas bleu_,
which is still worse, however free the individual may be from any
pretensions to merit such charges.
Paid a visit to the justly celebrated Mademoiselle Mars yesterday, at
her beautiful hôtel in the Rue de la Tour des Dames. I have entertained
a wish ever since my return from Italy, to become acquainted with this
remarkable woman; and Mr. Young was the medium of accomplishing it.
Mademoiselle Mars is even more attractive off the stage than on; for
her countenance beams with intelligence, and her manners are at once so
animated, yet gentle; so kind, yet dignified; and there is such an
inexpressible charm in the tones of her voice, that no one can approach
without being delighted with her.
Her conversation is highly interesting, marked by a good sense and good
taste that render her knowledge always available, but never obtrusive.
Her features are regular and delicate; her figure, though inclined to
_embonpoint_, is very graceful, and her smile, like the tones of her
voice, is irresistibly sweet, and reveals teeth of rare beauty.
Mademoiselle Mars, off the stage, owes none of her attractions to the
artful aid of ornament; wearing her own dark hair simply arranged, and
her clear brown complexion free from any artificial tinge. In her air
and manner is the rare and happy mixture of _la grande dame et la femme
aimable_, without the slightest shade of affectation.
Mademoiselle Mars' hôtel is the prettiest imaginable. It stands in a
court yard, wholly shut in from the street; and, though not vast, it
has all the elegance, if not the splendour, of a fine house. Nothing
can evince a purer taste than this dwelling, with its decorations and
furniture. It contains all that elegance and comfort can require,
without any thing meretricious or gaudy, and is a temple worthy of the
goddess to whom it is dedicated.
It has been well observed, that a just notion of the character of a
person can always be formed by the style of his or her dwelling. Who
can be deceived in the house of a _nouveau riche_? Every piece of
furniture in it vouches, not only for the wealth of its owner, but that
he has not yet got sufficiently habituated to the possession of it, to
be as indifferent to its attributes as are those to whom custom has
rendered splendour no longer a pleasure.
Every thing in the house of Mademoiselle Mars bespeaks its mistress to
be a woman of highly cultivated mind and of refined habits.
The boudoir is in the style of Louis XIV, and owes its tasteful
decorations to the pencil of Ciceri. The pictures that ornament it are
by Gérard, and are highly creditable to his reputation. The library
serves also as a picture-gallery; and in it may be seen beautiful
specimens of the talents of the most esteemed French artists, offered
by them as a homage to this celebrated woman. Gérard, Delacroix,
Isabey, Lany, Grévedon, and other distinguished artists, have
contributed to this valuable collection. A fine portrait of Madame
Pasta, and another of Talma, with two exquisite pictures of the mother
of Mademoiselle Mars, not less remarkable for the rare beauty of the
subject than for the merit of the artists, complete it.
One book-case in the library contains only the presentation copies of
the pieces in which Mademoiselle Mars has performed, magnificently
bound by the authors.
On a white marble _console_ in this gallery is placed an interesting
memorial of her brilliant theatrical career, presented to her by the
most enthusiastic of its numerous admirers. It consists of a laurel
crown, executed in pure gold; on the leaves of which are engraved on
one side, the name of each piece in which she appeared, and, on the
other, the _rôle_ which she acted in it. A very fine statue of Molière
is placed in this apartment.
Never did two hours glide more rapidly away than those passed in the
society of this fascinating woman, whose presence I left penetrated
with the conviction that no one can know without admiring her; and that
when she retires from the stage, "we shall not look upon her like
again."
Passed a very agreeable evening, at Madame Craufurd's, Met there la
Duchesse de la Force, and the usual circle of _habitués_. Talking of
theatres, some of _la Vieille Cour_, who happened to be present,
remarked on the distinction always made between the female performers
of the different ones. Those of the Théâtre Français were styled "_Les
Dames de la Comédie Française_"; "those of the Théâtre Italien," "_Les
Demoiselles du Théâtre Italien_;" and the dancers, "_Les Filles de
l'Opéra_." This last mode of naming _les danseuses_, though in later
times considered as a reproach, was, originally, meant as an honourable
distinction; the king, on establishing the _Académie Royale de
Musique_, having obtained the privilege that the performers attached to
it should be exempt from excommunication. Hence they were named, "_Les
Filles de l'Opéra_," as persons sometimes said "_Les Filles de la
Reine_."
_À propos_ of the Opera, Madame Grassini, once no less celebrated for
her beauty than for her voice, was of the party last night. She is, and
deservedly, a general favourite in Parisian society, in which her
vivacity, good-nature, and amiability, are duly appreciated. Her lively
sallies and _naïve_ remarks are very amusing; and the frankness and
simplicity she has preserved in a profession and position so calculated
to induce the reverse, add to her attractions and give piquancy to her
conversation.
There are moments in which Madame Grassini's countenance becomes
lighted up with such animation, that it seems to be invested with a
considerable portion of the rare beauty for which she was so
remarkable.
Her eyes are still glorious, and, like those only of the sunny South,
can flash with intelligence, or melt with tenderness. It is when
conversing on the grand _rôles_ which she filled as _prima donna_, that
her face lights up as I have noticed,--as the war-horse, when hearing
the sound of the trumpet, remembers the scene of his past glory.
When in Italy, some years since, Madame Grassini's carriage was stopped
by brigands, who, having compelled her to descend, ransacked it and
took possession of her splendid theatrical wardrobe, and her
magnificent diamonds.
She witnessed the robbery with calmness, until she saw the brigands
seize the portrait of the Emperor Napoleon, presented to her by his own
hand, and set round with large brilliants, when she appealed to them
with tears streaming down her cheeks to take the settings and all the
diamonds, but not to deprive her of the portrait of her "dear, dear
Emperor!" When this circumstance was referred to she told me the story,
and her eyes glistened with tears while relating it.
Went to Orsay yesterday, and passed a very agreeable day there. It was
a fortified chateau, and must have been a very fine place before the
Revolution caused, not only its pillage, but nearly total destruction,
for only one wing of it now remains.
Built in the reign of Charles VII, it was esteemed one of the best
specimens of the feudal _château fort_ of that epoch; and the
subterranean portion of it still attests its former strength and
magnitude.
It is surrounded by a moat, not of stagnant water, but supplied by the
river Ivette, which flows at the base of the hill on which the château
stands. The water is clear and brisk and the château looks as if it
stood in a pellucid river. The view from the windows is very extensive,
commanding a rich and well-wooded country.
The chapel escaped not the ravages of the sacrilegious band, who
committed such havoc on the château; for the beautiful altar, and some
very interesting monuments, were barbarously mutilated, and the tomb of
the Princesse de Croy, the mother of General Count d'Orsay, on which a
vast sum had been expended, was nearly razed to the ground.
If aught was required to increase my horror of revolutions, and of the
baleful consequences to which they lead, the sight of this once
splendid château, and, above all, of its half-ruined chapel, in which
even the honoured dead were insulted, would have accomplished it.
An heiress of one of the most ancient houses in the _Pays-Bas_, the
Princesse de Croy brought a noble dowry to her husband, himself a man
of princely fortune. Young and beautiful, her munificence soon rendered
her an object of almost, adoration to the dependents of her lord; and
when soon after having given birth to a son and heir, the present
General Comte d'Orsay, she was called to another world, her remains
were followed to her untimely grave by a long train of weeping poor,
whose hearts her bounty had often cheered, and whose descendants were
subsequently horror-struck to see the sanctity of her last earthly
resting-place invaded.
We passed through the hamlet of Palaiseau, on our return to Paris; and
saw in it the steeple where the magpie concealed the silver spoons he
had stolen, and which occasioned the event from which the drama of _La
Pie Voleuse_, known in so many languages, has had its origin.
The real story ended not so happily as the opera, for the poor girl was
executed--the spoons not having been discovered until after her death.
This tragedy in humble life has attached great interest to the steeple
at Palaiseau, and has drawn many persons to the secluded hamlet in
which it stands.
The Duc and Duchesse de Quiche returned from Luneville yesterday; and
we spent last evening with them. The good Duke de Gramont was there,
and was in great joy at their return. They all dine with us to-morrow;
and Madame Craufurd comes to meet them.
Never have I seen such children as the Duc de Quiche's. Uniting to the
most remarkable personal beauty an intelligence and docility as rare as
they are delightful; and never did I witness any thing like the
unceasing care and attention bestowed on their education by their
parents.
Those who only know the Duc and Duchesse in the gay circles, in which
they are universally esteemed among the brightest ornaments, can form
little idea of them in the privacy of their domestic one--emulating
each other in their devotion to their children, and giving only the
most judicious proofs of their attachment to them. No wonder that the
worthy Duc de Gramont doats on his grandchildren, and never seems so
happy as with his excellent son and daughter-in-law.
Went to the Vaudeville Théâtre last evening, to see the new piece by
Scribe, so much talked of, entitled _Avant_, _Pendant, et Aprés_. There
is a fearful _vraisemblance_ in some of the scenes with all that one
has read or pictured to oneself, as daily occurring during the terrible
days of the Revolution; and the tendency of the production is not, in
my opinion, calculated to produce salutary effects. I only wonder it is
permitted to be acted.
The piece is divided, as the title announces, into three different
epochs. The first represents the frivolity and vices attributed to the
days of _l'ancien régime_, and the _tableau des moeurs_, which is
vividly coloured, leaves no favourable impression in the minds of the
audience of that _noblesse_ whose sufferings subsequently expiated the
errors said to have accelerated, if not to have produced, the
Revolution.
Nothing is omitted that could cast odium on them, as a preparation for
the Reign of Terror that follows. The anarchy and confusion of the
second epoch--the fear and horror that prevail when the voices and
motions of a sanguinary mob are heard in the streets, and the terrified
inmates of the houses are seen crouching in speechless terror, are
displayed with wonderful truth.
The lesson is an awful, and I think a dangerous, one, and so seemed to
think many of the upper class among the audience, for I saw some fair
cheeks turn pale, and some furrowed brows look ominous, as the scene
was enacted, while those of the less elevated in rank among the
spectators assumed, or seemed to assume, a certain _fierté_, if not
ferocity, of aspect, at beholding this vivid representation of the
triumph achieved by their order over the _noblesse_.
It is not wise to exhibit to a people, and above all to so inflammable
a people as the French, what _they_ can effect; and I confess I felt
uneasy when I witnessed the deep interest and satisfaction evinced by
many in the _parterre_ during the representation.
The _Après_, the third epoch, is even more calculated to encourage
revolutionary principles, for in it was displayed the elevation to the
highest grades in the army and in the state of those who in the _ancien
régime_ would have remained as the Revolution found them, in the most
obscure stations, but who by that event had brilliant opportunities
afforded for distinguishing themselves.
Heroic courage, boundless generosity, and devoted patriotism, are
liberally bestowed on the actors who figure in this last portion of the
drama; and, as these qualities are known to have appertained to many of
those who really filled the _rôles_ enacted at the period now
represented, the scene had, as might be expected, a powerful effect on
a people so impressible as the French, and so liable to be hurried into
enthusiasm by aught that appeals to their imaginations.
The applause was deafening; and I venture to say, that those from whom
it proceeded left the theatre with a conviction that a revolution was a
certain means of achieving glory and fortune to those who, with all the
self-imagined qualities to merit both, had not been born to either.
Every Frenchman in the middle or lower class believes himself capable
of arriving at the highest honours. This belief sometimes half
accomplishes the destiny it imagines; but even when it fails to effect
this, it ever operates in rendering Frenchmen peculiarly liable to rush
into any change or measure likely to lead to even a chance of
distinction.
As during the performance of _Avant, Pendant et Après_, my eye glanced
on the faces of some of the emigrant _noblesse_, restored to France by
the entry of the Bourbons, I marked the changes produced on their
countenances by it. Anxiety, mingled with dismay, was visible; for the
scenes of the past were vividly recalled, while a vague dread of the
future was instilled. Yes, the representation of this piece is a
dangerous experiment, and so I fear it will turn out.
I am sometimes amused, but more frequently irritated, by observing the
_moeurs Parisiennes_, particularly in the shop-keepers. The airs of
self-complacency, amounting almost to impertinence, practised by this
class, cannot fail to surprise persons accustomed to the civility and
assiduity of those in London, who, whether the purchases made in their
shops be large or small, evince an equal politeness to the buyers.
In Paris, the tradesman assumes the right of dictating to the taste of
his customers; in London, he only administers to it. Enter a Parisian
shop, and ask to be shewn velvet, silk, or riband, to assort with a
pattern you have brought of some particular colour or quality, and the
mercer, having glanced at it somewhat contemptuously, places before you
six or eight pieces of a different tint and texture.
You tell him that they are not similar to the pattern, and he answers,
"That may be; nevertheless, his goods are of the newest fashion, and
infinitely superior to your model." You say, "You prefer the colour of
your pattern, and must match it." He produces half-a-dozen pieces still
more unlike what you require; and to your renewed assertion that no
colour but the one similar to your pattern will suit you, he assures
you, that his goods are superior to all others, and that what you
require is out of fashion, and a very bad article, and, consequently,
that you had much better abandon your taste and adopt his. This counsel
is given without any attempt at concealing the contempt the giver of it
entertains for your opinion, and the perfect satisfaction he indulges
for his own.
You once more ask, "If he has got nothing to match the colour you
require?" and he shrugs his shoulders and answers, "_Pourtant_, madame,
what I have shewn you is much superior," "Very possible; but no colour
will suit me but this one," holding up the pattern; "for I want to
replace a breadth of a new dress to which an accident has occurred."
"_Pourtant_, madame, my colours are precisely the same, but the quality
of the materials is infinitely better!" and with this answer, after
having lost half an hour--if not double that time--you are compelled to
be satisfied, and leave the shop, its owner looking as if he considered
you a person of decidedly bad taste, and very troublesome into the
bargain.
Similar treatment awaits you in every shop; the owners having, as it
appears to me, decided on shewing you only what _they_ approve, and not
what you seek. The women of high rank in France seldom, if ever, enter
any shop except that of Herbault, who is esteemed the _modiste, par
excellence_, of Paris, and it is to this habit, probably, that the want
of _bienséance_ so visible in Parisian _boutiquiers_, is to be
attributed.
CHAPTER IX.
An agreeable party dined here yesterday--Lord Stuart de Rothesay, our
Ambassador, the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, the Duc de Mouchy, Sir
Francis Burdett, and Count Charles de Mornay. Lord Stuart de Rothesay
is very popular at Paris, as is also our Ambassadress; a proof that, in
addition to a vast fund of good-nature, no inconsiderable portion of
tact is conjoined--to please English and French too, which they
certainly do, requires no little degree of the rare talent of
_savoir-vivre_.
To a profound knowledge of French society and its peculiarities, a
knowledge not easily acquired, Lord and Lady Stuart de Rothesay add the
happy art of adopting all that is agreeable in its usages, without
sacrificing any of the stateliness so essential in the representatives
of our more grave and reflecting nation.
Among the peculiarities that most strike one in French people, are the
good-breeding with which they listen, without even a smile, to the
almost incomprehensible attempts at speaking French made by many
strangers, and the quickness of apprehension with which they seize
their meaning, and assist them in rendering the sense complete.
I have seen innumerable proofs of this politeness--a politeness so
little understood, or at least so little practised, among the English,
that mistakes perfectly ludicrous, and which could not have failed to
set my compatriots in a titter, if not in a roar, have not produced the
movement of a single risible muscle, and yet the French are more prone
to gaiety than are the English.
Mr. D---- and Mr. T---- dined here yesterday. The former, mild,
gentlemanlike, and unostentatious, seems to forget what so many would,
if similarly situated, remember with arrogance, namely, that he is
immensely rich; an obliviousness that, in my opinion, greatly enhances
his other merits.
Mr. T---- is little changed since I last saw him, and is well-informed,
clover, and agreeable,--but his own too-evident consciousness of
possessing these recommendations prevents other people from according
him due merit for them.
In society, one who believes himself clever must become a hypocrite,
and so conceal all knowledge of his self-complacency, if he wishes to
avoid being unpopular; for woe be to him who lets the world see he
thinks highly of himself, however his abilities may justify his
self-approval!
The sight of Mr. T---- recalled his amiable and excellent mother to my
memory. I never esteemed any woman more highly, or enjoyed the society
of any other person more than hers. How many pleasant hours have I
passed with her! I so well remember John Kemble fancying that if I went
through a course of reading Shakspeare with his sister Mrs. T----, I
should make, as he said, a fine actress; and we were to get up private
theatricals at Mountjoy Forest.
In compliance with the request of Lord Blessington, I studied
Shakspeare with this amiable and gifted woman for many months, which
cemented a friendship between us that ended but with her life. Her
method of reading was admirable; for to the grandeur of her sister Mrs.
Siddons, she united a tenderness and softness, in which that great
actress was said to be deficient. I never open any of the plays of
Shakspeare which I studied with her without thinking I hear her voice,
and I like them better for the association.
To great personal attractions, which even to the last she retained
enough of to give a notion of what her beauty must have been in her
youth, Mrs. T---- added a charm of manners, a cultivation of mind, and
a goodness of heart seldom surpassed; and, in all the relations of
life, her conduct was most praiseworthy. Even now, though six years
have elapsed since her death, the recollection of it brings tears to my
eyes. Good and gentle woman, may your virtues on earth find their
reward in Heaven!
I passed last evening at Madame Craufurd's, where I met Lady Charlotte
Lindsay and the Misses Berry. How perfectly they answered to the
description given of them by Sir William Gell; who, though exceedingly
attached to all three, has not, as far as one interview permitted me to
judge, overrated their agreeability! Sir William Gell has read me many
letters from these ladies, replete with talent, of which their
conversation reminded me.
Francis Hare and his wife dined here to-day. They are _en route_ from
Germany--where they have been sojourning since their marriage--for
England, where her _accouchement_ is to take place. Francis Hare has
lived with us so much in Italy, that we almost consider him a member of
the domestic circle; and, on the faith of this, he expressed his desire
that we should receive _madame son épouse_ as if she were an old
acquaintance.
Mrs. Hare is well-looking, and agreeable, appears amiable, and is a
good musician. I remember seeing her and her sisters with her mother,
Lady Paul, at Florence, when I had little notion that she was to be
Mrs. Hare. I never meet Francis Hare without being surprised by the
versatility of his information; it extends to the fine arts,
literature, rare books, the localities of pictures and statues; in
short, he is a moving library that may always be consulted with profit,
and his memory is as accurate as an index in rendering its precious
stores available.
It is strange, that the prominent taste of his wife, which is for
music, is the only one denied to him. He afforded an amusing instance
of this fact last night, when Mrs. Hare, having performed several airs
on the piano-forte, he asked her, "Why she played the same tune so
often, for the monotony was tiresome?"--an observation that set us all
laughing.
Took Mrs. Hare out shopping--saw piles of lace, heaps of silk, pyramids
of riband, and all other female gear. What a multiplicity of pretty
things we women require to render us what we consider presentable! And
how few of us, however good-looking we may chance to be, would agree
with the poet, that "loveliness needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
but is, when unadorned, adorned the most."
Even the fairest of the sex like to enhance the charms of nature by the
aid of dress; and the plainest hope to become less so by its
assistance. Men are never sufficiently sensible of our humility, in
considering it so necessary to increase our attractions in order to
please them, nor grateful enough for the pains we bestow in the
attempts.
Husbands and fathers are particularly insensible to this amiable desire
on the parts of their wives and daughters; and, when asked to pay the
heavy bills incurred in consequence of this praiseworthy humility and
desire to please, evince any feeling rather than that of satisfaction.
It is only admirers not called on to pay these said bills who duly
appreciate the cause and effect, and who can hear of women passing
whole hours in tempting shops, without that elongation of countenance
peculiar to husbands and fathers.
I could not help thinking with the philosopher, how many things I saw
to-day that could be done without. If women could be made to understand
that costliness of attire seldom adds to beauty, and often deteriorates
it, a great amelioration in expense could be accomplished.
Transparent muslin, the cheapest of all materials, is one of the
prettiest, too, for summer's wear, and with the addition of some bows
of delicate-coloured riband, or a _bouquet_ of fresh flowers, forms a
most becoming dress. The lowness of the price of such a robe enables
the purchaser to have so frequent a change of it, that even those who
are far from rich may have half-a-dozen, while one single robe of a
more expensive material will cost more; and having done so, the owner
will think it right to wear it more frequently than is consistent with
the freshness and purity that should ever be the distinguishing
characteristics in female dress, in order to indemnify herself for the
expense.
I was never more struck with this fact, than a short time ago, when I
saw two ladies seated next each other, both young and handsome; but
one, owing to the freshness of her robe, which was of simple
_organdie_, looked infinitely better than the other, who was quite as
pretty, but who, wearing a robe of expensive lace, whose whiteness had
fallen into "the sere and yellow leaf," appeared faded and _passée_.
Be wise, then, ye young and fair; and if, as I suspect, your object be
to please the Lords of the Creation, let your dress, in summer, be
snowy-white muslin, never worn after its pristine purity becomes
problematical; and in winter, let some half-dozen plain and simple silk
gowns be purchased, instead of the two or three expensive ones that
generally form the wardrobe, and which, consequently, soon not only
lose their lustre but give the wearer the appearance of having suffered
the same fate!
And you, O husbands and fathers, present and future, be ye duly
impressed with a sense of your manifold obligations to me for thus
opening the eyes of your wives and daughters how to please without
draining your purses; and when the maledictions of lace, velvet, and
satin-sellers full on my hapless head, for counsel so injurious to
their interests, remember they were incurred for yours!
Mr. and Mrs. Hare dined here yesterday. They brought with them Madame
de la H----, who came up from near Chantilly to see them. She is as
pretty as I remember her at Florence, when Mademoiselle D----, and is
_piquante_ and _spirituelle_. Counts Charles de Mornay and Valeski
formed the party, and Count Maussion and some others came in the
evening.
I observe that few English shine in conversation with the French. There
is a lightness and brilliancy, a sort of touch and go, if I may say so,
in the latter, seldom, if ever, to be acquired by strangers. Never
dwelling long on any subject, and rarely entering profoundly into it,
they sparkle on the surface with great dexterity, bringing wit, gaiety,
and tact, into play.
Like summer lightning, French wit flashes frequently, brightly and
innocuously, leaving nothing disagreeable to remind one of its having
appeared. Conversation is, with the French, the aim and object of
society. All enter it prepared to take a part, and he best enacts it
who displays just enough knowledge to show that much remains behind.
Such is the tact of the Parisians, that even the ignorant conceal the
poverty of their minds, and might, to casual observers, pass as being
in no way deficient, owing to the address with which they glide in an
_à propos oui, ou non_, and an appropriate shake of the head, nod of
assent, or dissent.
The constitutional vivacity of the French depending much on their
mercurial temperaments, greatly aids them in conversation. A light and
playful sally acquires additional merit when uttered with gaiety; and
should a _bon mot_ even contain something calculated to pique any one
present, or reflect on the absent, the mode in which it is uttered
takes off from the force of the matter; whereas, on the contrary, the
more grave and sententious manner peculiar to the English adds pungency
to their satire. Our old and valued friend, Mr. J. Strangways, has
arrived at Paris, and very glad were we to see him once more. He passed
through a severe trial since last we parted; and his conduct under it
towards his poor friend, Mr. Anson, does him credit.
The two companions--one the brother of the Earl of Ilchester, and the
other of Lord Anson--were travelling in Syria together. They had passed
through Aleppo, where the plague had then appeared, and were at the
distance of several days' journey from it, congratulating themselves on
their safety, when, owing to some error on the part of those who
examined their firman, they were compelled to retrace their steps to
Aleppo, where, condemned to become the inhabitants of a lazaretto until
the imagined mistake could be corrected, they found themselves
_tête-à-tête_.
The first two or three days passed without any thing to alarm the
friends. Engaged in drawing maps for their intended route, and plans
for the future, the hours glided away even cheerfully.
But this cheerfulness was not long to continue; for Mr. Anson, having
one morning asked Mr. Strangways to hold the end of his shawl while he
twisted it round his head as a turban, the latter observed, with a
degree of horror and dismay more easily to be imagined than described,
the fatal plague-spot clearly defined on the back of the neck of his
unfortunate friend.
He concealed his emotion, well knowing that a suspicion of its cause
would add to the danger of Mr. Anson, who, as yet, was unconscious of
the fearful malady that had already assailed him. Totally alone,
without aid, save that contained in their own very limited resources,
what must have been the feelings of Mr. Strangways, as he contemplated
his luckless companion?
He dreaded to hear the announcement of physical suffering, though he
well knew it must soon come, and marked with indescribable anguish the
change that rapidly began to be manifested in his friend. But even this
most terrible of all maladies was influenced by the gallant spirit of
him on whom it was now preying; for not a complaint, not a murmur,
broke from his lips: and it was not until Mr. Strangways had repeatedly
urged the most affectionate inquiries that he admitted he was not quite
well.
Delirium quickly followed; but even then this noble-minded young man
bore up against the fearful assaults of disease, and thought and spoke
only of those dear and absent friends he was doomed never again to
behold. It was a dreadful trial to Mr. Strangways to sit by the bed of
death, far, far away from home and friends, endeavouring to cool the
burning brow and to refresh the parched lips of him so fondly loved in
that distant land of which he raved.
He spoke of his home, of those who made it so dear to him, and even the
songs of infancy were again murmured by the dying lips. His friend
quitted him not for a minute until all was over; and _he_ was left
indeed alone to watch, over the corpse of him whom he had tried in vain
to save.
That Mr. Strangways should have escaped the contagion, seems little
less than miraculous. I, who have known him so long and so well,
attribute it to the state of his mind, which was so wholly occupied by
anxiety for his friend as to leave no room for any thought of self.
Made no entry in my journal for two days, owing to a slight
indisposition, which furnished an excuse for laziness.
Dined at Lointier's yesterday--a splendid repast given by Count A. de
Maussion, in consequence of a wager, lost on a subject connected with
the line arts. The party consisted of all those present at our house
when the wager was made. The Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, Mr. and Mrs.
Francis Hare, the Duc de Talleyrand, Duc de Dino, Count Valeski, Mr. J.
Strangways, and our own large family circle.
The dinner was the most _recherché_ that could be furnished: "all the
delicacies of the season," as a London paper would term it, were
provided; and an epicure, however fastidious, would have been satisfied
with the choice and variety of the _plats_; while a _gourmand_ would
have luxuriated in the quantity.
Nothing in the style of the apartments, or the service of the dinner,
bore the least indication that we were in the house of a _restaurant_.
A large and richly furnished _salon_, well lighted, received the
company before dinner; and in a _salle à manger_ of equal dimensions,
and equally well arranged, the dinner was served on a very fine service
of old plate.
Count de Maussion did the honours of the dinner _à merveille_, and it
passed off very gaily. It had been previously agreed that the whole
party were to adjourn to the Porte St. Martin, at which Count de
Maussion had engaged three large private boxes; and the ladies,
consequently, with one exception, came _en demi-toilette_.
The exception was Mrs. Hare, who, not aware that at Paris people never
go _en grande toilette_ to the theatres, came so smartly dressed, that,
seeing our simple toilettes, she was afraid of incurring observation if
she presented herself in a rich dress with short sleeves, a gold tissue
turban with a bird-of-paradise plume, and an _aigrette_ of coloured
stones; so she went to our house, with a few of the party, while I
accompanied the rest to the theatre.
The piece was _Faust_, adapted from Goethe, and was admirably
performed, more especially the parts of "Mephistopheles" and
"Margaret," in which Madame Dorval acts inimitably. This actress has
great merit; and the earnestness of her manner, and the touching tones
of her voice, give a great air of truth to her performances. The
prison-scene was powerfully acted; and the madness of "Margaret" when
stretched on her bed of straw, resisting the vain efforts of her lover
to rescue her, had a fearful reality.
The character of "Margaret" is a fine conception, and Goethe has
wrought it out beautifully. The simplicity, gentleness, and warm
feelings of the village maiden, excite a strong interest for her, even
when worked upon by Vanity; that alloy which, alas for Woman's virtue
and happiness! is too frequently found mixed up in the pure ore of her
nature.
The childish delight with which poor "Margaret" contemplates the
trinkets presented by her lover; the baleful ascendency acquired over
her by her female companion; and her rapid descent in the path of evil
when, as is ever the case, the commission of one sin entails so many,
render this drama a very effective moral lesson.
Of all Goethe's works, _Faust_ is the one I most like; and, of all his
female characters, "Margaret" is that which I prefer. A fine vein of
philosophy runs through the whole of this production, in which the
vanity of human knowledge without goodness was never more powerfully
exemplified.
"Faust," tempted by the desire of acquiring forbidden knowledge, yields
up his soul to the evil one; yet still retains enough of the humanity
of his nature to render him wretched, when her he loves, and has drawn
ruin on, suffers the penalty of his crime and of her love.
Exquisitely has Goethe wrought out the effects of the all-engrossing
passion of the poor "Margaret"--a passion that even in madness, still
clings to its object with all woman's tenderness and devotion,
investing even insanity with the touching charm of love. How perfect is
the part when, endeavouring to pray, the hapless "Margaret" fancies
that she hears the gibbering of evil spirits interrupting her
supplications, so that even the consolation of addressing the Divinity
is denied her!
But the last scene--that in the prison--is the most powerful of all.
Never was madness more touchingly delineated, or woman's nature more
truly developed;--that nature so little understood by those who are so
prone to pervert it, and whose triumphs over its virtues are always
achieved by means of the excess of that propensity to love, and to
believe in the truth of the object beloved, which is one of the most
beautiful characteristics in woman; though, wo to her! it is but too
often used to her undoing.
The feelings of poor "Margaret" are those of all her sex, ere vice has
sullied the nature it never can wholly subdue.
Mr. and Mrs. Hare left Paris to-day. I regret their departure; for she
is lively and agreeable, and I have known him so long, and like him so
well, that their society afforded me pleasure.
A large party at dinner, yesterday; among whom, was Mr. M----, who has
acquired a certain celebrity for his _bons mots_. He is said to be
decidedly clever, and to know the world thoroughly: appreciating it at
its just value, and using it as if formed for his peculiar profit and
pleasure. He is lately returned from England, where he has been
received with that hospitality that characterises the English, and has
gone a round of visits to many of the best houses.
He spoke in high terms of the hospitality he had experienced, but
agreed in the opinion I have often heard Lord Byron give, that the
society in English country-houses is any thing but agreeable.
I had heard so much of Mr. M----, that I listened to his conversation
with more interest than I might have done, had not so many reports of
his shrewdness and wit reached me. Neither seem to have been overrated;
for nothing escapes his quick perception; and his caustic wit is
unsparingly and fearlessly applied to all subjects and persons that
excite it into action.
He appears to be a privileged person--an anomaly seldom innoxiously
permitted in society: for those who may say _all they_ please, rarely
abstain from saying much that may displease others; and, though a laugh
may he often excited by their wit, some one of the circle is sure to be
wounded by it.
Great wit is not often allied to good-nature, for the indulgence of the
first is destructive to the existence of the second, except where the
wit is tempered by a more than ordinary share of sensibility and
refinement, directing its exercise towards works of imagination,
instead of playing it off, as is too frequently the case, against those
with whom its owner may come in contact.
Byron, had he not been a poet, would have become a wit in society; and,
instead of delighting his readers, would have wounded his associates.
Luckily for others, as well as for his own fame, he devoted to
literature that ready and brilliant wit which sparkles in so many of
his pages, instead of condescending to expend it in _bons mots_, or
_réparties_, that might have set the table on a roar, and have been
afterwards, as often occurs, mutilated in being repeated by, others.
The quickness of apprehension peculiar to the French, joined to the
excessive _amour propre_, which is one of the most striking of their
characteristics, render them exceedingly susceptible to the arrows of
wit; which, when barbed by ridicule, inflict wounds on their vanity
difficult to be healed, and which they are ever ready to avenge.
But this very acuteness of apprehension induces a caution in not
resenting the assaults of wit, unless the wounded can retort with
success by a similar weapon, or that the attack has been so obvious
that he is justified in resenting it by a less poetical one. Hence
arises a difficult position for him on whom a wit is pleased to
exercise his talent; and this is one of the many reasons why privileged
persons seldom add much to the harmony of society.
Went last night to the Porte St. Martin, and saw _Sept Heures_
represented. This piece has excited a considerable sensation at Paris;
and the part of the heroine, "Charlotte Corday," being enacted by
Madame Dorval, a very clever actress, it is very popular.
"Charlotte Corday" is represented in the piece, not as a heroine
actuated purely by patriotic motives in seeking the destruction of a
tyrant who inflicted such wounds on her country, but by the less
sublime one of avenging the death of her lover. This, in my opinion,
lessens the interest of the drama, and atones not for the horror always
inspired by a woman's arming herself for a scene of blood.
The taste of the Parisians has, I think, greatly degenerated, both in
their light literature and their dramas. The desire for excitement, and
not a decrease of talent, is the cause; and this morbid craving for it
will, I fear, lead to injurious consequences, not only in literature,
but in other and graver things.
The schoolmaster is, indeed, abroad in France, and has in all parts of
it found apt scholars--perhaps, too apt; and, like all such, the
digestion of what is acquired does not equal the appetite for
acquisition: consequently, the knowledge gained is as yet somewhat
crude and unavailable. Nevertheless, the people are making rapid
strides in improvement; and ignorance will soon be more rare than
knowledge formerly was.
At present, their minds are somewhat unsettled by the recentness of
their progress; and in the exuberance consequent on such a state, some
danger is to be apprehended.
Like a room from which light has been long excluded, and in which a
large window is opened, all the disagreeable objects in it so long
shrouded in darkness are so fully revealed, that the owner, becoming
impatient to remove them and substitute others in their place, often
does so at the expense of appropriateness, and crowds the chamber with
a heterogeneous _mélange_ of furniture, which, however useful in
separate parts, are too incongruous to produce a good effect. So the
minds of the French people are now too enlightened any longer to suffer
the prejudices that formerly filled them to remain, and have, in their
impatience, stored them with new ideas and opinions--many of them good
and useful, but too hastily adopted, and not in harmony with each other
to be productive of a good result, until time has enabled their owners
to class and arrange them.
I am every day more forcibly struck with the natural quickness and
intelligence of the people here: but this very quickness is a cause
that may tend to retard their progress in knowledge, by inducing them
to jump at conclusions, instead of marching slowly but steadily to
them; and conclusions so rapidly made are apt to be as hastily acted
upon, and, consequently, occasion errors that take some time to be
discovered, and still more to be corrected, before the truth is
attained.
CHAPTER X.
Made the acquaintance of the celebrated Dr. P----, today, at Madame
C----'s. He is a very interesting old man; and, though infirm in body,
his mind is as fresh, and his vivacity as unimpaired, as if he had not
numbered forty instead of eighty summers.
I am partial to the society of clever medical men, for the
opportunities afforded them of becoming acquainted with human nature,
by studying it under all the phases of illness, convalescence, and on
the bed of death, when the real character is exposed unveiled from the
motives that so often shadow, if not give it a false character, in the
days of health, render their conversation very interesting.
I have observed, too, that the knowledge of human nature thus attained
neither hardens the heart nor blunts the sensibility, for some of the
most kind-natured men I ever knew were also the most skilful physicians
and admirable, surgeons. Among these is Mr. Guthrie, of London, whose
rare dexterity in his art I have often thought may be in a great degree
attributed to this very kindness of nature, which has induced him to
bestow a more than usual attention to acquiring it, in order to abridge
the sufferings of his patients.
In operations on the eye, in which he has gained such a justly merited
celebrity, I have been told by those from whose eyes he had removed
cataracts, that his precision and celerity are so extraordinary as to
appear to them little short of miraculous.
Talking on this subject with Dr. P---- to-day, he observed, that he
considered strength of mind and kindness of heart indispensable
requisites to form a surgeon; and that it was a mistake to suppose that
these qualities had any other than a salutary influence over the nerves
of a surgeon.
"It braces them, Madame," said he; "for pity towards the patient
induces an operator to perform his difficult task _con amore_, in order
to relieve him."
Dr. P---- has nearly lost his voice, and speaks in a low but distinct
whisper. Tall and thin, with a face pale as marble, but full of
intelligence, he looks, when bending on his gold-headed cane, the very
_beau idéal_ of a physician of _la Vieille Cour_, and he still retains
the costume of that epoch. His manner, half jest and half earnest,
gives an idea of what that of the Philosopher of Ferney must have been
when in a good humour, and adds piquancy to his narrations. Madame
C----, who is an especial favourite of his, and who can draw him out in
conversation better than any one else, in paying him a delicate and
well-timed compliment on his celebrity, added, that few had ever so
well merited it.
"Ah! Madame, celebrity is not always accorded to real merit," said he,
smiling. "I have before told Madame that mine--if I may be permitted to
recur to it--was gained by an artifice I had recourse to, and without
which, I firmly believe I should have remained unknown."
"No, no! my dear doctor," replied Madame C----; "your merit must have,
in time, acquired you the great fame you enjoy." The Doctor laughed
heartily, but persisted in denying this; and the lady urged him to
relate to me the plan he had so successfully pursued in abridging his
road to Fortune. He seemed flattered by her request, and by my desire
for his compliance with it, and commenced as follows:--
"I came from the country, Mesdames, with no inconsiderable
claims to distinction in my profession. I had studied it _con
amore_, and, urged by the desire that continually haunted me
of becoming a benefactor to mankind--ay! ladies, and still
more anxious to relieve your fair and gentle sex from those
ills to which the delicacy of your frames and the sensibility
of your minds so peculiarly expose you--I came to Paris with
little money and few friends, and those few possessed no
power to forward my interest.
"It is true they recommended me to such of their acquaintance
as needed advice; but whether, owing to the season being a
peculiarly healthy one, or that the acquaintances of my
friends enjoyed an unusual portion of good health, I was
seldom called on to attend them; and, when I was, the
remuneration offered was proportioned, not to the relief
afforded, but to the want of fame of him who lent it.
"My purse diminished even more rapidly than my hopes, though
they, too, began to fade; and it was with a heavy heart that
I look my pen to write home to those dear friends who
believed that Paris was a second _El Dorado_, where all who
sought--must find--Fortune.
"At length, when one night stretched on my humble bed, and
sleepless from the cares that pressed heavily on my mind, it
occurred to me that I must put some plan into action for
getting myself known; and one suggested itself, which I next
day adopted.
"I changed one of the few remaining _louis d'or_ in my purse,
and, sallying forth into one of the most popular streets, I
wrote down the addresses of some of the most
respectable-looking houses, and going up to a porter, desired
him to knock at the doors named, and inquire if the
celebrated Doctor P---- was there, as his presence was
immediately required at the hôtel of the Duc de ----.
"I despatched no less than twenty messengers through the
different streets on the same errand, and having succeeded in
persuading each that it was of the utmost importance that the
celebrated Doctor P---- should be found, they persuaded the
owners of the houses of the same necessity.
"I persevered in this system for a few days, and then tried
its efficacy at night, thinking that, when knocked up from
their beds, people would be sure to be more impressed with
the importance of a doctor in such general request.
"My scheme succeeded. In a few days, I was repeatedly called
in by various patients, and liberal fees poured into the
purse of the celebrated Dr. P----. Unfortunately my practice,
although every day multiplying even beyond my most sanguine
hopes, was entirely confined to the _bourgeoisie_; and though
they paid well, my ambition pointed to higher game, and I
longed to feel the pulses of _la haute noblesse_, and to
ascertain if the fine porcelain of which I had heard they
were formed was indeed as much superior to the delf of which
the _bourgeoisie_ are said to be manufactured, as I was led
to believe.
"Luckily for me, the _femme de chambre_ of a grand lady
fancied herself ill, mentioned the fancy to her friend, who
was one of my patients, and who instantly advised her to
consult the _celebrated_ Dr. P----, adding a lively account
of the extent of my practice and the great request I was in.
"The _femme de chambre_ consulted me, described symptoms
enough to baffle all the schools of medicine in France, so
various and contradictory were they, and I, discovering that
she really had nothing the matter with her, advised what I
knew would be very palatable to her,--namely, a very
nutritious _régime_, as much air and amusement as was
possible in her position, and gave her a prescription for
some gentle medicine, to prevent any evil effect from the
luxurious fare I had recommended.
"I was half tempted to refuse the fee she slipped into my
hand, but I recollected that people never value what they get
for nothing, and so I pocketed it.
"In a few days, I was sent for to the Hôtel--to attend the
Duchesse de ---- the mistress of the said _femme de chambre_.
This was an event beyond my hopes, and I determined to profit
by it. I found the Duchesse suffering under a malady--if
malady it could be called--to which I have since discovered
grand ladies are peculiarly subject; namely, a superfluity of
_embonpoint_, occasioned by luxurious habits and the want of
exercise.
"'I am very much indisposed, Doctor,' lisped the lady, 'and
your prescription has done my _femme de chambre_ so much
good, that I determined to send for you. I am so very ill,
that I am fast losing my shape; my face, too, is no longer
the same; and my feet and hands are not to be recognised.'
"I drew out my watch, felt her pulse, looked grave,
inquired--though it was useless, her _embonpoint_ having
revealed it--what were her general habits and _régime_; and
then, having written a prescription, urged the necessity of
her abandoning _café au lait_, rich _consommés_, and
high-seasoned _entrées_; recommended early rising and
constant exercise; and promised that a strict attention to my
advice would soon restore her health, and with it her shape.
"I was told to call every day until further orders; and I,
pleading the excess of occupation which would render my daily
visits to her so difficult, consented to make them, only on
condition that my fair patient was to walk with me every day
six times around the garden of her hôtel; for I guessed she
was too indolent to persevere in taking exercise if left to
herself.
"The system I pursued with her succeeded perfectly. I was
then a very active man, and I walked so fast that I left the
Duchesse every day when our promenade ended bathed in a
copious perspiration; which, aided by the medicine and
sparing _régime_, soon restored her figure to its former
symmetry.
"At her hôtel, I daily met ladies of the highest rank and
distinction, many of whom were suffering from a similar
cause, the same annoyance for which the Duchesse consulted
me; and I then discovered that there is no malady, however
grave, so distressing to your sex, ladies, or for the cure of
which they are so willing to submit to the most disagreeable
_régime_, as for aught that impairs their personal beauty.
"When her female friends saw the improvement effected in the
appearance of the Duchesse by my treatment, I was consulted
by them all, and my fame and fortune rapidly increased. I was
proclaimed to be the most wonderful physician, and to have
effected the most extraordinary cures; when, in truth, I but
consulted Nature, and aided her efforts.
"Shortly after this period, a grand lady, an acquaintance of
one of my many patients among the _noblesse_, consulted me;
and here the case was wholly different to that of the
Duchesse, for this lady had grown so thin, that
wrinkles--those most frightful of all symptoms of decaying
beauty--had made their appearance. My new patient told me
that, hearing that hitherto my great celebrity had been
acquired by the cure of obesity, she feared it was useless to
consult me for a disease of so opposite a nature, but even
still more distressing.
"I inquired into her habits and _régime_. Found that she took
violent exercise; was abstemious at table; drank strong green
tea, and coffee without cream or milk; disliked nutritious
food; and, though she sat up late, was an early riser. I
ordered her the frequent use of warm baths, and to take all
that I had prohibited the Duchesse; permitted only gentle
exercise in a carriage; and, in short, soon succeeded in
rendering the thin lady plump and rosy, to the great joy of
herself, and the wonder of her friends.
"This treatment, which was only what any one possessed of
common sense would have prescribed in such a case, extended
my fame far and wide. Fat and thin ladies flocked to me for
advice, and not only liberally rewarded the success of my
system, but sounded my praises in all quarters.
"I became the doctor _à la mode_, soon amassed an
independence, and, though not without a confidence in my own
skill--for I have never lost any opportunity of improvement
in my profession--I must confess that I still retain the
conviction that the celebrated Doctor P---- would have had
little chance, at least for many years, of acquiring either
fame or wealth, had he not employed the means I have
confessed to you, ladies."
I cannot do justice to this _spirituel_ old man's mode of telling the
story, or describe the finesse of his arch smile while recounting it.
Mr. P.C. Scarlett, a son of our excellent and valued friend Sir James
Scarlett[3], dined here yesterday. He is a fine young man, clever,
well-informed, and amiable, with the same benignant countenance and
urbanity of manner that are so remarkable in his father.
I remember how much struck I was with Sir James Scarlett's countenance
when he was first presented to me. It has in it such a happy mixture of
sparkling intelligence and good-nature that I was immediately pleased
with him, even before I had an opportunity of knowing the rare and
excellent qualities for which he is distinguished, and the treasures of
knowledge with which his mind is stored.
I have seldom met any man so well versed in literature as Sir James
Scarlett, or with a more refined taste for it; and when one reflects on
the arduous duties of his profession--duties which he has ever
fulfilled with such credit to himself and advantage to others--it seems
little short of miraculous how he could have found time to have made
himself so intimately acquainted, not only with the classics, but with
all the elegant literature of England and France.
How many pleasant days have I passed in the society of Lord Erskine and
Sir James Scarlett! Poor Lord Erskine! never more shall I hear your
eloquent tongue utter _bons mots_ in which wit sparkled, but ill-nature
never appeared; nor see your luminous eyes flashing with joyousness, as
when, surrounded by friends at the festive board, you rendered the
banquet indeed "the feast of reason and the flow of soul!"
Mr. H---- B---- dined here yesterday, and he talked over the pleasant
days we had passed in Italy. He is an excellent specimen of the young
men of the present day. Well-informed, and with a mind highly
cultivated, he has travelled much in other countries, without losing
any of the good qualities and habits peculiar to his own.
Went to the Théàtre Italien, last night, and heard Madame Malibran sing
for the first time. Her personation of "Desdemona" is exquisite, and
the thrilling tones of her voice were in perfect harmony with the deep
sensibility she evinced in every look and movement.
I have heard no singer to please me comparable to Malibran: there is
something positively electrical in the effect she produces on my
feelings. Her acting is as original as it is effective; Passion and
Nature are her guides, and she abandons herself to them _con amore_.
The only defect I can discover in her singing is an excess of
_fiorituri_, that sometimes destroys the _vraisemblance_ of the _rôle_
she is enacting, and makes one think more of the wonderful singer than
of "Desdemona." This defect, however, is atoned for by the bursts of
passion into which her powerful voice breaks when some deep emotion is
to be expressed, and the accomplished singer is forgotten in the
impassioned "Desdemona."
Spent last evening at Madame C----'s, and met there la Duchcsse de la
Force, la Marquise de Bréhan, and the usual _habitués de la maison_. La
Duchesse is one of _l'ancien régime_, though less ceremonious than they
are in general said to be, and appears to be as good-natured as she is
good-humoured.
The Marquise de B---- told me some amusing anecdotes of the Imperial
Court, and of the gaiety and love of dress of the beautiful Princesse
Pauline Borghese, to whom she was much attached.
The whole of the Buonaparte family seem to have possessed, in an
eminent degree, the happy art of conciliating good-will in those around
them--an art necessary in all persons filling elevated positions, but
doubly so in those who have achieved their own elevation. The family of
the Emperor Napoleon were remarkable for the kindness and consideration
they invariably evinced for those who in any way depended on them, yet
a natural dignity of manner precluded the possibility of familiarity.
The Marquise de B---- having mentioned the Duchesse d'Abrantes, Madame
C---- inquired kindly for her, and the Marquise told her that she had
been only a few days before to pay her a visit.
Anxious to learn something of a woman who filled so distinguished a
position during the imperial dynasty, I questioned Madame de B----, and
learned that the Duchesse d'Abrantes, who for many years lived in a
style of splendour that, even in the palmy days of her husband's
prosperity, when, governor of Paris, he supported almost a regal
establishment, excited the surprise, if not envy, of his
contemporaries, is now reduced to so limited an income that many of the
comforts, if not the necessaries of life, are denied her.
"She supports her privations cheerfully," added the Marquise; "her
conversation abounds in anecdotes of remarkable people, and she relates
them with a vivacity and piquancy peculiar to her, which render her
society very amusing and interesting. The humanity, if not the policy,
of the Bourbons may be questioned in their leaving the widow of a brave
general in a state of poverty that must remind her, with bitterness, of
the altered fortunes entailed on her and many others by their
restoration."
When indemnities were granted to those whom the Revolution, which drove
the royal family from France, nearly beggared, it would have been well
if a modest competency had been assigned to those whose sons and
husbands shed their blood for their country, and helped to achieve for
it that military glory which none can deny it.
Went over the Luxembourg Palace and Gardens to-day. The only change in
the former since I last saw it, is that some pictures, painted by
French artists at Rome, and very creditable to them, have been added to
its collection.
I like these old gardens, with their formal walks and prim _parterres_;
I like also the company by which they are chiefly frequented,
consisting of old people and young children.
Along the walk exposed to the southern aspect, several groups of old
men were sauntering, conversing with an animation seldom seen in
sexagenarians, except in France; old women, too, many of them holding
lapdogs by a riband, and attended by a female servant, were taking
their daily walk; while, occasionally, might be seen an elderly couple
exhibiting towards each other an assiduity pleasant to behold,
displayed by the husband's arranging the shawl or cloak of his wife, or
the wife gently brushing away with her glove the silken threads left on
his sleeve by its contact with hers.
No little portion of the love that united them in youth may still be
witnessed in these old couples. Each has lost every trace of the
comeliness that first attracted them to each other; but they remember
what they were, and memory, gilding the past, shews each to the other,
not as they actually are, but as they were many a long year ago. No
face, however fair,--not even the blooming one of their favourite
granddaughter, seems so lovely to the uxorious old husband as the one
he remembers to have been so proud of forty years ago, and which still
beams on him with an expression of tenderness that reminds him of its
former beauty. And she, too, with what complacency does she listen to
his oft-repealed reminiscences of her youthful attractions, and how
dear is the bond that still unites them!
Plain and uninteresting in the eyes of others, they present only the
aspect of age; alas! never lovely: but in them at least other gleams of
past good looks recall the past, when each considered the other
peerless, though now they alone remember that "such things were, and
were most sweet."
Their youth and their maturity have been passed together; their joys
and their sorrows have been shared, and they are advancing hand in hand
towards that rapid descent in the mountain of life, at whose base is
the grave, hoping that in death they may not be divided.
Who can look at those old couples, and not feel impressed with the
sanctity and blessedness of marriage, which, binding two destinies in
one, giving the same interests and the same objects of affection to
both, secures for each a companionship and a consolation for those days
which must come to all, when, fallen into the sere and yellow leaf, the
society of the young and gay can no longer charm them, and the present
requires the recollections of the past to render it less cheerless;
recollections only to be found in those who have grown old together?
Yonder old man, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged woman, who seems
less like his housekeeper than his domestic tyrant, offers an example
of the fate of those who have lived in what is commonly called a state
of single blessedness. A youth and maturity of pleasure have been
followed by an old age of infirmity.
He had a thousand pleasantries ready to utter on the subject of
marriage whenever it was mentioned; could cite endless examples of
unhappy couples (forgetting to name a single one of the happy); and
laughed and shook his head as he declared that _he_ never would be
caught.
As long as health remained, and that he could pass his evenings in gay
society, or at the theatres, he felt not the want of that greatest of
all comforts, _home_; a comfort inseparable from a wife to share, as
well as to make it. But the first attack of illness that confined him
to his room, with no tender hand to smooth his pillow, no gentle voice
to inquire into his wants, or to minister to them; no one to anticipate
his wishes almost before he had framed them; no loving face to look
fondly and anxiously on him; made him feel sensible, that though a
bachelor's life of pleasure may pass agreeably enough during the season
of health, it is a most cheerless and dreary state of existence when
deprived of it.
The discovery is, alas! made too late. All that he had ever heard or
urged against matrimony applies tenfold to cases where it is contracted
in old age. He can still admire youth and beauty, but he knows that
with such there can never exist any reciprocity with his own feelings.
The young beauty who would barter her charms for his wealth, would be,
he knows, no suitable companion for his fire-side; and to wed some
staid dame whose youth has been passed with some dear, kind, first
husband--of whom, if not often speaking, she might in all human
probability be sometimes thinking--has something too repugnant to his
feelings to be thought of.
An elderly maiden with a lap-dog, or a parrot, would be even more
insupportable; for how could one who has never had to consult the
pleasure or wishes of aught save self be able to study his? No! it is
now too late to think of marriage, and what, therefore, is to be done?
In this emergency, a severe attack of rheumatism confines him to his
chamber for many days. His valet is found out to be clumsy and awkward
in assisting him to put on his flannel gloves; the housekeeper, who is
called up to receive instructions about some particular broth that he
requires, is asked to officiate, and suggests so many little comforts,
and evinces so much sympathy for his sufferings, that she is soon
installed as nurse.
By administering to his wants, and still more by flattery and
obsequiousness, she soon renders herself indispensable to the invalid.
She is proclaimed to be a treasure, and her accounts, which hitherto
had been sharply scrutinised and severely censured, are henceforth
allowed to pass unblamed, and, consequently, soon amount to double the
sum which had formerly, and with reason, been found fault with. The
slightest symptom of illness is magnified into a serious attack by the
supposed affectionate and assiduous nurse, until her master, in
compliance with her advice, becomes a confirmed hypochondriac, whom she
governs despotically under a show of devoted attachment.
She has, by slow but sure degrees, alienated him from all his
relatives, and banished from his house the few friends whom she
believed possessed any influence over him. Having rendered herself
essential to his comfort, she menaces him continually with the threat
of leaving his service; and is only induced to remain by a considerable
increase to her salary, though not, as she asserts, by any interested
motive.
She lately informed her master, that she was "very sorry--very sorry,
indeed--but it was time for her to secure her future comfort; and M.
----, the rich grocer, had proposed marriage to her, and offered a good
settlement. It would be a great grief to her to leave so kind a master,
especially as she knew no one to whom she could confide the care of
him; but a settlement of 4000 francs a-year was not to be refused, and
she might never again receive so good an offer."
The proposal of the rich grocer, which never existed but in her own
fertile brain, is rejected, and her continuance as housekeeper and
nurse secured by a settlement of a similar sum made on her by her
master; who congratulates himself on having accomplished so
advantageous a bargain, while she is laughing with the valet at his
credulity.
This same valet, finding her influence to be omnipotent with his
master, determines on marrying her secretly, that they may join in
plundering the valetudinarian, whose infirmities furnish a perpetual
subject for the coarse pleasantries of both these ungrateful menials.
She is now giving him his daily walk on the sunny side of the
Luxembourg Gardens. See how she turns abruptly down an alley, in
despite of his request to continue where he was: but the truth is, her
Argus eyes have discovered his niece and her beautiful children walking
at a distance; and, as she has not only prevented their admission to
his house, but concealed their visits, intercepted their letters,
making him believe they are absent from Paris and have forgotten him,
she now precludes their meeting; while to his querulous murmurs at
being hurried along, she answers that the alley she has taken him to is
more sheltered.
It is true the invalid sometimes half suspects, not only that he is
governed, but somewhat despotically, too, by the worthy and
affectionate creature, whose sole study it is to take care of his
health. He considers it hard to be debarred from sending for one of his
old friends to play a party at picquet, or a game at chess with him,
during the long winter evenings; and he thinks it would be pleasanter
to have some of his female relatives occasionally to dinner: but as the
least hint on these subjects never fails to produce ill-humour on the
part of the "good Jeanette," who declares that such unreasonable
indulgence would inevitably destroy the precious health of Monsieur, he
submits to her will; and while wholly governed by an ignorant and
artful servant, can still smile that he is free from being henpecked by
a wife.
CHAPTER XI.
In no part of Paris are so many children to be seen us in the gardens
of the Luxembourg. At every step may be encountered groups of playful
creatures of every age, from the infant slumbering in its nurse's arms,
to the healthful girl holding her little brother or sister by the hand
as her little charge toddles along; or the manly boy, who gives his arm
to his younger sister with all the air of protection of manhood.
What joyous sounds of mirth come from each group--the clear voices
ringing pleasantly on the ear, from creatures fair and blooming as the
flowers of the rich _parterres_ among which they wander! How each group
examines the other--half-disposed to join in each other's sports, but
withheld by a vague fear of making the first advances--a fear which
indicates that even already civilisation and the artificial habits it
engenders, have taught them the restraint it imposes!
The nurses, too, scrutinise each other, and their little masters and
misses, as they meet. They take in at a glance the toilettes of each,
and judge with an extraordinary accuracy the station of life to which
they appertain.
The child of noble birth is known by the simplicity of its dress and
the good manners of its _bonne_; while that of _the parvenu_ is at once
recognised by the showiness and expensiveness of its clothes, and the
superciliousness of its nurse, who, accustomed to the purse-proud
pretensions of her employers, values nothing so much as all the
attributes that indicate the possession of wealth.
The little children look wistfully at each other every time they meet;
then begin to smile, and at length approach, and join, half-timidly,
half-laughingly, in each other's sports. The nurses, too, draw near,
enter into a conversation, in which each endeavours to insinuate the
importance of her young charge, and consequently her own; while the
children have already contracted an intimacy, which is exemplified by
running hand-in-hand together, their clear jocund voices being mingled.
It is a beautiful sight to behold these gay creatures, who have little
more than passed the first two or three years of life, with the roses
of health glowing on their dimpled cheeks, and the joyousness of
infancy sparkling in their eyes.
They know nought of existence but its smiles; and, caressed by doating
parents, have not a want unsatisfied. Entering life all hope and
gaiety, what a contrast do they offer to the groups of old men who must
so soon leave it, who are basking in the sunshine so near them! Yet
they, too, have had their hours of joyous infancy; and, old and faded
as they are, they have been doated on, as they gambolled like the happy
little beings they now pause to contemplate.
There was something touching in the contrast of youth and age brought
thus together, and I thought that more than one of the old men seemed
to feel it as they looked on the happy children.
I met my new acquaintance, Dr. P----, who was walking with two or three
_savans_; and, having spoken to him, he joined us in our promenade, and
greatly added to its pleasure by his sensible remarks and by his
cheerful tone of mind. He told me that the sight of the fine children
daily to be met in the Luxembourg Gardens, was as exhilarating to his
spirits as the gay flowers in the _parterre_ and that he had frequently
prescribed a walk here to those whose minds stood in need of such a
stimulant.
The General and Countess d'Orsay arrived yesterday from their
_château_, in Franche-Comté. A long correspondence had taught me to
appreciate the gifted mind of Madame, who, to solid attainments, joins
a sparkling wit and vivacity that render her conversation delightful.
The Countess d'Orsay has been a celebrated beauty; and, though a
grandmother, still retains considerable traces of it. Her countenance
is so _spirituelle_ and piquant, that it gives additional point to the
clever things she perpetually utters; and what greatly enhances her
attractions is the perfect freedom from any of the airs of a _bel
esprit_, and the total exemption from affectation that distinguishes
her.
General d'Orsay, known from his youth as Le Beau d'Orsay, still
justifies the appellation, for he is the handsomest man of his age that
I have ever beheld. It is said that when the Emperor Napoleon first saw
him, he observed that he would make an admirable model for a Jupiter,
so noble and commanding was the character of his beauty.
Like most people remarkable for good looks, General d'Orsay is reported
to have been wholly free from vanity; to which, perhaps, may be
attributed the general assent accorded to his personal attractions
which, while universally admitted, excited none of the envy and
ill-will which such advantages but too often draw on their possessor.
There is a calm and dignified simplicity in the manners of General
d'Orsay, that harmonises well with his lofty bearing.
It is very gratifying to witness the affection and good intelligence
that reign in the domestic circles in France. Grandfathers and
grandmothers here meet with an attention from their children and
grandchildren, the demonstrations of which are very touching; and I
often see gay and brilliant parties abandoned by some of those with
whom I am in the habit of daily intercourse, in order that they may
pass the evenings with their aged relatives.
Frequently do I see the beautiful Duchesse de Guiche enter the _salon_
of her grandmother, sparkling in diamonds, after having hurried away
from some splendid _fête_, of which she was the brightest ornament, to
spend an hour with her before she retired to rest; and the Countess
d'Orsay is so devoted to her mother, that nearly her whole time is
passed with her.
It is pleasant to see the mother and grandmother inspecting and
commenting on the toilette of the lovely daughter, of whom they are so
justly proud, while she is wholly occupied in inquiring about the
health of each, or answering their questions relative to that of her
children.
The good and venerable Duc de Gramont examines his daughter-in-law
through his eyeglass, and, with an air of paternal affection, observes
to General d'Orsay, "How well our daughter looks to-night!"
Madame Craufurd, referring to her great age last evening, said to me,
and a tear stole down her cheek while she spoke:
"Ah, my dear friend! how can I think that I must soon leave
all those who love me so much, and whom I so dote on, without
bitter regret? Yes, I am too happy here to be as resigned as
I ought to be to meet death."
Saw Potier in the _Ci-devant Jeune Homme_ last night. It is an
excellent piece of acting, from the first scene where he appears in all
the infirmity of age, in his night-cap and flannel dressing-gown, to
the last, in which he portrays tho would-be young man. His face, his
figure, his cough, are inimitable; and when he recounts to his servant
the gaieties of the previous night, the hollow cheek, sunken eye, and
hurried breathing of the "Ci-devant Jeune Homme" render the scene most
impressive.
Nothing could be more comic than the metamorphose effected in his
appearance by dress, except it were his endeavours to assume an air and
countenance suitable to the juvenility of his toilette; while, at
intervals, some irrepressible symptom of infirmity reminded the
audience of the pangs the effort to appear young inflicted on him.
Potier is a finished actor, and leaves nothing to be wished, except
that he may long continue to perform and delight his audience as last
night.
Dined yesterday at the Countess d'Orsay's, with a large family party.
The only stranger was Sir Francis Burdett. A most agreeable dinner,
followed by a very pleasant evening. I have seldom seen any Englishman
enjoy French society as much as the worthy baronet does. He speaks the
language with great facility, is well acquainted with its literature,
and has none of the prejudices which militate so much against acquiring
a perfect knowledge of the manners and customs of a foreign country.
French society has decidedly one great superiority over English, and
that is its freedom from those topics which too often engross so
considerable a portion of male conversation, even in the presence of
ladies, in England. I have often passed the evening previously and
subsequently to a race, in which many of the men present took a lively
interest, without ever hearing it made the subject of conversation.
Could this be said of a party in England, on a similar occasion?
Nor do the men here talk of their shooting or hunting before women, as
with us. This is a great relief, for in England many a woman is doomed
to listen to interminable tales of slaughtered grouse, partridges, and
pheasants; of hair breadth "'scapes by flood and field," and venturous
leaps, the descriptions of which leave one in doubt whether the
narrator or his horse be the greater animal of the two, and render the
poor listener more fatigued by the recital than either was by the
longest chase.
A dissertation on the comparative merits of Manton's, Lancaster's, and
Moore's guns, and the advantage of percussion locks, it is true,
generally diversifies the conversation.
Then how edifying it is to hear the pedigrees of horses--the odds for
and against the favourite winning such or such a race--the good or bad
books of the talkers--the hedging or backing of the betters! Yet all
this are women condemned to hear on the eve of a race, or during the
shooting or hunting season, should their evil stars bring them into the
society of any of the Nimrods or sportsmen of the day, who think it not
only allowable to devote nearly all their time to such pursuits, but to
talk of little else.
The woman who aims at being popular in her county, must not only listen
patiently, but evince a lively interest in these _intellectual_
occupations; while, if the truth was confessed, she is thoroughly
_ennuyée_ by these details of them: or if not, it must be inferred that
she has lost much of the refinement of mind and taste peculiar to the
well-educated portion of her sex.
I do not object to men liking racing, hunting, and shooting. The first
preserves the breed of horses, for which England is so justly
celebrated, and hunting keeps up the skill in horsemanship in which our
men excel. What I do object to is their making these pursuits the
constant topics of conversation before women, instead of selecting
those more suitable to the tastes and habits of the latter.
There is none of the affectation of avoiding subjects supposed to be
uninteresting to women visible in the men here. They do not utter with
a smile--half pity, half condescension,--"we must not talk politics
before the ladies;" they merely avoid entering into discussions, or
exhibiting party spirit, and shew their deference for female society by
speaking on literature, on which they politely seem to take for granted
that women are well informed.
Perhaps this deferential treatment of the gentler sex may not be wholly
caused by the good breeding of the men in France; for I strongly
suspect that the women here would be very little disposed to submit to
the _nonchalance_ that prompts the conduct I have referred to in
England, and that any man who would make his horses or his field-sports
the topic of discourse in their presence, would soon find himself
expelled from their society.
Frenchwomen still think, and with reason, that they govern the tone of
the circles in which they move, and look with jealousy on any
infringement of the respectful attention they consider to be their due.
A few nights ago I saw the Duchesse de Guiche, on her return from a
reception at court, sparkling in diamonds, and looking so beautiful
that she reminded me of Burke's description of the lovely and
unfortunate Marie-Antoinette. To-day I thought her still more
attractive, when, wearing only a simple white _peignoir_, and her
matchless hair bound tightly round her classically shaped head, I saw
her enacting the part of _garde-malade_ to her children, who have
caught the measles.
With a large, and well-chosen nursery-establishment, she would confide
her precious charge to no care but her own, and moved from each little
white bed to the other with noiseless step and anxious glance, bringing
comfort to the dear little invalid in each. No wonder that her children
adore her, for never was there so devoted a mother.
In the meridian of youth and beauty, and filling so brilliant a
position in France, it is touching to witness how wholly engrossed this
amiable young woman's thoughts are by her domestic duties. She incites,
by sharing, the studies of her boys; and already is her little girl,
owing to her mother's judicious system, cited as a model.
It was pleasant to see the Duc, when released from his attendance at
court, hurrying into the sick chamber of his children, and their
languid eyes, lighting up with a momentary animation, and their
feverish lips relaxing into a smile, at the sound of his well-known
voice. And this is the couple considered to be "the glass of fashion
and the mould of form," the observed of all observers, of the courtly
circle at Paris!
Who could behold them as I have done, in that sick room, without
acknowledging that, despite of all that has been said of the
deleterious influence of courts on the feelings of those who live much
in them, the truly good pass unharmed through the dangerous ordeal?
Went to the Théâtre des Nouveautés last night, where I saw _La Maison
du Rempart_. The Parisians seem to have decided taste for bringing
scenes of riot and disorder on the stage; and the tendency of such
exhibitions is any thing but salutary with so inflammable a people, and
in times like the present.
One of the scenes of _La Maison du Rempart_ represents an armed mob
demolishing the house of a citizen--an act of violence that seemed to
afford great satisfaction to the majority of the audience; and, though
the period represented is that of the _Fronde_, the acts of the rabble
strongly assimilated with those of the same class in later times, when
the revolution let loose on hapless France the worst of all tyrants--a
reckless and sanguinary mob. I cannot help feeling alarmed at the
consequences likely to result from such performances. Sparks of fire
flung among gunpowder are not more dangerous. Shewing a populace what
they can effect by brutal force is a dangerous experiment; it is like
letting a tame lion see how easily he could overpower his keepers.
Mr. Cuthbert and M. Charles Laffitte dined here yesterday. Both are
excellent specimens of their countries; the former being well-informed
and agreeable, and the latter possessing all the good sense we believe
to be peculiar to an Englishman, with the high breeding that appertains
to a thoroughly well-educated Frenchman.
The advance of civilization was evident in both these gentlemen--the
Englishman speaking French with purity and fluency, and the Frenchman
speaking English like a born Briton. Twenty years ago, this would have
been considered a very rare occurrence, while now it excites little
remark. But it is not alone the languages of the different countries
that Mr. Cuthbert and M. Charles Laffitte have acquired, for both are
well acquainted with the literature of each, which renders their
society very agreeable.
Spent last evening in the Rue d'Anjou, where I met Lady Combermere, the
Dowager Lady Hawarden, and Mrs. Masters. Lady Combermere is lively and
agreeable, _un peu romanesque_, which gives great originality to her
conversation, and sings Mrs. Arkwright's beautiful ballads with great
feeling.
Mr. Charles Grant[4] dined here yesterday. He is a very sensible man,
possessing a vast fund of general information, with gentle and
highly-polished manners. What a charm there is in agreeable manners,
and how soon one feels at ease with those who possess them!
Spent, or mis-spent, a great portion of the day in visiting the
curiosity shops on the _Quai Voltaire_, and came away from them with a
lighter purse than I entered. There is no resisting, at least I find it
so, the exquisite _porcelaine de Sèvres_, off which the dainty dames of
the reign of Louis the Fourteenth feasted, or which held their
_bouquets_, or _pot pourri_. An _étui of_ gold set with oriental agates
and brilliants, and a _flacon_ of rock crystal, both of which once
appertained to Madame de Sévigné, vanquished my prudence.
Would that with the possession of these articles, often used by her, I
could also inherit the matchless grace with which her pen could invest
every subject it touched! But, alas! it is easier to acquire the
beautiful _bijouterie_, rendered still more valuable by having belonged
to celebrated people, than the talent that gained their celebrity; and
so I must be content with inhaling _esprit de rose_ from the _flacon_
of Madame de Sévigné, without aspiring to any portion of the _esprit_
for which she was so distinguished.
I am now rich in the possession of objects once belonging to remarkable
women, and I am not a little content with my acquisitions. I can boast
the gold and enamelled pincushion of Madame de Maintenon, heart-shaped,
and stuck as full of pins as the hearts of the French Protestants were
with thorns by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes; to which she is
said to have so greatly contributed by her counsel to her infatuated
lover, Louis the Fourteenth. I can indulge in a pinch of snuff from the
_tabatière_ of the Marquise de Rambouillet, hold my court-plaster in
the _boîte à mouches_ of Ninon de l'Enclos, and cut ribands with the
scissors of Madame de Deffand.
This desire of obtaining objects that have belonged to celebrated
people may be, and often is, considered puerile; but confess to the
weakness, and the contemplation of the little memorials I have named
awakens recollections in my mind fraught with interest.
I can fancy Madame de Sévigné, who was as amiable as she was clever,
and whose tenderness towards her daughter is demonstrated so naturally
and touchingly in the letters she addressed to her, holding the
_flacon_ now mine to the nostrils of Madame de Grignan, in whose health
she was always so much more interested than in her own.
I can see in my mind's eye the precise and demure Madame de Maintenon
taking a pin from the very pincushion now before me, to prevent the
opening of her kerchief, and so conceal even her throat from the prying
eyes of the aged voluptuary, whose passions the wily prude is said to
have excited by a concealment of a portion of her person that had, in
all probability, ceased to possess charms enough to produce this
effect, if revealed.
This extreme reserve on the part of the mature coquette evinced a
profound knowledge of mankind, and, above all, of him on whom she
practised her arts. The profuse display of the bust and shoulders in
those days, when the ladies of the court left so little to the
imagination of the amorous monarch on whose heart so many of them had
designs, must have impaired the effect meant to have been achieved by
the indelicate exposure; for--hear it ye fair dames, with whose snowy
busts and dimpled shoulders the eyes of your male acquaintance are as
familiar as with your faces!--the charms of nature, however beautiful,
fall short of the ideal perfection accorded to them by the imagination,
when unseen. The clever Maintenon, aware of this fact, of which the
less wise of her sex are ignorant or forgetful, afforded a striking
contrast in her dress to the women around her, and piquing first the
curiosity, and then the passions, of the old libertine, acquired an
influence over him when she had long passed the meridian of her
personal attractions, which youthful beauties, who left him no room to
doubt their charms, or to exaggerate them as imagination is prone to
do, could never accomplish.
This very pincushion, with its red velvet heart stuck with pins, was
probably a gift from the enamoured Louis, and meant to be symbolical of
the state of his own; which, in hardness, it might be truly said to
resemble. It may have often been placed on her table when Maintenon was
paying the penalty of her hard-earned greatness by the painful task of
endeavouring--as she acknowledged--to amuse a man who was no longer
amusable.
Could it speak, it might relate the wearisome hours passed in a palace
(for the demon _Ennui_ cannot be expelled even from the most brilliant;
nay, prefers, it is said, to select them for his abode), and we should
learn, that while an object of envy to thousands, the mistress, or
unacknowledged wife of _le Grand Monarque_, was but little more happy
than the widow of Scarron when steeped in poverty.
Madame de Maintenon discovered what hundreds before and since have
done--that splendour and greatness cannot confer happiness; and, while
trying to amuse a man who, though possessed of sovereign power, has
lost all sense of enjoyment, must have reverted, perhaps with a sigh,
to the little chamber in which she so long soothed the sick bed of the
witty octogenarian, Scarron; who, gay and cheerful to the last, could
make her smile by his sprightly and _spirituelles_ sallies, which
neither the evils of poverty nor pain could subdue.
Perhaps this pincushion has lain on her table when Madame de Maintenon
listened to the animating conversation of Racine, or heard him read
aloud, with that spirit and deep pathos for which his reading was so
remarkable, his _Esther_ and _Alhalie_, previously to their performance
at St.-Cyr.
That she did not make his peace with the king, when he offended him by
writing an essay to prove that long wars, however likely to reflect
glory on a sovereign, were sure to entail misery on his subjects, shews
that either her influence over the mind of Louis was much less powerful
than has been believed, or that she was deficient in the feelings that
must have prompted her to exert it by pleading for him.
The ungenerous conduct of the king in banishing from his court a man
whose genius shed a purer lustre over it than all the battles Boileau
has sung, and for a cause that merited praise instead of displeasure,
has always appeared to me to be indicative of great meanness as well as
hardness of heart; and while lamenting the weakness of Racine,
originating in a morbid sensibility that rendered his disgrace at court
so painful and humiliating to the poet as to cause his death, I am
still less disposed to pardon the sovereign that could thus excite into
undue action a sensibility, the effects of which led its victim to the
grave.
The diamond-mounted _tabatière_ now on my table once occupied a place
on that of the Marquise de Rambouillet, in that hôtel so celebrated,
not only for the efforts made by its coterie towards refining the
manners and morals of her day, but the language also, until the
affectation to which its members carried their notions of purity,
exposed them to a ridicule that tended to subvert the influence they
had previously exercised over society.
Molière--the inimitable Molière--may have been permitted the high
distinction of taking a pinch of snuff from it, while planning his
_Précieuses Ridicules_, which, _malgré_ his disingenuous disavowal of
the satire being aimed at the Hôtel Rambouillet, evidently found its
subject there. I cannot look at the snuff-box without being reminded of
the brilliant circle which its former mistress assembled around her,
and among which Molière had such excellent opportunities of studying
the peculiarities of the class he subsequently painted.
Little did its members imagine, when he was admitted to it, the use he
would make of the privilege; and great must have been their surprise
and mortification, though not avowed, at the first representation of
the _Précieuses Ridicules_, in which many of them must have discovered
the resemblance to themselves, though the clever author professed only
to ridicule their imitators. _Les Femmes Savantes_, though produced
many years subsequently, also found the originals of its characters in
the same source whence Molière painted _Les Précieuses Ridicules_.
I can fancy him slily listening to the theme proposed to the assembly
by Mademoiselle Scudéry--the _Sarraïdes_, as she was styled--"Whether a
lover jealous, a lover despised, a lover separated from the object of
his tenderness, or him who has lost her by death, was to be esteemed
the most unhappy."
At a later period of his life, Molière might have solved the question
from bitter personal experience, for few ever suffered more from the
pangs of jealousy, and assuredly no one has painted with such
vigour--though the comic often prevails over the serious in his
delineations--the effects of a passion any thing but comic to him.
Strange power of genius, to make others laugh at incidents which had
often tormented himself, and to be able to give humour to characters in
various comedies, actuated by the feelings to which he had so
frequently been a victim!
I can picture to myself the fair _Julie d'Angennes_, who bestowed not
her hand on the _Duc de Montausier_ until he had served as many years
in seeking it as Jacob had served to gain that of Rachel, and until she
had passed her thirtieth year (in order that his passion should become
as purified from all grossness, as was the language spoken among the
circle in which she lived), receiving with dignified reserve the finely
painted flowers and poems to illustrate them, which formed the
celebrated _Guirlande de Julie_, presented to her by her courtly
admirer.
I see pass before me the fair and elegant dames of that galaxy of wit
and beauty, Mesdames de Longueville, Lafayette, and de Sévigné,
fluttering their fans as they listened and replied to the gallant
compliments of Voiture, Ménage, Chapelain, Desmarets, or De Réaux, or
to the _spirituelle causerie_ of Chamfort.
What a pity that a society, no less useful than brilliant at its
commencement, should have degenerated into a coterie, remarkable at
last but for its fantastic and false notions of refinement, exhibited
in a manner that deserved the ridicule it called down!
CHAPTER XII.
Spent last evening in the Rue d'Anjou: met there la Marquise de
Pouleprie, and the usual _habitués_. She is a delightful person; for
age has neither chilled the warmth of her heart, nor impaired the
vivacity of her manners. I had heard much of her; for she is greatly
beloved by the Duchesse de Guiche and all the De Gramont family; and
she, knowing their partiality to me, treated me rather as an old than
as a new acquaintance.
Talking of old times, to which the Duc de Gramont reverted, the
Marquise mentioned having seen the celebrated Madame du Barry in the
garden at Versailles, when she (the Marquise) was a very young girl.
She described her as having a most animated and pleasant countenance,
_un petit nez retroussé_, brilliant eyes, full red lips, and as being
altogether a very attractive person.
The Marquise de Pouleprie accompanied the French royal family to
England, and remained with them there during the emigration. She told
me that once going through the streets of London in a carriage, with
the French king, during an election at Westminster, the mob, ignorant
of his rank, insisted that he and his servants should take off their
hats, and cry out "Long live Sir Francis Burdett!" which his majesty
did with great good humour, and laughed heartily after.
Went last night to see Mademoiselle Mars, in "Valérie." It was a
finished performance, and worthy of her high reputation. Never was
there so musical a voice as hers! Every tone of it goes direct to the
heart, and its intonations soothe and charm the ear. Her countenance,
too, is peculiarly expressive. Even when her eyes, in the _rôle_ she
enacted last night, were fixed, and supposed to be sightless, her
countenance was still beautiful. There is a harmony in its various
expressions that accords perfectly with her clear, soft, and liquid
voice; and the united effect of both these attractions renders her
irresistible.
Never did Art so strongly resemble Nature as in the acting of this
admirable _artiste_. She identifies herself so completely with the part
she performs, that she not only believes herself for the time being the
heroine she represents, but makes others do so too. There was not a dry
eye in the whole of the female part of the audience last night--a
homage to her power that no other actress on the French stage could now
command.
The style, too, of Mademoiselle Mars' acting is the most difficult of
all; because there is no exaggeration, no violence in it. The same
difference exists between it and that of other actresses, as between a
highly finished portrait and a glaringly coloured transparency. The
feminine, the graceful, and the natural, are never lost sight of for a
moment.
The French are admirable critics of acting, and are keenly alive to the
beauties of a chaste and finished style, like that of Mademoiselle
Mars. In Paris there is no playing to the galleries, and for a simple
reason:--the occupants of the galleries here are as fastidious as those
of the boxes, and any thing like outraging nature would be censured by
them: whereas, in other countries, the broad and the exaggerated almost
invariably find favour with the gods.
The same pure and refined taste that characterises the acting of
Mademoiselle Mars presides also over her toilette, which is always
appropriate and becoming.
Accustomed to the agreeable mixture of literary men in London society,
I observe, with regret, their absence in that of Paris. I have
repeatedly questioned people why this is, but have never been able to
obtain a satisfactory answer. It tells much against the good taste of
those who can give the tone to society here, that literary men should
be left out of it; and if the latter _will_ not mingle with the
aristocratic circles they are to blame, for the union of both is
advantageous to the interests of each.
Parisian society is very exclusive, and is divided into small coteries,
into which a stranger finds it difficult to become initiated. Large
routes are rare, and not at all suited to the tastes of the French
people; who comment with merriment, if not with ridicule, on the
evening parties in London, where the rooms being too small to contain
half the guests invited, the stairs and ante-rooms are filled by a
crowd, in which not only the power of conversing, but almost of
respiring is impeded.
The French ladies attribute the want of freshness so remarkable in the
toilettes of Englishwomen, to their crowded routes, and the knowledge
of its being impossible for a robe, or at least of a greater portion of
one than covers a bust, to be seen; which induces the fair wearers to
economise, by rarely indulging in new dresses.
At Paris certain ladies of distinction open their _salons_, on one
evening of each week, to a circle of their acquaintances, not too
numerous to banish that ease and confidence which form the delight of
society. Each lady takes an evening for her receptions, and no one
interferes with her arrangements by giving a party on the same night.
The individuals of each circle are thus in the habit of being
continually in each other's society; consequently the etiquette and
formality, so _gênant_ among acquaintances who seldom meet, are
banished.
To preserve the charm of these unceremonious _réunions_, strangers are
seldom admitted to them, but are invited to the balls, dinners, or
large parties, where they see French people _en grande lenue_, both in
dress and manner, instead of penetrating into the more agreeable
parties to which I have referred, where the graceful _négligé_ of a
_demi-toilette_ prevails, and the lively _causerie_ of the _habitués de
la maison_ supersedes the constraint of ceremony.
Such a society is precisely the sort of one that literary men would, I
should suppose, like to mingle in, to unbend their minds from graver
studies, and yet not pass their time unprofitably; for in it, politics,
literature, and the fine arts, generally furnish the topics of
conversation: from which, however, the warmth of discussion, which too
frequently renders politics a prohibited subject, is excluded, or the
pedantry that sometimes spoils literary _causerie_ is banished.
French people, male and female, talk well; give their opinions with
readiness and vivacity; often striking out ideas as original as they
are brilliant; highly suggestive to more profound thinkers, but which
they dispense with as much prodigality as a spendthrift throws away his
small coin, conscious of having more at his disposal. Quick of
perception, they jump, rather than march, to a conclusion, at which an
Englishman or a German would arrive leisurely, enabled to tell all the
particulars of the route, but which the Frenchman would know little of
from having arrived by some shorter road. This quickness of perception
exempts them from the necessity of devoting much of the time and study
which the English or Germans employ in forming opinions, but it also
precludes their being able to reason as justly or as gravely on those
they form.
Walked in the gardens of the Tuileries to-day. What a contrast their
frequenters offer to those of the Luxembourg! In the Tuileries, the
promenaders look as if they only walked there to display their tasteful
dresses and pretty persons.
The women eye each other as they pass, and can tell at a glance whether
their respective _chapeaux_ have come from the _atelier_ of Herbault,
or the less _rechercé magasin de modes_ of some more humble _modiste_.
How rapidly can they see whether the Cashmere shawl of some passing
dame owes its rich but sober tints to an Indian loom, or to the fabric
of M. Ternaux, who so skilfully imitates the exotic luxury; and what a
difference does the circumstance make in their estimation of the
wearer! The beauty of a woman, however great it may be, excites less
envy in the minds of her own sex in France, than does the possession of
a fine Cashmere, or a _garniture_ of real Russian sable--objects of
general desire to every Parisian _belle_.
I met few handsome women to-day, but these few were remarkably
striking. In Kensington Gardens I should have encountered thrice as
many; but there I should also have seen more plain ones than here. Not
that Englishwomen _en masse_ are not better-looking than the French,
but that these last are so skilful in concealing defects, and revealing
beauties by the appropriateness and good taste in their choice of
dress, that even the plain cease to appear so; and many a woman looks
piquant, if not pretty, at Paris, thanks to her _modiste_, her
_couturière_, and her _cordonnier_, who, without their "artful aid,"
would be plain indeed.
It is pleasant to behold groups of well-dressed women walking, as only
French women ever do walk, nimbly moving their little feet _bien
chaussé_, and with an air half timid, half _espiègle_, that elicits the
admiration they affect to avoid. The rich and varied material of their
robes, the pretty _chapeaux_, from which peep forth such coquettish
glances, the modest assurance--for their self-possession amounts
precisely to that--and the ease and elegance of their carriage, give
them attractions we might seek for in vain in the women of other
countries, however superior these last may be in beauty of complexion
or roundness of _contour_, for which French women in general are not
remarkable.
The men who frequent the gardens of the Tuileries are of a different
order to those met with in the Luxembourg. They consist chiefly of
military men and young fashionables, who go to admire the pretty women,
and elderly and middle-aged ones, who meet in knots and talk politics
with all the animation peculiar to their nation. Children do not abound
in the walks here, as in the Luxembourg; and those to be seen are
evidently brought by some fond mother, proud of exhibiting her boys and
girls in their smart dresses.
The Tuileries Gardens, so beautiful in summer, are not without their
attractions in winter. The trees, though leafless, look well, rearing
their tall branches towards the clear sky, and the statues and vases
seen through vistas of evergreen shrubs, with the gilded railing which
gives back the rays of the bright, though cold sun, and the rich
velvets of every hue in which the women are enveloped, giving them the
appearance of moving _parterres_ of dahlias, all render the scene a
very exhilarating one to the spirits.
I observe a difference in the usages _de moeurs_ at Paris, and in those
of London, of which an ignorance might lead to give offence. In
England, a lady is expected to bow to a gentleman before he presumes to
do so to her, thus leaving her the choice of acknowledging his
acquaintance, or not; but in France it is otherwise, for a man takes
off his hat to every woman whom he has ever met in society, although he
does not address her, unless she encourages him to do so.
In Paris, if two men are walking or riding together, and one of them
bows to a lady of his acquaintance, the other also takes off his hat,
as a mark of respect to the lady known to his friend, although he is
not acquainted with her. The mode of salutation is also much more
deferential towards women in France than in England. The hat is held a
second longer off the head, the bow is lower, and the smile of
recognition is more _amiable_, by which, I mean, that it is meant to
display the pleasure experienced by the meeting.
It is true that the really well-bred Englishmen are not to be surpassed
in politeness and good manners by those of any other country, but all
are not such; and I have seen instances of men in London acknowledging
the presence of ladies, by merely touching, instead of taking off,
their hats when bowing to them; and though I accounted for this
solecism in good breeding by the belief that it proceeded from the
persons practising it wearing wigs, I discovered that there was not
even so good an excuse as the fear of deranging them, and that their
incivility proceeded from ignorance, or _nonchalance_, while the glum
countenance of him who bowed betrayed rather a regret for the necessity
of touching his beaver, than a pleasure at meeting her for whom the
salute was intended.
Time flies away rapidly here, and its flight seems to me to mark two
distinct states of existence. My mornings are devoted wholly to reading
history, poetry, or _belles lettres_, which abstract me so completely
from the actual present to the past, that the hours so disposed of
appear to be the actual life, and those given up to society the shadowy
and unreal.
This forcible contrast between the two portions of the same day, gives
charms to both, though I confess the hours passed in my library are
those which leave behind them the pleasantest reflections. I
experienced this sentiment when in the hey-day of youth, and surrounded
by some of the most gifted persons in England; but now, as age
advances, the love of solitude and repose increases, and a life spent
in study appears to me to be the one of all others the most desirable,
as the enjoyment of the best thoughts of the best authors is preferable
even to their conversation, could it be had, and, consequently to that
of the cleverest men to be met with in society.
Some pleasant people dined here yesterday. Among them was Colonel
Caradoc, the son of our old friend Lord Howden. He possesses great and
versatile information, is good-looking, well-bred, and has superior
abilities; in short, he has all the means, and appliances to boot, to
make a distinguished figure, in life, if he lacks not the ambition and
energy to use them; but, born to station and fortune, he may want the
incitement which the absence of these advantages furnishes, and be
content to enjoy the good he already has, instead of seeking greater
distinction.
Colonel Caradoc's conversation is brilliant and epigrammatic; and if
occasionally a too evident consciousness of his own powers is suffered
to be revealed in it, those who know it to be well-founded will pardon
his self-complacency, and not join with the persons, and they are not
few, whose _amour-propre_ is wounded by the display of his, and who
question, what really is not questionable, the foundation on which his
pretensions are based.
The clever, like the handsome, to be pardoned for being so, should
affect a humility they are but too seldom in the habit of feeling; and
to acquire popularity must appear unconscious of meriting it. This is
one of the many penalties entailed on the gifted in mind or person.
_January 1st_, 1829.--There is always something grave, if not awful, in
the opening of a new year; for who knows what may occur to render it
memorable for ever! If the bygone one has been marked by aught sad, the
arrival of the new reminds one of the lapse of time; and though the
destroyer brings patience, we sigh to think that we may have new
occasions for its difficult exercise. Who can forbear from trembling
lest the opening year may find us at its close with a lessened circle.
Some, now dear and confided in, may become estranged, or one dearer
than life may be snatched away whose place never can be supplied! The
thought is too painful to be borne, and makes one look around with
increased affection on those dear to us.
The custom prevalent at Paris of offering an exchange of gifts on the
first day of the new year was, perhaps, originally intended to banish
the melancholy reflections such an epoch is calculated to awaken.
My tables are so crowded with gifts that I might set up a _petit
Dunkerque_ of my own, for not a single friend has omitted to send me a
present. These gifts are to be acknowledged by ones of similar value,
and I must go and put my taste to the test in selecting _cadeaux_ to
send in return.
Spent several hours yesterday in the gallery of the Louvre. The
collection of antiquities, though a very rich, one, dwindles into
insignificance when compared with that of the Vatican, and the halls in
which it is arranged appear mean in the eyes of those accustomed to see
the numerous and splendid ones of the Roman edifice. Nevertheless, I
felt much satisfaction in lounging through groups of statues, and busts
of the remarkable men and women of antiquity, with the countenances of
many of whom I had made myself familiar in the Vatican, the Musée of
the Capitol, or in the collection at Naples, where facsimiles of
several of them are to be found.
Nor had I less pleasure in contemplating the personifications of the
_beau idéal_ of the ancient sculptors, exhibited in their gods and
goddesses, in whose faultless faces the expression of all passion seems
to have been carefully avoided. Whether this peculiarity is to be
accounted for by the desire of the artist to signify the superiority of
the Pagan divinities over mortals, by this absence of any trace of
earthly feelings, or whether it was thought that any decided expression
might deteriorate from the character of repose and beauty that marks
the works of the great sculptors of antiquity, I know not, but the
effect produced on my mind by the contemplation of these calm and
beautiful faces, has something so soothing in it, that I can well
imagine with what pleasure those engaged in the turmoils of war, or the
scarcely less exciting arena of politics, in former ages, must have
turned from their mundane cares to look on these personations of their
fabled deities, whose tranquil beauty forms so soothing a contrast to
mortal toils.
I have observed this calmness of expression in the faces of many of the
most celebrated statues of antiquity, in the Aristides at Naples, I
remember being struck with it, and noticing that he who was banished
through the envy excited by his being styled the Just, was represented
as unmoved as if the injustice of his countrymen no more affected the
even tenour of his mind, than the passions of mortals disturb those of
the mythological divinities of the ancients.
A long residence in Italy, and a habit of frequenting the galleries
containing the finest works of art there, engender a love of sculpture
and painting, that renders it not only a luxury but almost a necessary
of life to pass some hours occasionally among the all but breathing
marbles and glorious pictures bequeathed to posterity by the mighty
artists of old. I love to pass such hours alone, or in the society of
some one as partial, but more skilled in such studies than myself; and
such a companion I have found in the Baron de Cailleux, an old
acquaintance, and now Under-Director of the Musée, whose knowledge of
the fine arts equals his love for them.
The contemplation of the _chefs-d'uvre_ of the old masters begets a
tender melancholy in the mind, that is not without a charm for those
addicted to it. These stand the results of long lives devoted to the
developement of the genius that embodied these inspirations, and left
to the world the fruit of hours of toil and seclusion,--hours snatched
from the tempting pleasures that cease not to court the senses, but
which they who laboured for posterity resisted. The long vigils, the
solitary days, the hopes and fears, the fears more frequent than the
hopes, the depression of spirits, and the injustice or the indifference
of contemporaries, endured by all who have ever devoted their lives to
art, are present to my mind when I behold the great works of other
times.
What cheered these men of genius during their toils and enabled them to
finish their glorious works? Was it not the hope that from posterity
they would meet with the admiration, the sympathy, denied them by their
contemporaries?--as the prisoner in his gloomy dungeon, refused all
pity, seeks consolation by tracing a few lines on its dreary walls, in
appeal to the sympathy of some future inhabitant who may be doomed to
take his place.
I seem to be paying a portion of the debt due by posterity to those who
laboured long and painfully for it, when I stand rapt in admiration
before the works of the great masters of the olden time, my heart
touched with a lively sympathy for their destinies; nor can I look on
the glorious faces or glowing landscapes that remain to us, evincing
the triumph of genius over even time itself, by preserving on canvass
the semblance of all that charmed in nature, without experiencing the
sentiment so naturally and beautifully expressed in the celebrated
picture, by Nicolas Poussin, of a touching scene in Arcadia, in which
is a tomb near to which two shepherds are reading the inscription. "I,
too, was an Arcadian."
Yes, that which delighted the artists of old, they have transmitted to
us with a tender confidence that when contemplating these bequests we
would remember with sympathy that they, like us, had felt the charms
they delineated.
CHAPTER XIII.
Went to see the Hôtel d'Orsay, to-day. Even in its ruin it still
retains many of the vestiges of its former splendour. The _salle à
manger_, for the decoration of which its owner bought, and had conveyed
from Rome, the columns of the Temple of Nero, is now--hear it, ye who
have taste!--converted into a stable; the _salons_, once filled with
the most precious works of art, are now crumbled to decay, and the vast
garden where bloomed the rarest exotics, and in which were several of
the statues that are now in the gardens of the Tuileries, is now turned
into paddocks for horses.
It made me sad to look at this scene of devastation, the result of a
revolution which plunged so many noble families from almost boundless
wealth into comparative poverty, and scattered collections of the works
of art that whole lives were passed in forming. I remember Mr.
Millingen, the antiquary, telling me in Italy that when yet little more
than a boy he was taken to view the Hôtel d'Orsay, then one of the most
magnificent houses in Paris, and containing the finest collection of
pictures and statues, and that its splendour made such an impression on
his mind that he had never forgotten it.
With an admirable taste and a princely fortune, Count d'Orsay spared
neither trouble nor expense to render his house the focus of all that
was rich and rare; and, with a spirit that does not always animate the
possessor of rare works of art, he opened it to the young artists of
the day, who were permitted to study in its gallery and _salons_.
In the slate drawing-rooms a fanciful notion of the Count's was carried
into effect and was greatly admired, though, I believe, owing to the
great expense, the mode was not adopted in other houses, namely, on the
folding-doors of the suite being thrown open to admit company, certain
pedals connected with them were put in motion, and a strain of music
was produced, which announced the presence of guests, and the doors of
each of the drawing-rooms when opened took up the air, and continued it
until closed.
Many of the old _noblesse_ have been describing the splendour of the
Hôtel d'Orsay to me since I have been at Paris, and the Duc de
Talleyrand said it almost realised the notion of a fairy palace. Could
the owner who expended such vast sums on its decoration, behold it in
its present ruin, he could never recognise it; but such would be the
case with many a one whose stately palaces became the prey of a furious
rabble, let loose to pillage by a revolution--that most fearful of all
calamities, pestilence only excepted, that can befall a country.
General Ornano, his stepson Count Waleski, M. Achille La Marre, General
d'Orsay, and Mr. Francis Baring dined here yesterday. General Ornano is
agreeable and well-mannered. We had music in the evening, and the
lively and pretty Madame la H---- came. She is greatly admired, and no
wonder; for she is not only handsome, but clever and piquant. Hers does
not appear to be a well-assorted marriage, for M. la H---- is grave, if
not austere, in his manners, while she is full of gaiety and vivacity,
the demonstrations of which seem to give him any thing but pleasure.
I know not which is most to be pitied, a saturnine husband whose
gravity is only increased by the gaiety of his wife, or the gay wife
whose exuberance of spirits finds no sympathy in the Mentor-like
husband. Half, if not all, the unhappy marriages, accounted for by
incompatibility of humour, might with more correctness be attributed to
a total misunderstanding of each other's characters and dispositions in
the parties who drag a heavy and galling chain through life, the links
of which might be rendered light and easy to be borne, if the wearers
took but half the pains to comprehend each other's peculiarities that
they in general do to reproach or to resent the annoyance these
peculiarities occasion them.
An austere man would learn that the gaiety of his wife was as natural
and excusable a peculiarity in her, as was his gravity in him, and
consequently would not resent it; and the lively wife would view the
saturnine humour of her husband as a malady demanding forbearance and
kindness.
The indissolubility of marriage, so often urged as an additional cause
for aggravating the sense of annoyance experienced by those wedded but
unsuited to each other, is, in my opinion, one of the strongest motives
for using every endeavour to render the union supportable, if not
agreeable. If a dwelling known to be unalienable has some defect which
makes it unsuited to the taste of its owner, he either ameliorates it,
or, if that be impracticable, he adopts the resolution of supporting
its inconvenience with patience; so should a philosophical mind bear
all that displeases in a union in which even the most fortunate find
"something to pity or forgive." It is unfortunate that this same
philosophy, considered so excellent a panacea for enabling us to bear
ills, should be so rarely used that people can seldom judge of its
efficacy when required!
Saw _la Gazza Ladra_ last night, in which Malibran enacted "Ninetta,"
and added new laurels to the wreath accorded her by public opinion. Her
singing in the duo, in the prison scene, was one of the most touching
performances I ever heard; and her acting gave a fearful reality to the
picture.
I have been reading the _Calamities of Authors_ all the morning, and
find I like the book even better on a second perusal--no mean praise,
for the first greatly pleased me. So it is with all the works of Mr.
D'Israeli, who writes _con amore_; and not only with a profound
knowledge of his subjects, but with a deep sympathy, which peeps forth
at every line, for the literary men whose troubles or peculiarities he
describes.
His must be a fine nature--a contemplative mind imbued with a true love
of literature, and a kindness of heart that melts and makes those of
others melt, for the evils to which its votaries are exposed.
How much are those who like reading, but are too idle for research,
indebted to Mr. D'Israeli, who has given them the precious result of a
long life of study, so admirably digested and beautifully conveyed that
in a few volumes are condensed a mass of the most valuable information!
I never peruse a production of his without longing to be personally
acquainted with him; and, though we never met, I entertain a regard and
respect for him, induced by the many pleasant hours his works have
afforded me.
Met the Princesse de Talleyrand last night at Madame C----'s. I felt
curious to see this lady, of whom I had heard such various reports;
and, as usual, found her very different to the descriptions I had
received.
She came _en princesse_, attended by two _dames de compagnie_, and a
gentleman who acted as _chambellan_. Though her _embonpoint_ has not
only destroyed her shape but has also deteriorated her face, the small
features of which seem imbued in a mask much too fleshy for their
proportions, it is easy to see that in her youth she must have been
handsome. Her complexion is fair; her hair, judging from the eye-brows
and eye-lashes, must have been very light; her eyes are blue; her nose,
_retroussé_; her mouth small, with full lips; and the expression of her
countenance is agreeable, though not intellectual.
In her demeanour there is an evident assumption of dignity, which,
falling short of the aim, gives an ungraceful stiffness to her
appearance. Her dress was rich but suited to her age, which I should
pronounce to be about sixty. Her manner has the formality peculiar to
those conscious of occupying a higher station than their birth or
education entitles them to hold; and this consciousness gives an air of
constraint and reserve that curiously contrasts with the natural
good-humour and _naïveté_ that are frequently perceptible in her.
If ignorant--as is asserted--there is no symptom of it in her language.
To be sure, she says little; but that little is expressed with
propriety: and if reserved, she is scrupulously polite. Her _dames de
compagnie_ and _chambellan_ treat her with profound respect, and she
acknowledges their attentions with civility. To sum up all, the
impression made upon me by the Princesse Talleyrand was, that she
differed in no way from any other princess I had ever met, except by a
greater degree of reserve and formality than were in general evinced by
them.
I could not help smiling inwardly when looking at her, as I remembered
Baron Denon's amusing story of the mistake she once made. When the
Baron's work on Egypt was the topic of general conversation, and the
hôtel of the Prince Talleyrand was the rendezvous of the most
distinguished persons of both sexes at Paris, Denon being engaged to
dine there one day, the Prince wished the Princesse to read a few pages
of the book, in order that she might be enabled to say something
complimentary on it to the author. He consequently ordered his
librarian to send the work to her apartment on the morning of the day
of the dinner; but, unfortunately, at the same time also commanded that
a copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ should be sent to a young lady, a
_protégée_ of hers, who resided in the hôtel. The Baron Denon's work,
through mistake, was given to Mademoiselle, and _Robinson Crusoe_ was
delivered to the Princesse, who rapidly looked through its pages.
The seat of honour at table being assigned to the Baron, the Princesse,
mindful of her husband's wishes, had no sooner eaten her soup than,
smiling graciously, she thanked Denon for the pleasure which the
perusal of his work had afforded her. The author was pleased, and told
her how much he felt honoured; but judge of his astonishment, and the
dismay of the Prince Talleyrand, when the Princesse exclaimed. "Yes,
Monsieur le Baron, your work has delighted me; but I am longing to know
what has become of your poor man Friday, about whom I feel such an
interest?"
Denon used to recount this anecdote with great spirit, confessing at
the same time that his _amour propre_ as an author had been for a
moment flattered by the commendation, even of a person universally
known to be incompetent to pronounce on the merit of his book. The
Emperor Napoleon heard this story, and made Baron Denon repeat it to
him, laughing immoderately all the time, and frequently after he would,
when he saw Denon, inquire "how was poor Friday?"
When the second restoration of the Bourbons took place, the Prince
Talleyrand, anxious to separate from the Princesse, and to get her out
of his house, induced her, under the pretence that a change of air was
absolutely necessary for her health, to go to England for some months.
She had only been there a few weeks when a confidential friend at Paris
wrote to inform her that from certain rumours afloat it was quite clear
the Prince did not intend her to take up her abode again in his house,
and advised her to return without delay. The Princesse instantly
adopted this counsel, and arrived most unexpectedly in the Rue
St.-Florentin, to the alarm and astonishment of the whole establishment
there, who had been taught not to look for her entering the hôtel any
more; and to the utter dismay of the Prince, who, however anxious to be
separated from her, dreaded a scene of violence still more than he
wished to be released from his conjugal chains.
She forced her admission to his presence, overwhelmed him with
reproaches, and it required the exercise of all his diplomatic skill to
allay the storm he had raised. The affair became the general topic of
conversation at Paris; and when, the day after the event, the Prince
waited on Louis the Eighteenth on affairs of state, the King, who loved
a joke, congratulated him on the unexpected arrival of Madame la
Princesse.
Prince Talleyrand felt the sarcasm, and noticed it by one of those
smiles so peculiar to him--a shake of the head and shrug of the
shoulders, while he uttered "_Que voulez-vous, Sire, chacun a son vingt
Mars_?" referring to the unexpected arrival of the Emperor Napoleon.
I have been reading _Yes and No_, a very clever and, interesting novel
from the pen of Lord Normanby. His writings evince great knowledge of
the world, the work-o'-day world, as well as the _beau monde_; yet
there is no bitterness in his satire, which is always just and happily
pointed. His style, too, is easy, fluent, and polished, without being
disfigured by the slightest affectation or pedantry.
Had a long visit to-day from Dr. P----, who has lent me the works of
Bichat and Broussais, which he recommends me to read. He is a most
agreeable companion, and as vivacious as if he was only twenty. He
reminds me sometimes of my old friend Lady Dysart, whose juvenility of
mind and manner always pleased as much as it surprised me.
Old people like these appear to forget, as they are forgotten by, time;
and, like trees marked to be cut down, but which escape the memory of
the marker, they continue to flourish though the lines traced for their
destruction are visible.
The more I see of Count Waleski the more I am pleased with him. He has
an acute mind, great quickness of perception, and exceedingly good
manners. I always consider it a good sign of a young man to be partial
to the society of the old, and I observe that Count Waleski evinces a
preference for that of men old enough to be his father. People are not
generally aware of the advantages which agreeable manners confer, and
the influence they exercise over society. I have seen great abilities
fail in producing the effect accomplished by prepossessing manners,
which are even more serviceable to their owner than is a fine
countenance, that best of all letters of recommendation.
Half the unpopularity of people proceeds from a disagreeable manner;
and though we may be aware of the good qualities of persons who have
this defect, we cannot conceal from ourselves that it must always
originate in a want of the desire to please--a want, the evidence of
which cannot fail to wound the self-love of those who detect, and
indispose them towards those who betray it. By a disagreeable manner I
do not mean the awkwardness often arising from timidity, or the too
great familiarity originating in untutored good nature: but I refer to
a superciliousness, or coldness, that marks a sense of superiority; or
to a habit of contradiction, that renders society what it should never
be--an arena of debate.
How injudicious are those who defend their absent friends, when accused
of having disagreeable manners, by saying, as I have often heard
persons say--"I assure you that he or she can be very agreeable with
those he or she likes:" an assertion which, by implying that the person
accused did not like those who complained of the bad manner, converts
them from simple disapprovers into something approaching to enemies.
I had once occasion to notice the fine tact of a friend of mine, who,
hearing a person he greatly esteemed censured for his disagreeable
manner, answered,
"Yes, it is very true: with a thousand good qualities his
manner is very objectionable, even with those he likes best:
it is his misfortune, and he cannot help it; but those who
know him well will pardon it."
This candid admission of what could not be refuted, checked all further
censure at the moment, whereas an injudicious defence would have
lengthened it; and I heard some of the individuals then present assert,
a few days subsequently, that Lord ---- was not, after all, by any
means to be disliked: for that his manners were equally objectionable
even with his most esteemed friends, and consequently meant nothing
uncivil to strangers.
I tried this soothing system the other day in defence of ----, when a
whole circle were attacking him for his rude habit of contradicting, by
asserting, with a grave face, that he only contradicted those whose
talents he suspected, in order that he might draw them out in
discussion.
---- came in soon after, and it was positively amusing to observe how
much better people bore his contradiction. Madame ---- only smiled
when, having asserted that it was a remarkably fine day, he declared it
to be abominable. The Duc de ---- looked gracious when, having repeated
some political news, ---- said he could prove the contrary to be the
fact; and the Comtesse de ---- looked archly round when, having
extravagantly praised a new novel, he pronounced that it was the worst
of all the bad ones of the author.
---- will become a popular man, and have to thank me for it. How angry
would he be if he knew the service I have rendered him, and how quickly
would he contradict all I said in his favour! ---- reminds me of the
Englishman of whom it was said, that so great was his love of
contradiction, that when the hour of the night and state of the weather
were announced by the watchman beneath his window, he used to get out
of bed and raise both his casement and his voice to protest against the
accuracy of the statement.
Read _Pelham_; commenced it yesterday, and concluded it to-day. It is a
new style of novel, and, like all that is very clever, will lead to
many copyists. The writer possesses a felicitous fluency of language,
profound and just thoughts, and a knowledge of the world rarely
acquired at his age, for I am told he is a very young man.
This work combines pointed and pungent satire on the follies of
society, a deep vein of elevated sentiment, and a train of
philosophical thinking, seldom, if ever, allied to the tenderness which
pierces through the sentimental part. The opening reminded me of that
of _Anastatius_, without being in the slightest degree an imitation;
and many of the passages recalled Voltaire, by their wit and terseness.
I, who don't like reading novels, heard so much in favour of this
one--for all Paris talk of it--that I broke through a resolution formed
since I read the dull book of ----, to read no more; and I am glad I
did so, for this clever book has greatly interested me.
Oh, the misery of having stupid books presented to one by the author!
----, who is experienced in such matters, told me that the best plan in
such cases was, to acknowledge the receipt of the book the same day it
arrived, and civilly express the pleasure anticipated from its perusal,
by which means the necessity of praising a bad book was avoided. This
system has, however, been so generally adopted of late, that authors
are dissatisfied with it; and, consequently, a good-natured person
often feels compelled to write commendations of books which he or she
is far from approving; and which, though it costs an effort to write,
are far from satisfying the _exigeant amour propre_ peculiar to
authors.
I remember once being present when the merits of a book were canvassed.
One person declared it to be insufferably dull, when another, who had
published some novel, observed, with rather a supercilious air, "You
know not how difficult it is to write a good book!"
"I suppose it must be very difficult," was the answer, "seeing how long
and how often you have attempted, without succeeding."
How these letters of commendations of bad books, extorted from those to
whom the authors present them, will rise up in judgment against the
writers, when they are "gone to that bourne whence no traveller
returns!" I tremble to think of it! What severe animadversions on the
bad taste, or the want of candour of the writers, and all because they
were too good-natured to give pain to the authors!
Went to the Théâtre Italien last night, and saw Malibran in _la
Cenerentola_, in which her acting was no less admirable than her
singing. She sang "Non più Mesta" better than I ever heard it before,
and astonished as well as delighted the audience. She has a soul and
spirit in her style that carries away her hearers, as no other singer
does, and excites an enthusiasm seldom, if ever, equalled. Malibran
seems to be as little mistress of her own emotions when singing, as
those are whom her thrilling voice melts into softness, or wakes into
passion. Every tone is pregnant with feeling, and every glance and
attitude instinct with truthful emotion.
A custom prevails in France, which is not practised in Italy, or in
England, namely, _les lettres de faire part_, sent to announce deaths,
marriages, and births, to the circle of acquaintances of the parties.
This formality is never omitted, and these printed letters are sent out
to all on the visiting lists, except relations, or very intimate
friends, to whom autograph letters are addressed.
Another custom also prevails, which is that of sending _bonbons_ to the
friends and acquaintance of the _accouchée_. These sweet proofs
_d'amitié_ come pouring in frequently, and I confess I do not dislike
the usage.
The godfather always sends the _bonbons_ and a trinket to the mother of
the child, and also presents the godmother with a _corbeille_, in which
are some dozens of gloves, two or three handsome fans, embroidered
purses, a smelling-bottle, and a _vinaigrette_; and she offers him, _en
revanche_, a cane, buttons, or a pin--in short, some present. The
_corbeilles_ given to godmothers are often very expensive, being suited
to the rank of the parties; so that in Paris the compliment of being
selected as a godfather entails no trifling expense on the chosen. The
great prices given for wedding _trousseaux_ in France, even by those
who are not rich, surprise me, I confess.
They contain a superabundance of every article supposed to be necessary
for the toilette of a _nouvelle mariée_, from the rich robes of velvet
down to the simple _peignoir de matin_. Dresses of every description
and material, and for all seasons, are found in it. Cloaks, furs,
Cashmere shawls, and all that is required for night or day use, are
liberally supplied; indeed, so much so, that to see one of these
_trousseaux_, one might imagine the person for whom it was intended was
going to pass her life in some far-distant clime, where there would be
no hope of finding similar articles, if ever wanted.
Then comes the _corbeille de mariage_, well stored with the finest
laces, the most delicately embroidered pocket handkerchiefs, veils,
_fichus, chemisettes_ and _canezous_, trinkets, smelling-bottles, fans,
_vinaigrettes_, gloves, garters; and though last, not least, a purse
well filled to meet the wants or wishes of the bride,--a judicious
attention never omitted.
These _trousseaux_ and _corbeilles_ are placed in a _salon_, and are
exhibited to the friends the two or three days previously to the
wedding; and the view of them often sends young maidens--ay, and
elderly ones, too--away with an anxious desire to enter that holy state
which ensures so many treasures. It is not fair to hold out such
temptations to the unmarried, and may be the cause why they are
generally so desirous to quit the pale of single blessedness.
CHAPTER XIV.
Count Charles de Mornay dined here yesterday, _en famille_. How clever
and amusing he is! Even in his liveliest sallies there is the evidence
of a mind that can reflect deeply, as well as clothe its thoughts in
the happiest language. To be witty, yet thoroughly good-natured as he
is, never exercising his wit at the expense of others, indicates no
less kindness of heart than talent.
I know few things more agreeable than to hear him and his cousin open
the armoury of their wit, which, like summer lightning, flashes rapidly
and brightly, but never wounds. In England, we are apt to consider wit
and satire as nearly synonymous; for we hear of the clever sayings of
our reputed wits, in nine cases out of ten, allied to some ill-natured
_bon mot_, or pointed epigram. In France this is not the case, for some
of the most witty men, and women too, whom I ever knew, are as
remarkable for their good nature as for their cleverness. That wit
which needs not the spur of malice is certainly the best, and is most
frequently met with at Paris.
Went last evening to see Mademoiselle Marsin _Henri III_. Her acting
was, as usual, inimitable. I was disappointed in the piece, of which I
had heard much praise. It is what the French call _décousue_, but is
interesting as a picture of the manners of the times which it
represents. There is no want of action or bustle in it; on the
contrary, it abounds in incidents: but they are, for the most part,
puerile. As in our own _Othello_, a pocket handkerchief leads to the
_dénouement_, reminding one of the truth of the verse,--
"What great events from trivial causes spring!"
The whole court of Henry the Third are brought on the scene, and with
an attention to costume to be found only in a Parisian theatre. The
strict attention to costume, and to all the other accessories
appertaining to the epoch, _mise en scène_, is very advantageous to the
pieces brought out here; but, even should they fail to give or preserve
an illusion, it is always highly interesting as offering a _tableau du
costume, et des moeurs des siècles passés_. The crowd brought on the
stage in _Henri III_, though it adds to the splendour of the scenic
effect, produces a confusion in the plot; as does also the vast number
of names and titles introduced during the scenes, which fatigue the
attention and defy the memory of the spectators.
The fierce "Duc de Guise," the slave at once of two passions, generally
considered to be the most incompatible, Love and Ambition, is made to
commit strange inconsistencies. "Saïnt-Mégrin" excites less interest
than he ought; but the "Duchesse de Guise," whose beautiful arm plays a
_grand rôle_, must, as played by Mademoiselle Mars, have conquered all
hearts _vi et armis_.
_Henri III_ has the most brilliant success, and, in despite of some
faults, is full of genius, and the language is vigorous. Perhaps its
very faults are to be attributed to an excess, rather than to a want,
of power, and to a mind overflowing with a knowledge of the times he
wished to represent; which led to a dilution of the strength of his
scenes, by crowding into them too much extraneous matter.
A curious incident occurred during the representation. Two
ladies--_gentlewomen_ they could not be correctly styled--being seated
in the _balcon_, were brought in closer contact, whether by the crowd,
or otherwise, than was agreeable to them. From remonstrances they
proceeded to murmurs, not only "loud, but deep," and from
murmurs--"tell it not in Ascalon, publish it not in Gath"--to violent
pushing, and, at length, to blows. The audience were, as well they
might be, shocked; the _Gendarmes_ interfered, and order was soon
restored. The extreme propriety of conduct that invariably prevails in
a Parisian audience, and more especially in the female portion of it,
renders the circumstance I have narrated remarkable.
Met Lady G., Lady H., and the usual circle of _habitués_ last night at
Madame C----'s. The first-mentioned lady surprises me every time I meet
her, by the exaggeration of her sentiment and the romantic notions she
entertains. Love, eternal love, is her favourite topic of conversation;
a topic unsuited to discussion at her age and in her position.
To hear a woman, no longer young, talking passionately of love, has
something so absurd in it, that I am pained for Lady C., who is really
a kind-hearted and amiable woman. Her definitions of the passion, and
descriptions of its effects, remind me of the themes furnished by
Scudéry, and are as tiresome as the tales of a traveller recounted some
fifty years after he has made his voyage. Lady H., who is older than
Lady G., opens wide her round eyes, laughs, and exclaims, "Oh,
dear!--how very strange!--well, that is so funny!" until Lady C. draws
up with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and asserts that "few,
very few, are capable of either feeling or comprehending the passion."
A fortunate state for those who are no longer able to inspire it!
To grow old gracefully, proves no ordinary powers of mind, more
especially in one who has been (oh, what an odious phrase that same
_has been_ is!) a beauty. Well has it been observed by a French writer,
that women no longer young and handsome should forget that they ever
were so.
I have been reading Wordsworth's poems again, and I verily believe for
the fiftieth time. They contain a mine of lofty, beautiful, and natural
thoughts. I never peruse them without feeling proud that England has
such a poet, and without finding a love for the pure and the noble
increased in my mind. Talk of the ideal in poetry? what is it in
comparison with the positive and the natural, of which he gives such
exquisite delineations, lifting his readers from Nature up to Nature's
God? How eloquently does he portray the feelings awakened by fine
scenery, and the thoughts to which it gives birth!
Wordsworth is, _par excellence_, the Poet of Religion, for his
productions fill the mind with pure and holy aspirations. Fortunate is
the poet who has quaffed inspiration in the purest of all its sources,
Nature; and fortunate is the land that claims him for her own.
The influence exercised by courts over the habits of subjects, though
carried to a less extent in our days than in past times, is still
obvious at Paris in the display of religion assumed by the upper class.
Coroneted carriages are to be seen every day at the doors of certain
churches, which it is not very uncharitable to suppose might be less
frequently beheld there if the King, Madame la Dauphine, and the
Dauphin were less religious; and hands that have wielded a sword in
many a well-fought battle-field, and hold the _bâton de maréchal_ as a
reward, may now be seen bearing a lighted _cierge_ in some pious
procession,--the military air of the intrepid warrior lost in the
humility of the devotee.
This general assumption of religion on the part of the courtiers
reminds me forcibly of a passage in a poetical epistle, written, too,
by a sovereign, who, unlike many monarchs, seemed to have had a due
appreciation of the proneness of subjects to adopt the opinions of
their rulers.
"L'exemple d'un monarque ordonne et se fait suivre:
Quand Auguste buvait, la Pologne était ivre;
Et quand Louis le Grand brûlait d'un tendre amour,
Paris devint Cythère, et tout suivait sa cour;
Lorsqu'il devint dévot, ardent à la prière,
Ses lâches courtisans marmottaient leur bréviaire."
Should the Duc de Bordeaux arrive at the throne while yet in the
hey-day of youth, and with the gaiety that generally accompanies that
period of life, it will be amusing to witness the metamorphosis that
will be effected in these same courtiers. There are doubtless many, and
I am acquainted with some persons here, whose religion is as sincere
and as fervent as is that of the royal personages of the court they
frequent; but I confess that I doubt whether the general mass of the
upper class would _afficher_ their piety as much as they now do if
their regular attendance at divine worship was less likely to be known
at the Tuileries. The influence of a pious sovereign over the religious
feelings of his people must be highly beneficial when they feel,
instead of affecting to do so, the sanctity they profess.
When those in the possession of supreme power, and all the advantages
it is supposed to confer, turn from the enjoyment of them to seek
support from Heaven to meet the doom allotted to kings as well as
subjects, the example is most salutary; for the piety of the rich and
great is even more edifying than that of the poor and lowly, who are
supposed to seek consolation which the prosperous are imagined not to
require.
The Duchesse de Berri is very popular at Paris, and deservedly so. Her
natural gaiety harmonises With that of this lively people; and her love
of the fine arts, and the liberal patronage she extends to them,
gratify the Parisians.
I heard an anecdote of her to-day from an authority which leaves no
doubt of its truth. Having commanded a brilliant _fête_, a heavy fall
of snow drew from one of her courtiers a remark that the extreme cold
would impede the pleasure of the guests, who would suffer from it in
coming and departing, "True," replied the Duchesse; "but if they in
comfortable carriages, and enveloped in furs and cashmeres, can suffer
from the severity of the weather, what must the poor endure?" And she
instantly ordered a large sum of money to be forthwith distributed, to
supply fuel to the indigent, saying--"While I dance, I shall have the
pleasure of thinking the poor are not without the means of warmth."
Received a long and delightful letter from Walter Savage Landor. His is
one of the most original minds I have ever encountered, and is joined
to one of the finest natures. Living in the delightful solitude he has
chosen near Florence, his time is passed in reading, reflecting, and
writing; a life so blameless and so happy, that the philosophers of
old, with whose thoughts his mind is so richly imbued, might, if envy
could enter into such hearts, entertain it towards him.
Landor is a happy example of the effect of retirement on a great mind.
Free from the interruptions which, if they harass not, at least impede
the continuous flow of thought in those who live much in society, his
mind has developed itself boldly, and acquired a vigour at which,
perhaps, it might never have arrived, had he been compelled to live in
a crowded city, chafed by the contact with minds of an inferior
calibre.
_The Imaginary Conversations_ could never have been written amid the
vexatious interruptions incidental to one mingling much in the scenes
of busy life; for the voices of the sages of old with whom, beneath his
own vines, Landor loves to commune, would have been inaudible in the
turmoil of a populous town, and their secrets would not have been
revealed to him. The friction of society may animate the man of talent
into its exercise, but I am persuaded that solitude is essential to the
perfect developement of genius.
A letter from Sir William Gell, and, like all his letters, very
amusing. Yet how different from Landor's! Both written beneath the
sunny sky of Italy, both scholars, and nearly of the same age,
nevertheless, how widely different are their letters!
Gell's filled with lively and comic details of persons, seldom fail to
make me laugh; Landor's, wholly devoted to literary subjects, set me
thinking. Cell would die of _ennui_ in the solitude Landor has
selected; Landor would be chafed into irritation in the constant
routine of visiting and dining-out in which Gell finds amusement. But
here am I attempting to draw a parallel where none can be established,
for Landor is a man of genius, Gell a man of talent.
Was at the Opera last night, and saw the Duc d'Orléans there with his
family. They are a fine-looking flock, male and female, and looked as
happy as they are said to be.
I know no position more enviable than that of the Duc d'Orléans.
Blessed with health, a princely revenue, an admirable wife, fine
children, and many friends, he can have nothing to desire but a
continuance of these blessings. Having experienced adversity, and nobly
endured the ordeal, he must feel with an increased zest the happiness
now accorded to him,--a happiness that seems so full and complete, that
I can fancy no addition possible to it.
His vast wealth may enable him to exercise a generosity that even
sovereigns can rarely practise; his exalted rank, while it places him
near a throne, precludes him from the eating cares that never fail to
attend even the most solidly established one, and leaves him free to
enjoy the happiness of domestic life in a family circle said to contain
every ingredient for creating it.
The fondest husband, father, and brother, he is fortunate beyond most
men in his domestic relations, and furnishes to France a bright example
of irreproachable conduct and well-merited felicity in them all. In the
possession of so many blessings, I should, were I in his position (and
he probably does, or he is not the sensible man I take him to be),
tremble at the possibility of any event that could call him from the
calm enjoyment of them to the giddy height and uneasy seat of a throne.
The present king is in the vale of years, the Dauphin not young, and
the Duc de Bordeaux is but a child. Should any thing occur to this
child, then would the Duc d'Orléans stand in direct line after the
Dauphin. I thought of this contingency last night as I looked on the
happy family, and felt assured that were the Duc d'Orléans called to
reign in France, these same faces would look less cloudless than they
did then, for I am one of those who believe that "uneasy lies the head
that wears a crown."
With a good sense that characterises the Duc d'Orléans, he has sent his
sons to public schools--a measure well calculated not only to give them
a just knowledge of the world, so often denied to princes, but to
render them popular. The Duc de Chartres is an exceedingly handsome
young man, and his brothers are fine youths. The Princesses are brought
up immediately under the eye of their mother, who is allowed by every
one to be a faultless model for her sex.
The Duc d'Orléans is said to be wholly engrossed in the future
prospects of his children, and in insuring, as far as human foresight
can insure, their prosperity.
I have been reading Shelley's works, in which I have found many
beautiful thoughts. This man of genius--for decidedly such he was--has
not yet been rendered justice to; the errors that shroud his poetry, as
vapours rising from too rich a soil spread a mist that obstructs our
view of the flowers that also spring from the same bed, have hindered
us from appreciating the many beauties that abound in Shelley's
writings. Alarmed by the poison that lurks in some of his wild
speculations, we have slighted the antidote to be found in many others
of them, and heaped obloquy on the fame of a poet whose genius and
kindness of heart should have insured our pity for the errors of his
creed.
He who was all charity has found none in the judgment pronounced on him
by his contemporaries; but posterity will be more just. The wild
theories and fanciful opinions of Shelley, on subjects too sacred to be
approached lightly, carry with them their own condemnation; and so
preclude the evil which pernicious doctrines, more logically reasoned,
might produce on weak minds. His theories are vague, dreamy, always
erroneous, and often absurd: but the imagination of the poet, and the
tenderness of heart of the man, plead for pardon for the false
doctrines of the would-be philosopher; and those who most admire his
poetry will be the least disposed to tolerate his anti-religious
principles. As a proof that his life was far from being in accordance
with his false creed, he enjoyed, up to his death, the friendship of
some of the most excellent men, who deplored his errors but who loved
and valued him.
William Spencer, the poet, dined here yesterday. Alas! he has "fallen
into the sere and yellow leaf," for though sometimes uttering brilliant
thoughts, they are "like angel visits, few and far between;" and total
silence, or half-incoherent rhapsodies, mark the intervals.
This melancholy change is accounted for by the effects of an indulgence
in wine, had recourse to in consequence of depression of spirits. Nor
is this pernicious indulgence confined to the evening, for at a
_déjeûner à la fourchette_ at two o'clock, enough wine is drunk to dull
his faculties for the rest of the day. What an unpoetical close to a
life once so brilliant!
Alas, alas, for poor human nature! when, even though illumined by the
ethereal spark, it can thus sully its higher destiny. I thought of the
many fanciful and graceful poems so often perused with pleasure,
written by Mr. Spencer amid the brilliant _fêtes_ in which he formerly
passed his nights, and where he often found his inspirations. His was
ever a courtly Muse, but without the hoop and train--a ball-room
_belle_, with alternate smiles and sentimentality, and witty withal. No
out-bursting of passion, or touch of deep pathos, interrupted the
equanimity of feeling of those who perused Spencer's verses; yet was
their absence unmissed, for the fancy, wit, and sentiment that marked
them all, and the graceful ease of the versification, rendered them
precisely what they were intended for,--_les vers de société_, the
fitting volume elegantly bound to be placed in the _boudoir_.
And there sat the pet poet of gilded _salons_, whose sparkling sallies
could once delight the fastidious circles in which he moved. His once
bright eyes, glazed and lustreless, his cheeks sunken and pale, seeming
only conscious of the presence of those around him when offered
champagne, the excitement of which for a few brief moments produced
some flashing _bon mot à propos de rien_ passing at the time, after
which his spirits subsided even more rapidly than did the bubbles of
the wine that had given them their short excitement.
It made me sad to contemplate this wreck; but most of those around him
appeared unconscious of there being any thing remarkable in his
demeanour. They had not known him in his better days.
I am often amused, and sometimes half-vexed by witnessing the
prejudices that still exist in France with regard to the English. These
prejudices prevail in all ranks, and are, I am disposed to think,
incurable.
They extend to trivial, as well as to more grave matters, and influence
the opinions pronounced on all subjects. An example of this prejudice
occurred a few weeks ago, when one of our most admired _belles_ from
London having arrived at Paris, her personal appearance was much
canvassed. One person found her too tall, another discovered that she
had too much _embonpoint_, and a third said her feet were much too
large. A Frenchman, when appealed to for his opinion, declared "_Elle
est très-bien pour une Anglaise_." I ought to add, that there was no
English person present when he made this ungallant speech, which was
repeated to me by a French lady, who laughed heartily at his notion.
If an Englishwoman enters a glover's, or shoemaker's shop, these
worthies will only shew her the largest gloves or shoes they have in
their _magasins_, so persuaded are they that she cannot have a small
hand or foot; and when they find their wares too large, and are
compelled to search for the smallest size, they seem discomposed as
well as surprised, and inform the lady that they had no notion "_une
dame anglaise_ could want small gloves or shoes."
That an Englishwoman can be witty, or brilliant in conversation, the
French either doubt or profess to doubt; but if convinced against their
will they exclaim, "_C'est drôle, mais madame a l'esprit éminemment
français_." Now this no Englishwoman has, or, in my opinion, can have;
for it is peculiar, half-natural and half-acquired.
Conversation, in France, is an art successfully studied; to excel in
which, not only much natural talent is required, but great fluency and
a happy choice of words are indispensable. No one in Parisian society
speaks ill, and many possess a readiness of wit, and a facility of
turning it to account, that I have never seen exemplified in women of
other countries.
A Frenchwoman talks well on every subject, from those of the most grave
political importance, to the _dernière mode_. Her talent in this art is
daily exercised, and consequently becomes perfected; while an
Englishwoman, with more various and solid attainments, rarely if ever,
arrives at the ease and self-confidence which would enable her to bring
the treasures with which her mind is stored into play. So generally is
the art of conversation cultivated in France, that even those with
abilities that rise not beyond mediocrity can take their parts in it,
not only without exposing the poverty of their intellects, but with
even a show of talent that often imposes on strangers.
An Englishwoman, more concentrated in her feelings as well as in her
pursuits, seldom devotes the time given by Frenchwomen to the
superficial acquisition of a versatility of knowledge, which, though it
enables _them_ to converse fluently on various subjects, _she_ would
dread entering on, unless well versed in. My fair compatriots have
consequently fewer topics, even if they had equal talent, to converse
on; so that the _esprit_ styled, _par excellence, l'esprit éminemment
français_, is precisely that to which we can urge the fewest
pretensions.
This does not, however, dispose me to depreciate a talent, or art, for
art it may be called, that renders society in France not only so
brilliant but so agreeable, and which is attended with the salutary
effect of banishing the ill-natured observations and personal remarks
which too often supply the place of more harmless topics with us.
CHAPTER XV.
Much as I deplore some of the consequences of the Revolution in France,
and the atrocities by which it was stained, it is impossible not to
admit the great and salutary change effected in the habits and feelings
of the people since that event. Who can live on terms of intimacy with
the French, without being struck by the difference between those of our
time, and those of whom we read previously to that epoch? The system of
education is totally different. The habits of domestic life are wholly
changed. The relations between husband and wife, and parents and
children, have assumed another character, by which the bonds of
affection and mutual dependances are drawn more closely together; and
_home_, sweet _home_, the focus of domestic love, said to have been
once an unknown blessing, at least among the _haute noblesse_, is now
endeared by the discharge of reciprocal duties and warm sympathies.
It is impossible to doubt but that the Revolution of 1789, and the
terrible scenes in the reign of terror which followed it, operated in
producing the change to which I have referred. It found the greater
portion of the _noblesse_ luxuriating in pleasure, and thinking only of
selfish, if not of criminal indulgence, in pursuits equally marked by
puerility and vice.
The corruption of the regency planted the seeds of vice in French
morals, and they yielded a plentiful harvest. How well has St.-Évremond
described that epoch in his playful, but sarcastic verses!--
"Une politique indulgente,
De notre nature innocente,
Favorisait tous les désirs;
Tout goût paraissait légitime,
La douce erreur ne s'appelait point crime,
Les vices délicats se nommalent des plaisirs."
But it was reserved for the reign of Louis the Fifteenth to develope
still more extensively the corruption planted by his predecessor. The
influence exercised on society by the baleful example of his court had
not yet ceased, and time had not been allowed for the reign of the mild
monarch who succeeded that gross voluptuary to work the reform in
manners, if not in morals, which his own personal habits were so well
calculated to produce. It required the terrible lesson given by the
Revolution to awaken the natural feelings of affection that had so long
slumbered supinely in the enervated hearts of the higher classes in
France, corrupted by long habits of indulgence in selfish
gratifications. The lesson at once awoke even the most callous; while
those, and there were many such, who required it not, furnished the
noblest examples of high courage and self-devotion to the objects dear
to them.
In exile and in poverty, when all extraneous sources of consolation
were denied them, those who if still plunged in pleasure and splendour
might have remained insensible to the blessings of family ties, now
turned to them with the yearning fondness with which a last comfort is
clasped, and became sensible how little they had hitherto estimated
them.
Once awakened from their too long and torpid slumber, the hearts
purified by affliction learned to appreciate the blessings still left
them, and from the fearful epoch of the Revolution a gradual change may
be traced in the habits and feelings of the French people. Terrible has
been the expiation of their former errors, but admirable has been the
result; for nowhere can be now found more devoted parents, more dutiful
children, or more attached relatives, than among the French _noblesse_.
If the lesson afforded by the Revolution to the upper class has been
attended with a salutary effect, it has been scarcely less advantageous
to the middle and lower; for it has taught them the dangers to be
apprehended from the state of anarchy that ever follows on the heels of
popular convulsions, exposing even those who participated in them to
infinitely worse evils than those from which they hoped to escape by a
subversion of the legitimate government.
These reflections have been suggested by a description given to me, by
one who mixed much in Parisian society previously to the Revolution, of
the habits, modes, and usages of the _haute noblesse_ of that period,
and who is deeply sensible of the present regeneration. This person,
than whom a more impartial recorder of the events of that epoch cannot
be found, assured me that the accounts given in the memoirs and
publications of the state of society at that epoch were by no means
exaggerated, and that the domestic habits and affections at present so
universally cultivated in France were, if not unknown, at least
neglected.
Married people looked not to each other for happiness, and sought the
aggrandizement, and not the felicity, of their children. The
acquisition of wealth and splendour and the enjoyment of pleasure
occupied their thoughts, and those parents who secured these advantages
for their offspring, however they might have neglected to instil
sentiments of morality and religion into their minds, believed that
they had fully discharged their duty towards them. It was the want of
natural affection between parents and children that led to the cynical
observation uttered by a French philosopher of that day, who explained
the partiality of grandfathers and grandmothers towards their
grandchildren, by saying these last were the enemies of their
enemies,--a reflection founded on the grossest selfishness.
The habit of judging persons and things superficially, is one of the
defects that most frequently strike me in the Parisians. This defect
arises not from a want of quickness of apprehension, but has its source
in the vivacity peculiar to them, which precludes their bestowing
sufficient time to form an accurate opinion on what they pronounce.
Prone to judge from the exterior, rather than to study the interior
qualifications of those with whom they come in contact, the person who
is perfectly well-dressed and well-mannered will be better received
than he who, however highly recommended for mental superiority or fine
qualities, happens to be ill-dressed, or troubled with _mauvaise
honte_.
A woman, if ever so handsome, who is not dressed _à la mode_, will be
pronounced plain in a Parisian _salon_; while a really plain woman
wearing a robe made by Victorine and a cap by Herbault, will be
considered _très-bien, ou au moins bien gentille_. The person who can
converse fluently on all the ordinary topics, though never uttering a
single sentiment or opinion worth remembering, will be more highly
thought of than the one who, with a mind abounding with knowledge, only
speaks to elicit or convey information. Talent, to be appreciated in
France, must be--like the wares in its shops--fully displayed; the
French give no credit for what is kept in reserve.
I have been reading _Devereux_, and like it infinitely,--even more than
_Pelham_, which I estimated very highly. There is more thought and
reflection in it, and the sentiments bear the stamp of a profound and
elevated mind. The novels of this writer produce a totally different
effect on me to that exercised by the works of other authors; they
amuse less than they make me think. Other novels banish thought, and
interest me only in the fate of the actors; but these awaken a train of
reflection that often withdraws me from the story, leaving me deeply
impressed with the truth, beauty, and originality of the thoughts with
which every page is pregnant.
All in Paris are talking of the _esclandre_ of the late trial in
London; and the comments made on it by the French prove how different
are the views of morality taken by them and us.
Conversing with some ladies on this subject last night, they asserted
that the infrequency of elopements in France proved the superiority of
morals of the French, and that few examples ever occurred of a woman
being so lost to virtue as to desert her children and abandon her home.
"But if she should have rendered herself unworthy of any longer being
the companion of her children, the partner of her home," asked one of
the circle, "would it be more moral to remain under the roof she had
dishonoured, and with the husband she had betrayed, than to fly, and so
incur the penalty she had drawn on her head?" They were of opinion that
the elopement was the most criminal part of the affair, and that Lady
---- was less culpable than many other ladies, because she had not
fled; and, consequently, that elopements proved a greater
demoralisation than the sinful _liaisons_ carried on without them.
Lady C---- endeavoured to prove that the flight frequently originated
in a latent sense of honour and shame, which rendered the presence of
the deceived husband and innocent children insufferable to her whose
indulgence of a guilty passion had caused her to forfeit her right to
the conjugal home; but they could not comprehend this, and persisted in
thinking the woman who fled with her lover more guilty than her who
remained under the roof of the husband she deceived.
One thing is quite clear, which is, that the woman who feels she dare
not meet her wronged husband and children, if she dishonours them, will
be more deterred from sin by the consciousness of the necessity of
flight, which it imposes, than will be the one who sees no such
necessity, and who dreads not the penalty she may be tempted to incur.
Lady C---- maintained that elopements are not a fair criterion for
judging of the morality of a country; for that she who sins and flies
is less hardened in guilt than she who remains and deceives: and the
example is also less pernicious, as the one who has forfeited her place
in society serves as a beacon to warn others; while she whose errors
are known, yet still retains hers, is a dangerous instance of the
indulgence afforded to hardened duplicity. It is not the horror of
guilt, but the dread of its exposure, that operates on the generality
of minds; and this is not always sufficient to deter from sin.
Les Dames de B---- dined with us yesterday. They are very clever and
amusing, and, what is better, are excellent women. Their attachment to
each other, and devotion to their nephew, are edifying; and he appears
worthy of it. Left an orphan when yet an infant, these sisters adopted
their nephew, and for his sake have refused many advantageous offers of
marriage, devoting themselves to forwarding his interests and insuring
him their inheritance. They have shared his studies, taken part in his
success, and entered into his pains and pleasures, made his friends
theirs, and theirs his; no wonder, then, that he loves them so fondly,
and is never happier than with them, taking a lively interest in all
their pursuits.
These good and warm-hearted women are accused of being enthusiasts, and
romantic. People say that at their age it is odd, if not absurd, to
indulge in such exaggerated notions of attachment; nay more, to give
such disinterested proofs of it. They may well smile at such remarks,
while conscious that their devotion to their nephew has not only
secured his happiness, but constitutes their own; and that the warmth
of affection for which they are censured, cheers the winter of their
lives and diffuses a comfort over their existence unknown to the
selfish mortals who live only for self.
They talked to me last night of the happiness they anticipated in
seeing their nephew married. "He is so good, so excellent, that the
person he selects cannot fail to love him fondly," said La Chanoinesse;
"and we will love her so dearly for ensuring his happiness," added the
other sister.
Who could know these two estimable women, without acknowledging how
harsh and unjust are often the sweeping censures pronounced on those
who are termed old maids?--a class in whose breasts the affections
instinct in woman, not being exercised by conjugal or maternal ties,
expand into some other channel; and, if denied some dear object on
which to place them, expends them on the domestic animals with which,
in default of more rational favourites, they surround themselves.
Les Dames de B----, happier than many of the spinsters of their age,
have an estimable object to bestow their affections on; but those who
are less fortunate should rather excite our pity than ridicule, for
many and severe must have been the trials of that heart which turns at
last, _dans le besoin d'aimer_, to the bird, dog, or cat, that renders
solitude less lonely.
The difference between servitude in England and in France often strikes
me, and more especially when I hear the frequent complaints made by
English people of the insolence and familiarity of French servants.
Unaccustomed to hear a servant reply to any censure passed on him, the
English are apt to consider his doing so as a want of respect or
subordination, though a French servant does not even dream that he is
guilty of either when, according to the general habit of his class and
country, he attempts an exculpation not always satisfactory to his
employer, however it may be to himself.
A French master listens to the explanation patiently, or at least
without any demonstration of anger, unless he finds it is not based on
truth, when he reprehends the servant in a manner that satisfies the
latter that all future attempts to avoid blame by misrepresentation
will be unavailing. French servants imagine that they have the right to
explain, and their employers do not deny it; consequently, when they
change a French for an English master, they continue the same tone and
manner to which they have been used, and are not a little surprised to
find themselves considered guilty of impertinence.
A French master and mistress issue their orders to their domestics with
much more familiarity than the English do; take a lively interest in
their welfare and happiness; advise them about their private concerns;
inquire into the cause of any depression of spirits, or symptom of ill
health they may observe, and make themselves acquainted with the
circumstances of those in their establishment.
This system lessens the distance maintained between masters and
servants, but does not really diminish the respect entertained by the
latter towards their employers, who generally find around them humble
friends, instead of, as with us, cold and calculating dependents, who
repay our _hauteur_ by a total indifference to our interests, and,
while evincing all the external appearance of profound respect,
entertain little of the true feeling of it to their masters.
Treating our servants as if they were automatons created solely for our
use, and who, being paid a certain remuneration for their services,
have no claim on us for kindness or sympathy, is a system very
injurious to their morals and our own interests, and requires an
amelioration. But while I deprecate the tone of familiarity that so
frequently shocks the untravelled English in the treatment of French
employers to their servants, I should like to see more kindness of
manner shewn by the English to theirs. Nowhere are servants so well
paid, clothed, fed, and lodged, as with us, and nowhere are they said
to feel so little attachment to their masters; which can only be
accounted for by the erroneous system to which I have referred.
---- came to see me to-day. He talked politics, and I am afraid went
away shocked at perceiving how little interest I took in them. I like
not political subjects in England, and avoid them whenever I can; but
here I feel very much about them, as the Irishman is said to have felt
when told that the house he was living in was on fire, and he answered
"Sure, what's that to me!--I am only a lodger!"
---- told me that France is in a very dangerous state; the people
discontented, etc. etc. So I have heard every time I have visited Paris
for the last ten years; and as to the people being discontented, when
were they otherwise I should like to know? Never, at least since I have
been acquainted with them; and it will require a sovereign such as
France has not yet known to satisfy a people so versatile and
excitable. Charles the Tenth is not popular. His religious turn, far
from conciliating the respect or confidence of his subjects, tends only
to awaken their suspicions of his being influenced by the Jesuits--a
suspicion fraught with evil, if not danger, to him.
Strange to say, all admit that France has not been so prosperous for
years as at present. Its people are rapidly acquiring a love of
commerce, and the wealth that springs from it, which induces me to
imagine that they would not be disposed to risk the advantages they
possess by any measure likely to subvert the present state of things.
Nevertheless, more than one alarmist like ---- shake their heads and
look solemn, foretelling that affairs cannot long go on as they are.
Of one thing I am convinced, and that is, that no sovereign, whatever
may be his merits, can long remain popular in France; and that no
prosperity, however brilliant, can prevent the people from those
_émeutes_ into which their excitable temperaments, rather than any real
cause for discontent, hurry them. These _émeutes_, too, are less
dangerous than we are led to think. They are safety-valves by which the
exuberant spirits of the French people escape; and their national
vanity, being satisfied with the display of their force, soon subside
into tranquillity, if not aroused into protracted violence by unwise
demonstrations of coercion.
The two eldest sons of the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche have entered the
College of Ste.-Barbe. This is a great trial to their mother, from whom
they had never previously been separated a single day. Well might she
be proud of them, on hearing the just eulogiums pronounced on the
progress in their studies while under the paternal roof; for never did
parents devote themselves more to the improvement of their children
than the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche have done, and never did children
offer a fairer prospect of rewarding their parents than do theirs.
It would have furnished a fine subject for a painter to see this
beautiful woman, still in the zenith of her youth and charms, walking
between these two noble boys, whose personal beauty is as remarkable as
that of their parents, as she accompanied them to the college. The
group reminded me of Cornelia and her sons, for there was the same
classic _tournure_ of heads and profiles, and the same elevated
character of _spirituelle_ beauty, that painters and sculptors always
bestow on the young Roman matron and the Gracchi.
The Duc seemed impressed with a sentiment almost amounting to solemnity
as he conducted his sons to Ste.-Barbe. He thought, probably, of the
difference between their boyhood and his own, passed in a foreign land
and in exile; while they, brought up in the bosom of a happy home, have
now left it for the first time. Well has he taught them to love the
land of their birth, for even now their youthful hearts are filled with
patriotic and chivalrous feelings!
It would be fortunate, indeed, for the King of France if he had many
such men as the Duc de Guiche around him--men with enlightened minds,
who have profited by the lessons of adversity, and kept pace with the
rapidly advancing knowledge of the times to which they belong.
Painful, indeed, would be the position of this excellent man should any
circumstances occur that would place the royal family in jeopardy, for
he is too sensible not to be aware of the errors that might lead to
such a crisis, and too loyal not to share the perils he could not ward
off; though he will never be among those who would incur them, for no
one is more impressed with the necessity of justice and impartiality
than he is.
CHAPTER XVI.
The approach of spring is already visible here, and right glad am I to
welcome its genial influence; for a Paris winter possesses in my
opinion no superiority over a London one,--nay, though it would be
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
_bouquetières_ 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 Reynière _remords d'estomac_, but vulgarly
called indigestion, follows my unusual indulgence in _entrées_ and
_entremets_, another delightful proof of the admirable skill of
Monsieur Louis.
The English are apt to spoil French cooks by neglecting the _entrées_
for the _pièce de résistance_, 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 _entrées_. 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 _entrée_.
_À 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 _à
la Hollandaise_, and not _à 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, _entrées_ and _entremets_; an English _rôtisseur_, 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 Hôtel Monaco, which Lord B---- writes me to close
for; but its gloomy and uncomfortable bed-rooms discourage me, _malgré_
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 _élèves_, 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
versâ_! 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 _naïve_ 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 _dîner
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 _entrées_ left no room to regret the absence of flesh
or poultry from their component parts, and the _relevés_, in the shape
of a _brochet rôti_, and a _turbot à la hollandaise_ supplied the place
of the usual _pièces de résistance_. But not only was the flavour of
the _entrées_ quite as good as if they were composed of meat or
poultry, but the appearance offered the same variety, and the
_côtelettes 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 _à
Monseigneur d'Église_ 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 dîners 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'éteindre sans doute dans le coeur d'un galant homme; mais combien de
dédommagements n'a-t-il pas alors à offrir! L'estime, l'amitié, 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 hôtels 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 réception_, with some half-dozen miserable dormitories,
and a passage-room by way of _salle à manger_.
Though Paris abounds with fine _hôtels 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 hôtels 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 hôtels 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.
_À 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-Elysées
seemed to think. Of her may be said what Choissy stated of la Duchesse
de la Vallière, she has "_La grace plus belle encore que la beauté_."
The handsome Duchesse d'Istrie and countless other _beautés à 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, _à 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 Duthé, 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 Duthé; 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
Aretæus, 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
Mérimée, 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 Condamné!_ 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 _étui_, 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 _étui_ 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 maître de l'ancien régime_, and the sparkling _tabatière_ of a
_Marquis Musqué_, the partaker if not the cause of half his _succès
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 Æolian 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 Goëthe
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 _séjour_ 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
_dénoûment_; 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 mêler la
politesse avec des manières nobles et élégantes_." 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 Hôtel 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 hôtels 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 régime_. 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 Hôtel
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 Hôtel
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
Hôtel Ney. The _salons de réception_, 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-à-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
Sèvres_, 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-à-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 à 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 _dîner 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 montée_, gives a
homeliness and heartiness to the repast; and even the attendance of two
or three ill-dressed _garçons_ hurrying about, instead of half-a-dozen
sedate servants in rich liveries, marshalled by a solemn-looking
_maître-d'hôtel_ 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 négociants_, 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 _naïveté_ 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 Pyrénées 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 fraternité_."
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 hôtel 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 bornés 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 drôle_."
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
société_. 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 _naÏveté_, 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 Musée, 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 Musée 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 société_, 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 _séjour_ here, return to England well satisfied with
their trip and with themselves.
Lord A---- has tasted all the _nouveaux plats à 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
_agrémens_ 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, _malgré_ 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
all the polish and _savoir-vivre_ of the best foreign society without
having lost any of the more solid and fine qualities peculiar to the
most distinguished portion of his countrymen. Lord Pembroke maintains
the reputation of English taste in equipages by sporting horses and
carriages that excite the admiration, if not the envy, of the
Parisians, among whom he is, and deserves to be, very popular.
The Duke of Hamilton paid me a long visit to-day. We talked over old
times, and our mutual friend Dr. Parr, in whose society we formerly
passed such agreeable hours in St. James's Square. The Duke is a very
well-informed man, has read much, and remembers what he has read; and
the ceremoniousness of his manners, with which some people find fault,
I have got used to, and rather like than otherwise. The mixture of
chivalric sentiments, Scotch philosophy, and high breeding of the old
French school which meet in the Duke, render his conversation very
piquant.
He has, indeed, the dignity of his three dukedoms; the _fierté_ of that
of Chatelherault, the reserve of that of England, and the spirit of
that of Scotland: witness his dignified reproof to the Duc de Blacas at
Rome, when that very unpopular personage, then Ambassador from the
court of France, presumed to comment on the frequency of the Duke of
Hamilton's visits to the Princess Pauline Borghese, who, being a
Buonaparte, was looked on with a jealous eye by Blacas.
Monsieur Mignet spent last evening here. The more I see of him the more
I am pleased with his society. To a mind stored with knowledge he joins
a happy facility of bringing forth its treasures, never as if
ostentatious of his wealth, but in illustration of any topic that is
discussed, on which he brings it to bear most aptly and appropriately.
His countenance lights up with expression when he converses, and adds
force to an eloquence always interesting and often instructive.
Though Monsieur Mignet shines in monologue more than in dialogue, there
is nothing either dictatorial or pedantic in his manner, he utters
opinions new and original, which it is evident he has deeply reflected
on, and elucidates them to the comprehension of his auditors with great
felicity. I like listening to the conversation of such a man; and
clever people, when they find an attentive listener, are incited to
talk well.
In general society, in which many persons of totally opposite tastes,
pursuits, and opinions, are thrown together, a clever man has seldom an
opportunity of bringing forth the treasures of his mind. He can only
dispense the small coin, which is easily changed with those he comes in
contact with; but the weighty and valuable, metal is not brought into
use, because he knows the greater number of those, around him could
give him no equivalent in exchange.
----, conversing with Lady ---- to-day, she observed that in early life
conscience has less influence than in advanced life, and accounted for
it by the nearer approach to death rendering people more alarmed, and
consequently more disposed to listen to it. Some persons attribute all
good impulses to fear, as if mortals were more governed by its
influence than by that of love and gratitude.
If conscience is less frequently heard in youth, it is that the
tumultuous throbbing of the heart, and the wild suggestions of the
passions, prevent its "still small voice" from being audible; but in
the decline of life, when the heart beats languidly and the passions
slumber, it makes itself heard, and on its whispers depends our
happiness or misery.
My old acquaintance, Lord Palmerston, has arrived at Paris, and dined
here yesterday, to meet the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, Count Valeski,
and Mr. Poulett Thomson. Seven years have produced no change in Lord
Palmerston. He is the same intelligent, sensible, and agreeable person
that I remember him to have been for many years.
Lord Palmerston has much more ability than people are disposed to give
him credit for. He is, or used to be, when I lived in England,
considered a good man of business, acute in the details, and quick in
the comprehension of complicated questions. Even this is no mean
praise, but I think him entitled to more; for, though constantly and
busily occupied with official duties, he has contrived to find time to
read every thing worth reading, and to make himself acquainted with the
politics of other countries.
Lively, well-bred, and unaffected, Lord Palmerston is a man that is so
well acquainted with the routine of official duties, performs them so
readily and pleasantly, and is so free from the assumption of
self-importance that too frequently appertains to adepts in them, that,
whether Whig or Tory government has the ascendant in England, his
services will be always considered a desideratum to be secured if
possible.
Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Cutlar Fergusson, and Count Valeski dined here
yesterday. Lord C. has just arrived from England, and is a good
specimen of the young men of the present day. He reminds me of his
uncle, the late Marquess of Londonderry, one of the most amiable and
well-bred men I ever knew. Lord C---- is very animated and piquant in
conversation, thinks for himself, and says what he thinks with a
frankness not often met with in our times. Yet there is no _brusquerie_
in his manners; _au contraire_, they are soft and very pleasing; and
this contrast between the originality and fearlessness of his opinions,
and the perfect good-breeding with which they are expressed, lend a
peculiar attraction to his manner. If Lord C---- were not a man of
fashion he would become something vastly better, for he has much of the
chivalrous spirit of his father and the tact of his uncle. Fashion is
the gulf in whose vortex so many fine natures are wrecked in England;
what a pity it is that they cannot be rescued from its dangers!
Mr. Cutlar Fergusson is a clever and amiable man, mild, well-informed,
and agreeable.
The Baron and Baroness de Ruysch spent yesterday with us. They are an
estimable couple, and very pleasant withal. His philosophy, which has
nothing of the ascetic in it, harmonises very well with her vivacity,
and her sprightliness never degenerates into levity. It is the gaiety
of a mind at ease, pleased with others, and content with self. How
unlike the exuberant spirits of ----, which always depress mine more
than a day's _tête-à-tête_ with the moodiest hypochondriac could do!
Nothing can be more dreary and cheerless than the weather; and a second
winter's residence at Paris has convinced me that London is infinitely
preferable at this season, except to those who consider gaiety an
equivalent for comfort. The negligence and bad management of the
persons whose duty it is to remove the snow or mud from the streets,
render them not only nearly impassable for pedestrians but exceedingly
disagreeable to those who have carriages.
Previously to the heavy fall of snow that occurred a week ago, and
which still encumbers the streets, a succession of wet days occasioned
an accumulation of mud that gave forth most unsavoury odours, and lent
a damp chilliness to the atmosphere which sent home to their sick
chambers, assailed by sore throats and all the other miseries peculiar
to colds, many of those who were so imprudent as to venture abroad. The
snow, instead of being swept away, is piled up on each side of the
streets, forming a wall that increases the gloom and chilliness that
reigns around. The fogs, too, rise from the Seine, and hover over the
Champs-Elysées and streets adjacent to it, rendering a passage through
them a service of danger.
Lord Castlereagh and Madame Grassini dined here last evening. He was
much amused with the raciness and originality of her remarks; and she
was greatly gratified by the polite attention with which he listened to
them. At one moment, she pronounced him to be "_la vraie image de ce
cher et bon Lord Castlereagh_," whom she had so much liked; and the
next she declared him to be exactly like "_ce preux chevalier, son
père_," who was so irresistible that no female heart, or, as she said,
at least no Italian female heart, could resist him.
Then she spoke of "_ce cher et excellent Duc de Wellington_," who had
been so kind to her, asked a thousand questions about him, the tears
starting into her brilliant eyes as she dwelt on the reminiscences of
those days when, considered the finest singer and most beautiful woman
of her time, she received a homage accorded to her beauty and talent
never since so universally decreed to any other _prima donna_. The
Grassini cannot be known without being liked, she is so warm-hearted,
unaffected, and sincere.
The prettiest sight imaginable was a party of our friends in sledges,
who yesterday passed through the streets. This was the first time I had
ever seen this mode of conveyance, and nothing can be more picturesque.
The sledge of the Duc de Guiche, in which reclined the Duchesse, the
Duc seated behind her and holding, at each side of her, the reins of
the horse, presented the form of a swan, the feathers beautifully
sculptured. The back of this colossal swan being hollowed out, admitted
a seat, which, with the whole of the interior, was covered with fine
fur. The harness and trappings of the superb horse that drew it were
richly decorated, and innumerable silver bells were attached to it, the
sound of which was pleasant to the ear.
The Duchesse, wrapped in a pelisse of the finest Russian sable, never
looked handsomer than in her sledge, her fair cheeks tinged with a
bright pink by the cold air, and her luxuriant silken curls falling on
the dark fur that encircled her throat.
Count A. d'Orsay's sledge presented the form of a dragon, and the
accoutrements and horse were beautiful; the harness was of red morocco,
embroidered with gold. The Prince Poniatowski and Comte Valeski
followed in sledges of the ordinary Russian shape, and the whole
cavalcade had a most picturesque effect. The Parisians appeared to be
highly delighted with the sight, and, above all, with the beautiful
Duchesse borne along through the snow in her swan.
My medical adviser pressed me so much to accede to the wishes of my
friends and try the salutary effect of a drive in a sledge, that I
yesterday accompanied them to St.-Cloud, where we dined, and returned
at night by torch-light. Picturesque as is the appearance of the
sledges by day-light, it is infinitely more so by night, particularly
of those that have the form of animals or birds.
The swan of the Duchesse de Guiche had bright lamps in its eyes, which
sent forth a clear light that was reflected in prismatic colours on the
drifted snow, and ice-gemmed branches of the trees, as we drove through
the Bois de Boulogne. Grooms, bearing lighted torches, preceded each
sledge; and the sound of the bells in the Bois, silent and deserted at
that hour, made one fancy one's self transported to some far northern
region.
The dragon of Comte A. d'Orsay looked strangely fantastic at night. In
the mouth, as well as the eyes, was a brilliant red light; and to a
tiger-skin covering, that nearly concealed the cream-coloured horse,
revealing only the white mane and tail, was attached a double line of
silver gilt bells, the jingle of which was very musical and cheerful.
The shadows of the tall trees falling on an immense plain of snow, the
light flashing in fitful gleams from the torches and lamps as we were
hurried rapidly along, looked strange and unearthly, and reminded me of
some of the scenes described in those northern fictions perused in the
happy days of childhood.
This excursion and exposure to the wintry air procured me a good
night's sleep,--the first enjoyed since the severity of the weather has
deprived me of my usual exercise. This revival of an old fashion (for
in former days sledges were considered as indispensable in the winter
_remise_ of a grand seigneur in France as cabriolets or britchkas are
in the summer) has greatly pleased the Parisian world, and crowds flock
to see them as they pass along. The velocity of the movement, the
gaiety of the sound of the bells, and the cold bracing air, have a very
exhilarating effect on the spirits.
Met the Prince Polignac at the Duchesse de G----'s today. His
countenance is remarkably good, his air and manner _très-distingué_,
and his conversation precisely what might be expected from an English
gentleman--mild, reasonable, and unaffected. If I had not previously
known him to be one or the most amiable men in the world, I should have
soon formed this judgment of him, for every expression of his
countenance, and every word he utters, give this impression.
The Prince Polignac has lived much in England, and seems to me to be
formed to live there, for his tastes are decidedly English. Twice
married, both his wives were English; so that it is no wonder that he
has adopted much of our modes of thinking. Highly as I am disposed to
estimate him, I do not think that he is precisely the person calculated
to cope with the difficulties that must beset a minister, and, above
all, a minister in France, in times like the present.
The very qualities that render him so beloved in private life, and
which make his domestic circle one of the happiest in the world, are
perhaps those which unfit him for so trying a post as the one he is now
called on to hold--a post requiring abilities so various, and
qualifications so manifold, that few, if any, could be found to possess
the rare union.
A spirit is rife in France that renders the position of _premier_ in it
almost untenable; and he must unite the firmness of a stoic, the
knowledge of a Machiavelli, and the boldness of a Napoleon, who could
hope to stem the tide that menaces to set in and sweep away the present
institutions. If honesty of intention, loyalty to his sovereign,
personal courage, attachment to his country, and perfect
disinterestedness could secure success, then might Prince Polignac
expect it.
CHAPTER XXII.
May.--Some months have elapsed since I noted down a line in this book.
Indisposition and its usual attendants, languor and lassitude, have
caused me to throw it by. Time that once rolled as pleasantly as
rapidly along, seems now to pace as slowly as sadly; and even the
approach of spring, that joyous season never before unwelcomed, now
awakens only painful recollections. Who can see the trees putting forth
their leaves without a dread that, ere they have yet expanded into
their full growth, some one may be snatched away who with us hailed
their first opening verdure?
When once Death has invaded our hearths and torn from us some dear
object on whose existence our happiness depended, we lose all the
confidence previously fondly and foolishly experienced in the stability
of the blessings we enjoy, and not only deeply mourn those lost, but
tremble for those yet spared to us. I once thought that I could never
behold this genial season without pleasure; alas! it now occasions only
gloom.
Captain William Anson, the brother of Lord Anson, dined here yesterday.
He is a very remarkable young man; highly distinguished in his
profession, being considered one of the best officers in the navy, and
possessing all the accomplishments of a finished gentleman. His reading
has been extensive, and his memory is very retentive. He has been in
most quarters of the globe, and has missed no opportunity of
cultivating his mind and of increasing his stock of knowledge. He is,
indeed, a worthy descendant of his great ancestor, who might well be
proud of such a scion to the ancient stock. Devoted to the arduous
duties of his profession, he studies every amelioration in it _con
amore_; and, if a long life be granted to him, will prove one of its
brightest ornaments.
The Marquis and Marquise de B---- spent last evening here, and several
people dropped in. Among them was the pretty Madame de la H----, as
piquant and lively as ever, as content with herself (and she has reason
to be so, being very good-looking and amusing) and as careless of the
suffrages of others. I like the young and the gay of my own sex, though
I am no longer either.
Prince Paul Lieven and Captain Cadogan[8] dined here yesterday. The
first is as _spirituel_ and clever as formerly, and the second is as
frank, high-spirited, and well-bred--the very _beau idéal_ of a son of
the sea, possessing all the attributes of that generous race, joined to
all those said to be peculiar to the high-born and well-educated.
I like the conversation of such men--men who, nursed in the lap of
luxury, are sent from the noble dwellings of their sires to be
"cabined, cribbed, confined," in (to my thinking) the most unbearable
of all prisons--a ship; pass months and years exposed to hardships,
privations, and dangers, from the endurance of which even the poor and
lowly born often shrink, and bring back to society the high breeding
and urbanity not to be surpassed in those whose lots have been exempt
from such trials; and, what is still more precious, the experience and
reflection acquired in their perilous profession, and in the many hours
of solitude and anxiety that appertain to it.
Sat a considerable time with the Duchesse de Guiche today. How amiable
and kind-hearted she is, and how unspoilt by all the brilliancy of her
position! While I was there the mother and son of a young page, for
whom the Duc and Duchesse have obtained that office at court, came to
thank her. The boy is a very fine youth, and the mother and sister seem
to dote on him. They reminded me of the mother and sister that a
sentimental writer would have created for the occasion, being
exceedingly interesting in their appearance and manner. The boy was
evidently as fond and proud of them as they were of him, and the group
formed a charming picture.
The warmth and gentleness of the manners of the Duchesse de G----, and
the remarkable beauty of her face and figure, never appeared more
captivating in my eyes than when I beheld her to-day, evincing such
good nature to the youthful page and his mother and sister; and I saw
by their eyes, when they took leave of her, that she sent away grateful
hearts.
_July_ 1830.--Indisposition has interrupted my journal for several
weeks, and idleness has prolonged the chasm. The noting down the daily
recurrence of uninteresting events is as dull as the endurance of them.
If reports may be credited, we are on the eve of some popular commotion
in France, and the present ministers are said to be either ignorant of
the danger that menaces, or unprepared to meet it. The conquest of
Algiers has produced much less exultation in the people than might have
naturally been expected; and this indifference to an event calculated
to gratify the _amour-propre_ which forms so peculiar a characteristic
of the nation, is considered a bad sign by those who affect to be
acquainted with the people. I have so often heard rumours of discontent
and revolts that I have grown incredulous, and I think and hope the
French are too wise to try any dangerous experiments.
_26th July_.--This morning General E---- came to breakfast with us, and
announced that the ordonnances were yesterday signed in council at St.-
Cloud. This good man and brave soldier expressed the liveliest regret
at this rash measure, and the utmost alarm at the consequences likely
to result from it. Is Charles the Tenth ignorant of the actual state of
things in Paris, and of the power of public opinion? or does he hope to
vanquish the resistance likely to be offered to this act? I hope his
majesty may not acquire this knowledge when it has become too late to
derive advantage from it.
The unpopularity of the present ministry, and above all of its leader,
the Prince Polignac, is surprising, when one considers how estimable
his private character is, and that theirs are irreproachable. They are
rendered responsible for the will of the sovereign, who, if report
speak truth, is very pertinacious in exacting a rigid fulfilment of it
whenever it is exercised.
The present are not times to try experiments how far the will of a
monarch can be pushed; and it is not in France, as in England, where
our law supposes that a king can do no wrong, for the French are prone
to pay no more respect to sovereigns than to their supposed advisers,
and both may suffer a heavy penalty for incurring the dislike of the
people.
The prosperity of France, which is acknowledged by all, has failed to
silence the murmurs of discontent which, loud and deep, are heard every
where save in the palace,--too frequently the last place where public
opinion gets an impartial hearing. The success of the Algerine
expedition has buoyed up the confidence of the ministry in their own
strength; but, if I may credit what I hear, it has by no means really
added to it.
Concessions too long delayed come with a bad grace when at length
extorted, and the change of ministry factiously demanded, even if
complied with, would have placed the sovereign in any thing but a
dignified position. The dissolution of the Chambers in March, after a
session of only ten days, might be considered as a demonstration of
discontent on the part of the monarch, as well as a want of power of
quelling the spirit that evoked it.
A circumstance, trivial in itself, added to this unpopularity, which
was, that several of the deputies were on their route to Paris when the
unexpected intelligence of the dissolution reached them, and they could
not pardon the expense to which they had been put by this unnecessary
_frais de route_, their places in the diligence being paid for. How
frequently do trifles exercise a powerful influence over grave affairs!
The portion of the public press that advocates the defence of the
government is even more injudicious than that which assails it; and the
monarchy has decidedly suffered in general opinion by the angry
excitement produced by the recrimination of both parties. The
prosecutions entered into against the editors of the liberal papers are
considered by the party to which they belong to be persecutions; and
the sentiments avowed by the _Gazette de France_ are received as those
of not only the government but of the sovereign. The discussions
occasioned by these prosecutions, as well as by the principles of
monarchical absolutism maintained by the adverse party, have greatly
extended the ranks of the liberals, who, looking on the editors who
expound or promulgate their opinions as martyrs, become more
exasperated against their opponents, and more reckless in the modes
likely to be adopted for marking their disapprobation.
_27th_.--On returning from a late drive last night we passed near the
hôtel of the Minister _des Finances_, around which some fifty or sixty
persons, chiefly youths, were assembled, crying out "_Vive la charte!_"
"_A bas les ministres!_" A patrol passed close to these persons, but
made no attempt to disperse them, which I think was rather unwise, for,
encouraged by this impunity, their numbers, I am told, increased
rapidly.
I have just heard that the post of _gendarmes_ was tripled this
morning, and that a crowd of persons have assembled around the hôtel of
the Prince Polignac, where a cabinet council was held. It is said that
the ministers were insulted as they entered. This looks ill;
nevertheless, I trust that it is nothing more than a demonstration of
the spirit that is rife in the people, and that no more violent ones
will be resorted to. The visitors I have seen to-day seem much alarmed.
The Duc de Guiche set off for St.-Cloud yesterday morning, the moment
he had read the ordonnances. Had his counsel been listened to, they
would never have been promulgated; for he is one of the few who, with a
freedom from prejudice that enables him to judge dispassionately of the
actual state of public opinion, has the moral courage to declare the
truth to his sovereign, however unpalatable that truth might be, or
however prejudicial to his own interests.
I have this moment returned from a drive through the streets, and,
though far from being an alarmist, I begin to think that affairs wear a
more serious aspect than I dreaded. Already has a collision taken place
between the populace and the soldiers, who attempted to disperse them
near the Palais-Royal; and it required the assistance of a charge of
cavalry to secure the dangerous victory to themselves.
Crowds were hurrying through the streets, many of the shops were
closed, and not above three or four carriages were to be seen. Never
did so great a change take place in the aspect of a city in so few
hours! Yesterday the business of life flowed on in its usual current.
The bees and the drones of this vast hive were buzzing about, and the
butterflies of fashion were expanding their gay wings in the sunshine.
To-day the industrious and orderly seem frightened from their usual
occupations, and scarcely a person of those termed fashionable is to be
seen. Where are all the household of Charles the Tenth, that vast and
well-paid crowd who were wont to fill the anterooms of the Tuileries on
gala days, obsequiously watching to catch a nod from the monarch, whose
slightest wish was to them as the laws of the Modes and Persians? Can
it be that they have disappeared at the first cloud that has darkened
the horizon of their sovereign, and increased the danger that menaces
him by shewing that they have not courage to meet it? Heaven send, for
the honour of France, that the _noblesse_ of the court of Charles the
Tenth may not follow the disgraceful example furnished by that of his
unfortunate brother, Louis the Sixteenth! In England how different
would it be if danger menaced the sovereign!
---- has just been here, and, in answer to my question of where are the
men on whose fidelity the king could count, and in whose military
experience he might confide in such a crisis as the present, he told me
that for the purposes of election interests all the general officers
who could be trusted had unfortunately been sent from the court.
The sound of firing has announced that order, far from being restored,
seems less likely than ever to be so. People are rushing wildly through
the streets proclaiming that several persons have been killed by the
military. All is confusion and alarm, and every one appears to dread
what the coming night may produce.
Intelligence has just reached us that the mob are demolishing the
lanterns, and that they have broken into the shops of the gunsmiths,
and seized all the arms they could find. The Duc de Raguse commands the
troops, and already several charges have taken place. This selection,
under present circumstances, is not considered to be a good one.
The people are forming barricades in various parts of the town, and
some of our servants, who have been out to collect intelligence, assert
that no hinderance seems to be opposed to this mischievous measure.
Where are the civil authorities during all this commotion? is the
natural question that suggests itself to one who knows how in London,
under any disturbance, they would oppose themselves to check such
proceedings. And why, if the civil authorities are too weak to resist
the torrent, is there not a sufficient military force to stem it? is
the next question that presents itself. No one seems to know where the
blame lies, but every one foretells a dangerous result from this
unaccountable state of things.
The promulgation of the ordonnances which had led to this tumult, ought
to have been accompanied by a display of force sufficient to maintain
their enactment. If a government _will_ try the hazardous measure of a
_coup d'état_, it ought to be well prepared to meet the probable
consequences.
I feel so little disposed to sleep that, instead of seeking my pillow,
I occupy myself by noting down my impressions, occasionally looking out
of my window to catch the sounds that break the stillness of the night.
The heat is intense, but the sky is as pure and cloudless as if it
canopied a calm and slumbering multitude instead of a waking and
turbulent one, filled with the most angry emotions.
Comtes d'Orsay and Valeski have just returned, and state that they have
been as far as the Place de la Bourse, where they saw a scene of the
utmost confusion. The populace had assembled there in great force,
armed with every kind of weapon they could obtain, their arms bared up
to the shoulders, and the whole of them presenting the most wild and
motley appearance imaginable. They had set fire to the Corps-de-Garde,
the flames of which spread a light around as bright as day. Strange to
say, the populace evinced a perfect good-humour, and more resembled a
mob met to celebrate a saturnalia than to subvert a monarchy.
Comtes d'O---- and V---- were recognised by some of the people, who
seemed pleased at seeing them. On returning, they passed through the
Rue de Richelieu, which they found in total darkness, all the lanterns
having been broken. Comte d'O---- luckily found his cabriolet in the
Rue de Ménars, where he had left it, not being able to take it farther,
owing to a portion of the pavement being broken up, and had only time
to reach the club-house in the Rue de Gramont, in the court of which he
placed his cab, before the populace rushed by, destroying every thing
they met, among which was the carriage of the Prince Tufiakin. A
considerable number of the members of the club were assembled, a few of
whom witnessed, from the balcony on the Boulevart, the burning of the
chairs placed there, the breaking of the lamps, and other depredations.
Some gentlemen went to the battalion of the guards stationed in front
of the Prince Polignac's, and suggested to the officer in command the
propriety of sending a few men to arrest the progress of the
insurgents, a thing then easily to be accomplished; but the officer,
having no orders, declined to take any step, and the populace continued
their depredations within three hundred yards of so imposing a force as
a battalion of the guards!
What may not to-morrow's sun witness, ere it goes down? But conjecture
is vain in a crisis in which every thing appears to go on in a mode so
wholly unaccountable. The exhibition of a powerful force might and
would, I am persuaded, have precluded the collision that has occurred
between the populace and the military. Blood has been shed on both
sides, and this has rendered the breach between people and sovereign
too wide to be repaired except by something almost miraculous, and
alas! the time of miracles is past.
I cannot help wondering at the calmness I feel on this occasion. I
experience no personal alarm; but I am apprehensive for my friends,
some of whom are deeply interested in this struggle. How may their
destinies, lately so brilliant, be overclouded by the change that
menaces to take place!
Well may Monsieur Salvandy have observed at the ball so recently given
by the Duc of Orléans to the royal families of France and Naples, "This
may be termed a Neapolitan _fête_, for they are dancing over a
volcano."
CHAPTER XXIII.
All now seems quiet, so I will go to bed. Heaven only knows if
to-morrow night we may be allowed to seek our pillows in safety.
_28th_.--My _femme-de-chambre_ undrew my curtains this morning, "with
such a face--so faint, so spiritless, so dull, so dead in look, so
woe-begone"--proclaiming that barricades had been erected during the
night, and that the bodies of those killed in the encounter yesterday
have been paraded through the streets in order to excite still more the
angry feelings of the people. This last measure reminds one of the
appalling exhibitions in the fearful and memorable Revolution of former
days; and the reminiscences it awakens are not calculated to
tranquillize the mind.
She states that the shops are all closed, and that no provisions can be
obtained; the cook complains that his stockpots want replenishing; and
the _femme de charge_ hints that the larder is not so well supplied as
it would have been had she known what was to occur. Each and all of
these functionaries seem wholly occupied by the dread of not being able
to furnish us with as copious repasts as usual, unmindful that a mighty
throne is tottering to its foundation, and that a struggle is going on
in which many lives may be sacrificed.
The Duc de Raguse has incurred great blame for his intercourse with the
supposed leaders of the Revolution. This conduct has had the effect of
destroying the confidence of the troops in their chief, and of
weakening their attachment to the cause they were to support. The
Maréchal was the Commandant appointed by the King, and as such, bound
to treat as rebels those who opposed themselves to his government;
instead of which, he seemed more like the _confident_ of a party who,
it is alleged, owe their victory to his supineness.
The Duc de Guiche has not left his post, near the royal family, since
the 26th, except to pass and repass with instructions from the King to
the Duc de Raguse, twice or thrice a-day. He has been repeatedly
recognised by the people, though in plain clothes, and experienced at
their hands the respect so well merited by his honourable conduct and
devotion to his sovereign. How often have I heard this noble-minded man
censured for encouraging the liberal sentiments of the Dauphin; and
heard this, too, from some of those who are now the first to desert
Charles the Tenth in the emergency which is the result of the system
they advocated!
---- has been here; he tells me that to Marshal Marmont the king has
confided unlimited power, and that Paris has been declared in a state
of siege.
He says that the military dispositions are so defective, that there is
not a young officer in the army capable of committing a similar
mistake. The regiments are crowded into narrow streets, in which even
children may become dangerous enemies, by throwing from the windows
every missile within their reach on the heads of the soldiers. He is of
opinion that, in twenty-four hours, the populace will be in possession
of Paris. The tri-coloured flag is now floating from the towers of
Notre-Dame; while the white flag of the luckless Bourbons, as often
stained by the faithlessness of its followers, as by the blood of its
foes, still waves from the column of the Place Vendôme,--that column
erected to commemorate the glory of the great chief now calmly sleeping
in his ocean-washed grave.
The civil authorities seem paralyzed: the troops have been twelve hours
on duly without any refreshment, except that afforded by the humanity
of the people, who have brought them wine and bread; can it be hoped
that these same soldiers will turn their arms against those who have
supplied their necessities?
The royal emblems are destroyed wherever they are found, and the bust
of the king has been trampled on. The disgusting exhibition of the dead
bodies has had the bad effect calculated upon, and all is tumult and
disorder. Every one wonders where are the authorities, and why a
sufficient military force does not appear, for there has been ample
time, since the disposition to insurrection manifested by the people,
to assemble the troops.
Every visitor, and, notwithstanding the disturbed state of Paris, we
have already had several to-day, announces some fresh disaster, each
representing it according to the political creed to which he adheres.
The Royalists assert that the outbreak is the result of a long and
grave conspiracy, fomented by those who expect to derive advantage from
it; while the Liberals maintain that it has arisen spontaneously and
simultaneously from the wounded spirit of liberty, lashed into a
frenzied resistance by the ordonnances. I pretend not to know which of
these statements is the most correct; but I believe that the favourite
opinion of the worthy Sir Roger de Coverley, that "much could be said
on both sides of the question," might now fairly be urged; for,
according to the march of events, it is but too probable that the
melodrama now enacting before our eyes has not been an impromptu; and
it is quite clear that the ordonnances have furnished the occasion, and
the excuse (if such were required), for the performance.
Well might a great Italian writer pronounce revolutions to be the
carnivals of history. This one seems to be not only a carnival but
Saturnalia, for the ebriety of the slaves of liberty is well calculated
to disgust the friends; and those who witness this intoxication are
reminded of the observation of Voltaire, that "_Les Français goûtent de
la liberté comme des liqueurs fortes avec lesquelles ils s'enivrent."_
A revolution affected by physical instead of moral force, is a grave
wound inflicted on social order and civilization--a wound which it
takes ages to heal.
When on the point of sitting down to our _déjeûner a la fourchette_
(for people will eat while thrones are crumbling), repeated knockings,
at the _porte-cochère_ induced us to look from the window in order to
see who the persons were who thus loudly demanded admittance, when it
was discovered that they were Doctors Pasquier and De Guise. They had
been dressing the wounded at the hospital in the Faubourg du Roule, and
finding on their return that the Champs-Élysées and Rue St.-Honoré were
the scenes of combat, had bethought themselves of our vicinity, and
sought shelter. When our unexpected visitants, deeming themselves
fortunate in having found a refuge, prepared to join our repast, it was
ludicrous to observe the lengthened faces of our servants at this
addition to our party. They, having previously lamented the paucity of
provisions in the larder, and being aware of the difficulty, if not
impossibility, of procuring a further supply, looked on the new-comers
as interlopers, who would inevitably diminish the already too limited
stock.
We had not been seated above five minutes at table, when the report of
fire-arms announced that hostilities were renewed, and we hurried to
the drawing-room to observe what was going on. The servants looked as
if they rather enjoyed the interruption to the morning's meal, thinking
no doubt that it would preserve the provisions, now so precious in
their eyes, and they prepared to remove the viands with unusual
alacrity; but their visages lengthened when told to let them remain on
the table, and became still longer when we shortly after resumed our
places at the board.
An Englishwoman, in the kitchen establishment, has just performed a
feat that has elevated her into a heroine in the eyes of the rest of
the servants. Finding the larder not sufficiently supplied, she sallied
forth into the street, passed through the Rue St.-Honoré, while the
fighting was going on, and returned bearing a basket of meat, obtained
certainly at the risk of her life, as shots were flying around her. As
none of the men offered to undertake this action, she is now considered
little less than an amazon, and her _amour-propre_ being excited by the
commendations bestowed on her courage, she declares that she will go
forth for all that may be required, as she despises fear.
We have now entrenched ourselves in the front drawing-rooms, with the
external shutters, which are stuffed to exclude noise, closed, but
which we open occasionally, in order to see what is going on. Sitting
in darkness, with the sound of firing, and the shouts of the people,
continually in our ears, I can hardly bring myself to think that all
that is now passing is not a dream.
The populace, ten minutes ago, rushed from the Rue St.-Honoré towards
the Champs-Élysées, assailing the troops stationed in the latter place;
and were in turn assailed by these last, and forced to retreat to the
Rue St.-Honoré. The scene was one of the utmost confusion.
The firing is going on; stragglers are rushing to and fro; a body of
troops are stationed at the bottom of this street, and some pieces of
cannon have been placed. A thousand rumours are afloat, each more
improbable than the other. One moment it is announced that several
regiments have fraternized with the people; another, that the royal
family have fled to Belgium; the next, that Paris is to be fired by the
insurgents; but it would be impossible to repeat one-half the wild
rumours in circulation.
There is a mixture of the sublime and of the ridiculous in the scenes
now passing before my eyes that is quite extraordinary. Looking from my
window, twenty minutes ago, I saw a troop of boys, amounting to about
fifty, the eldest of whom could not be more than ten or eleven years
old, and some who appeared under that age, march through our streets,
with wooden swords, and lances pointed with sharp nails, flags flying,
and crying, "_Vive la charte! Vive la liberté_!" The gravity and
intrepidity of these _gamins de Paris_ would, at any other period, have
elicited a smile; but now, this demonstration on the part of mere
children creates the reflection of how profound and general must be the
sympathy enlisted against the government and the sovereign in the
hearts of the people.
Many are those who, like their children, shout "_Vive la charte!_" and
"_Vive, la liberté!_" who are as ignorant of the true sense and value
of both as they are. Well might the victim, when being led to execution
in the days of the past revolution in France, exclaim, "O Liberty, what
crimes are committed in thy name!"
One of our servants has this moment informal me that the children,
whose warlike demeanour I was disposed to smile at an hour ago, have
rendered (_not_ the state, but the popular cause) some service. The
troops, more amused than surprised at the appearance of these mimic
soldiers, suffered them to approach closer than prudence warranted, and
the urchins, rushing among the horses, wounded several of the poor
animals severely, and effected their retreat before the soldiers were
aware of what had occurred.
A fatality seems to prevail in the preset crisis that is little less
than marvellous. A want of provisions for the troops is now added to
the catalogue of excitements against the cause of royalty. Harassed by
the repeated attacks of the populace, and exhausted by long exposure to
the intense heat of a burning sun, they are little prone to consider as
enemies those who approach them with food to allay the pangs of hunger,
and drink to cool their scorching thirst. ----, and others who have
mingled with the crowd, tell me that they have beheld repeated examples
of soldiers throwing down their arms, to embrace those who came to
seduce them with the most irresistible of all seductions--refreshment,
when they were nearly exhausted by the want of it.
I shall begin to consider myself half a heroine, after an exploit I
performed this evening. The men who shared our dinner having gone out
to observe what was passing, I determined, _coûte que coûte_, to pay a
visit to my friend Madame Craufurd. I attired myself as simply as
possible, and, attended by a _valet de pied_, sallied forth. Having
traversed the short distance that separates this house from the Rue
St.-Honoré, I arrived at the barricade erected in front of the entrance
to the Rue Verte, and I confess this obstacle seemed to me, for the
first minute or two that I contemplated it, insurmountable. My servant,
too, expressed his belief of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of
climbing over this mountain of loose stones, that I felt half disposed
to retrace my steps.
The shouts of a mob approaching along the Rue St.-Honoré quickly
decided me on the course to pursue; I clambered up as best I could, not
without considerable risk; nor was the danger and difficulty of the
descent on the other side of this rude pyramid less imminent. The
evening was more sultry than I ever experienced an evening to be, even
in Italy; the houses were all closed, the streets deserted, except when
a few occasional stragglers rushed along, glancing at me with surprise,
and uttering their comments on my courage. Now and then a dog ran by,
with a terrified air and drooping tail, keeping close to the houses as
if for protection. One might have fancied oneself in some city ravaged
by the plague, and the burning heat of the atmosphere, and lurid red of
the clouds, might have strengthened the notion.
It more than once occurred to me how singular it was for me, a woman
and a stranger, to find myself with only one attendant in the streets,
on foot, in a city declared to be in a state of siege, and with the
noise of firing in the distance, and the shouts of the populace,
continually breaking on my ears.
Having passed the Rue de la Ville-l'Évêque, and entered the Rue
d'Anjou, I soon reached the _porte-cochère_ of my friend. My servant
knocked, and very loudly, but before the Swiss porter would open the
door, he reconnoitred from the window in the _entresol_ of his lodge.
He could hardly credit his eyes when he saw me; and while he unbolted
and unchained the door, an operation which took him more time than I
thought necessary, I could hear him muttering that, "_Les dames
Anglaises n'ont peur de rien, positivement rien_." I was not sorry when
I heard the massive door closed after me, with its bolts and chains
again secured; but, as I crossed the courtyard, the different aspect of
the house, with its closed windows, reminded me so forcibly of the
change that had occurred since my last visit, only three days
previously, that I felt more agitated than while traversing the
streets.
When I entered the drawing-room, in which a large circle were
assembled, Madame Craufurd, though the servants announced my name,
could hardly believe I was indeed come. She wept bitterly while
embracing me, and observed on the hardship of a person so aged as
herself being called on to witness two revolutions. All the horrors of
the first are recalled vividly to her mind, and her terror of what may
occur is proportioned to what she remembers to have formerly taken
place. Nothing seemed to pacify her terror so much as the fact of my
having been permitted to pass unmolested to her house, though she
considered me little less than insane to have undertaken the task.
"For myself," said Madame C----, "I have little fear (though her
blanched cheek and trembling hand told another story); but for those
dearer to me than life, what have I not to dread? You who know the
chivalrous sentiments of the Duc de Guiche, and the attachment
entertained by him and my granddaughter for the royal family, will
understand how much I have to dread for them from the vengeance which
their devotion to their sovereign may draw on their heads. _They_ are
not, as you are aware, time-servers, like so many others, who will
desert their king in his hour of need. No; they will brave death, I am
assured, rather than forsake in adversity those whose prosperity they
shared."
The marquis d'Aligre, one of, it not the, richest landed proprietors in
France, was among the circle at Madame Craufurd's, and evinced no
little composure and courage in the circumstances in which we found
ourselves. He joined me in endeavouring to soothe her fears; and
probably the fact of his having so immense a stake to risk in the
crisis now taking place, added not a little weight to the arguments he
urged to quiet her alarms. When people have so much to lose, their
calmness has an imposing effect; and the rhetoric of the most
accomplished orator would have probably been less successful than was
the composed manner of the marquis d'Aligre, in restoring the wonted
courage of our amiable hostess.
When I rose to take leave, Madame C---- tried all her efforts to
persuade me to remain to sleep at her house, and I had no little
difficulty to escape from her importunity. She would fain send all her
men servants to escort me home, and the Marquis d'Aligre also
pressingly offered his services; but I was obstinate in my refusal to
allow anyone to accompany me, being convinced that there was even less
danger in proceeding with a single servant than more numerously
attended. I tore myself from the embraces of Madame C----, whose tears
flowed afresh, and bedewed my cheeks, and I once more passed through
the court-yard, followed to the porter's lodge by the _dames de
compagnie, femmes de chambre_, and _valets de chambre_, wondering at my
courage, offering up their prayers for my safety, and proclaiming that
only an Englishwoman would have faced such danger. The old Swiss porter
would not risk opening the gate until he had assured himself, from the
window, that the coast was clear, and closed it so rapidly when I had
passed it as almost to have endangered my heels.
On returning, I found a cord drawn across the street in front of the
barrack in the Rue Verte, and some forty or fifty ill-dressed and
riotous men assembled, half-a-dozen of whom held the cord. Having
approached close to it, I paused, and, looking calmly at those who held
it, I appealed by looks to their politeness. Some of them laughed
aloud, and asked me if I could not leap over the barrier that impeded
my progress, drawing the rope still higher while they spoke. I
answered, though I trembled at being exposed to their rude mirth, and
still more rude gaze, "That I felt sure Frenchmen would not compel me
to such an unfeminine exertion, or give me cause to tell my compatriots
when I returned to England that deference to women no longer existed in
France."
"Let her pass! let her pass!" exclaimed nearly all the voices of the
group; "she is courageous, and she speaks rightly, _Vivent les
Anglaises! Vivent les Anglaises!_" and the cord was instantly lowered
to the ground, and I hastily stepped over it, glad to get out of
hearing of the rough compliments bestowed on me.
My servant had attempted to address them before I spoke, but they one
and all assailed him with a torrent of reproach, demanding if he was
not ashamed to wear a livery, the badge of servitude, when all his
countrymen were fighting for their liberty. I had again to clamber over
the barricade, assisted by my servant, and, before I could cross the
Rue St.-Honoré, encountered various groups of men rushing along, all of
whom uttered such invectives against my footman that I determined not
again to go out attended by this symbol of aristocracy.
On reaching my home, the porter observed, with a self-complacency his
prudence could not conceal, that he "knew Madame la Comtesse had
nothing to dread from the people, they were brave and _bons enfans_,
and would not injure a lady;"--a commendation that clearly indicated
the state of his feelings.
CHAPTER XXIV.
I have observed a striking change in the manners of the servants during
the last three days. They are more familiar, without, however, evincing
the least insolence; their spirits seem unusually exhilarated, and they
betray an interest in the struggle in which the people are engaged that
leaves no doubt as to the side that excites their sympathy. Every
rumour of the success of the insurgents is repeated by them with
ill-suppressed animation and pleasure, and the power of the people is
exaggerated far beyond the bounds of truth. I confess this folly on
their part annoys me, and the more especially as the class to which
they belong, are totally incapacitated by ignorance from being able to
comprehend even the causes alleged for this popular outbreak.
Misguided men! can they hope that servitude will be lightened by their
being employed by some _parvenus_, elevated from the dregs of the
people by a revolution which sets floating to the top the worst
ingredients of the reeking caldron from which it is formed, instead of
owning the more gentle and infinitely less degrading sway of those born
to, and accustomed to rule?
Comte ---- and ---- have just come in, and report that the last story
current is, that fifty thousand men from Rouen are marching to Paris to
espouse the cause of the _people_. They say there is no end to the
desertions among the troops.
The people--the people! I hear of nothing but the people; but those who
speak of them as all and every thing, seem to me to mistake the
populace for the people, yet surely the words are not synonymous. The
people, according to my acceptation of the word, are the sober and
respectable portion of the community of all countries, including the
husbandmen who till the earth, and the artisans who fabricate the
objects applicable to our positive wants, and superfluous luxuries. How
different are these from the populace who fill the streets shouting for
liberty, by which they mean license; fighting for a charter of the real
meaning of which they are ignorant; and rendering themselves the blind
instruments by which a revolution is to be accomplished, that will
leave them rather worse off than it found them; for when did those who
profit by such events remember with gratitude the tools by which it was
effected?
_Thursday_.--Repeated knocking at the gate drew me to the window ten
minutes ago. The intruder presented a strange mixture of the terrible
and the ridiculous, the former predominating. Wearing only his shirt
and trousers, both stained with gore, and the sleeves of the former
turned up nearly to the shoulder, a crimson handkerchief was bound
round his head, and another encircled his waist. He brandished a huge
sword with a black leather string wound round his wrist, with one hand,
while with the other he assailed the knocker. Hearing the window
opened, he looked up, and exclaimed, "Ah! madame, order the gate to be
opened, that I may lay at the feet of my generous master the trophies I
have won with this trusty sword," waving the said sword over his head,
and pointing to a pair of silver-mounted pistols and a sabre that he
had placed on the ground while he knocked at the gate.
I recognised in this man a helper in the stables of Comte A. d'Orsay,
of whom it had a short time previously been reported to us, that when a
party of the populace had attempted to force the gate of the stable
offices, which are situated in the Rue Verte, and the English grooms
and coachman were in excessive alarm, this man presented himself at the
window, sword in hand, declaring that he, though engaged in the same
cause as themselves, would defend, to the last moment of his life, the
horses of his master, and the Englishmen whom he considered to be under
his protection. This speech elicited thunders of applause from the
crowd who retreated, leaving the alarmed servants, whose protector he
had avowed himself, impressed with the conviction that he is little
short of a hero.
This man--these same servants, only a few days ago, looked on as the
stable drudge, who was to perform all the dirty work, while they,
attired in smart liveries, and receiving triple the wages given to him,
were far more ornamental than useful in the establishment of their
employer. They offered him money as a reward for his spirited conduct
(the English of all classes, but more especially of that to which they
appertain, think that money pays all manner of debts), but he
indignantly refused the proffered gift. This revolutionary hero had
been fighting for several hours to-day, and is said to have evinced a
courage and enthusiasm that remind one of all we read of the spirit of
the old Imperial Guard, when animated by the presence of their mighty
chief.
---- has just brought the intelligence, that the Tuileries and the
Louvre are taken by the people! Comte A. d'O---- sent two of his
servants (Brement, formerly drill-serjeant in the Guards, and now his
porter, and Charles who was an hussar, and a brave soldier) to the
Tuileries to endeavour to save the portrait of the Dauphin by Sir
Thomas Lawrence--an admirable picture. His instructions as to its
_emplacement_ were so correct, that the servants found it instantly,
but torn in pieces, and the fragments strewed on the floor.
These men report that even in this feat a strange mixture of the
terrible and the comic was exhibited, for _while_ a dead body was
placed on the throne of Charles the Tenth, some men appeared in the
windows of the palace attired in the gold and silver tissue dresses of
the Duchesse de Berri, with feathers and flowers in their heads, and
fans in their hands, which they waved to the multitude beneath, with
all the coquettish airs and graces of _would-be-fine_ ladies.
The busts of Charles the Tenth were broken and trampled upon; the
wardrobes of the royal family were scattered, torn, and thrown among
the people, who seemed to regard them only as trophies of the victory
they had achieved, and not for their intrinsic value.
The palace of the Archbishop of Paris has been sacked, and every object
in it demolished. ---- told me that the ribaldry and coarse jests of
the mob on this occasion were disgusting beyond measure; and that they
ceased not to utter the most obscene falsehoods, while they wreaked
their vengeance on the property of this venerable prelate, against whom
they can bring no charge, except the suspicion of jesuitical
principles, and of having encouraged the king to issue the ordonnances.
---- and ---- have just been here. They state that Charles the Tenth
sent a deputation to the provisional government offering to withdraw
the ordonnances, and to form a new ministry. The offer came too late,
and was rejected. Concessions from the vanquished are seldom valued;
and to offer terms to those who are now in the position to dictate them
is as unavailing as it is undignified. ---- and ---- say that the
general opinion is, that if the Duchesse de Berri was now to present
herself, with her son, to the people, her popularity, and his youth and
innocence, would accomplish an event that would satisfy most parties;
namely, the calling of the Duc de Bordeaux to the throne. The Duchesse
de Berri has courage enough to take this step; what a pity it is that
she has not wisdom enough to adopt it!
While the fighting was going on in the streets, ---- and ---- met our
ambassador, Lord Stuart de Rothesay, walking along as usual. The
secretaries and _attachés_, too, of the English embassy have been
continually seen in places where their presence evinced more courage
and curiosity than caution; but fear is, I firmly believe, an unknown
guest in the breast of English gentlemen.
Comte ---- has just been here; he has been to the Collége of Ste.-Barbe
to take charge of the sons of the Duc de Guiche, in order to conduct
them to the country; a service of no little danger, as all connected
with the court, and known to be faithful to the royal family are liable
to be maltreated. How painful and trying a part is the Duc de Guiche
now called on to act: compelled to leave his wife and family in a town
in a state of siege, or to desert the monarch to whom he has sworn
fealty! But he will perform it nobly; and if Charles the Tenth had many
such men to rally round him in the present hour, his throne might still
be preserved.
The Duchesse de Guiche, in the trying situation in which she finds
herself, has displayed a courage worthy of olden times. The devotion of
her husband and self to the royal family is so well known that their
house has been a marked one during the last three days, the mob
repeatedly stopping before the gate uttering cries and menaces. All her
friends have urged her to leave Paris, and to remove with her children
to the country, for she would not consent to seek an asylum with her
grandmother or brother; urging, as a reason, that, in the absence of
the Duc, she felt it her duty to remain, that her presence might induce
the household to a more strict discharge of theirs, in protecting the
property of the Dauphin.
---- and ---- have been here, and have told us that the provisional
government were installed in the Hôtel-de-Ville, General La Fayette at
its head, and my old acquaintance Monsieur Alexandra de Laborde taking
an active part. How all this is to end I cannot imagine; the cry for a
republic, though strongly echoed, will, I think, be unavailing; and the
reasonable part of the community cannot desire that it should be
otherwise, inasmuch as the tyranny of the many must ever be more
insupportable than that of one, admitting that even a despotic monarchy
could in our day exercise a tyranny, which I am not disposed to admit.
The tri-coloured flag now floats on many of the churches, while that of
the _Fleur-de-lis_ still waves from the column in the Place Vendôme, on
other public buildings, and the Tuileries. What a strange state of
things! but every thing is strange in this eventful crisis.
---- has just been here, and reports that yesterday a meeting of the
Deputies took place at the house of M. Casimir Périer, in order to
consult on what measures they ought to pursue in the present state of
affairs. He says, that pusillanimity, and want of decision consequent
on it, marked the conduct of the assembly. They lost the time, so
precious in a crisis like the actual one, in disputing about words,
when deeds ought to have been had recourse to. They are accused of
being influenced by a dread of offending the now tottering power, lest
it should once more be solidly reinstated, and yet of being anxious to
remain well with those opposed to it; and they are said to have
temporised with both, allowing the time for serving either to have
passed away.
A bitter feeling towards the royal family seems to pervade the minds of
the populace; and this has been fomented by the most gross and
disgusting falsehoods dispensed around by the medium of obscene
_brochures_, and songs which are sung and distributed through the
streets. Even now beneath my window two men are offering, and crying
aloud, the Amours of the Duchesse d'Angoulême and the Archbishop of
Paris. The most spotless woman in France and the most devout man! The
same hand that would pull down the throne would raze the altar!
---- and ---- have been among the fighting, and report wonders of the
bravery of the populace. They fight with an enthusiasm and courage
worthy of a better cause, and have evinced a humanity to their wounded
adversaries that elicits admiration even from those who are the most
opposed to the cause they have espoused. The citizens, and the women
too, have come forth from the sanctuaries of their dwellings to dress
the wounds, and administer refreshment to the combatants, without
distinction with regard to the side on which they were engaged.
This amalgamation of soldiers and people has been destructive to the
cause of royalty, for the humanity experienced has induced the former
to throw down their arms rather than use them against generous foes,
and cries of "_Vive la Ligne_!" are often heard from those so lately
opposed to it. All parties agree in stating that not a single example
of pillage, except in the instances of the gunsmiths' shops, has
occurred. Various houses have been entered by the people for the
purpose of firing from the windows; and, having effected their object,
they have retired without taking a single article of the many tempting
ones scattered around in these dwellings.
This revolution, if indeed the result should prove it to be such, will
offer a striking contrast to that fearful one that has ever since left
so black a stain on France, and Frenchmen. Heroic courage, great
humanity, and a perfect freedom from cupidity, are the peculiar
attributes that mark those who are now subverting the throne of the
Bourbons; what a pity it is that such qualities should not have found a
better cause for developing themselves!
_29th_.--The subject now circulated and believed is, that Lafayette and
his followers have placed themselves at the head of the people. This
rumour has quieted the fears of many, for his name exercises a great
influence. The fighting is still going on, and the report of the guns
comes booming on the ear continually.
Hearing a noise in the street, ten minutes ago, I looked forth, and
beheld some four or five men covered with stains of blood, their faces
blackened by gunpowder, and streaming with perspiration, endeavouring
to draw away a piece of cannon, of which they had taken possession in
the Champs-Élysées. Hearing the opening of my window, they entreated
me, if there were any men in the house, to send them to their
assistance, in order to draw away the gun from the reach of the enemy.
"And if there are no men," continued the speaker, "let the women come
out and help us in the good cause." While they yet spoke, a party of
soldiers were seen rushing to the rescue of the gun, and its temporary
conquerors were compelled to make a rapid retreat towards the Rue
St.-Honoré.
The name of M. Laffitte is now mixed with that of Lafayette among the
crowds in the streets, and has a great effect on them. His vast wealth,
and the frequent and extensive aid it has afforded to the working
classes, have rendered him one of, if not the most popular man in
Paris: so that those most conversant with the actual state of affairs,
pronounce that with Lafayette and Laffitte now rest the destiny of
France. How strange is the alteration which has occurred within so
short a space of time! Five days ago, Charles the Tenth reigned in the
Tuileries; at present, on Lafayette and Laffitte it depends whether he
ever enters his palace again! The tocsin is now sounding! How
strangely, how awfully it strikes on the ear! All this appears like a
dream.
The formation of a provisional government is to-day spoken of. The cry
of "_Vive Napoleon!_" has been heard repeatedly shouted from one mass
of people, while "_Vive la république!_" has been as loudly vociferated
by another. Various persons connected with both the royalist and
popular party, have been here to-day, so that I hear the opinions
entertained by the adherents of both sides of the question. Which to
credit I know not: there is but one point on which both agree, and that
is in praising the bravery and forbearance of the people.
When I look around on the precious objects that cover the tables,
consoles, and cabinets in the salon where I am now writing, and reflect
that these same people are not only in arms, but I may say masters of
the town, I cannot help wondering at their total avoidance of pillage
when such rich booties might be so easily acquired. Perhaps there is no
European city in which so many and such splendid collections of rare
and precious articles are to be found, as at Paris. In England, our
nobility possess equal treasures, but they are contained in their
country seats; whereas it is in the Parisian dwellings of the French
noblesse, that their valuable possessions of rare objects are to be
found, and at the present crisis, how soon could an armed mass seize
them!
_28th_.--The Duchesse de Guiche was exposed to considerable danger to
day, and evinced a courage nearly allied to temerity in speaking her
sentiments on the occasion. Alarmed for the safety of her eldest son,
she was proceeding to his college in search of him, when she was
stopped by a vast crowd of people assembled around the house of one of
the tradespeople of the royal family, over whose door were the arms of
France.
The frightened tradesman was in the act of removing this badge, of
which only a few days previously he had been so proud, when the
duchesse, seeing him so employed, remarked aloud, that "after having so
often solicited permission to place the royal arms over his door, he
ought to have had the courage to defend them." The populace, enraged at
this reproof, hissed and yelled; but seeing that she remained unmoved,
the greater number cheered her, exclaiming "that young woman is as
courageous as she is beautiful; let us shew her that we know how lo
value courage, and protect her to her home," They placed themselves
around her, and with every mark of respect, escorted her, to the gate
of her dwelling.
A person among the crowd who witnessed this incident, told me that
never had he seen the Duchesse de Guiche look so dazzlingly beautiful,
as when she was reproving the tradesman--her tall and majestic figure
elevated even above its usual height by the indignation she experienced
at the insult offered to the royal family, to whom in these their days
of trial, she is even more chivalrously devoted than when they reigned
with undisputed sway, and thousands of those who now desert, professed
to worship them.
Before the duchesse regained her abode, she encountered several
skirmishing parlies in the streets who were absolutely fighting, and
probably owed her safety lo the protection afforded her by those whom
her courage had won to be her champions.
The intelligence reached us two hours ago, that the populace had
attacked the hotel of the Duc de Guiche, and placed two pieces of
cannon before the gate. My terror may more easily be imagined than
described, for the duchesse and her youngest children are in the house,
and the duc is with the royal family. I hardly knew whether to be
thankful or sorry, that her brother Count Alfred d'Orsay was not at
home when this news reached us, for he would certainly have proceeded
to her house, and would probably have, by his presence and
interference, rendered her danger still greater.
Fearful of compromising the safety of her children, the duchesse left
the hotel by another gate, opening into the Rue de Montaigne, and is, I
trust, ere this, safe on her route to St.-Germain, where her
father-in-law, the Duc de Gramont, has a residence.
How like a troubled dream all this appears! Would that it were but a
dream, and that those whom I so much love, were not exposed to pay
dearly for their fidelity to a sovereign, whose measures their
enlightened minds are the last to approve, but whose misfortunes, if
they cannot ameliorate, they will at least share!
I know not a more painful position than that of the Duc and Duchesse de
Guiche, at the present moment. With highly cultivated minds and liberal
opinions, possessing a knowledge of the world, and of the actual state
of public opinion in France, they must be aware of the utter
hopelessness of the cause in which they find themselves embarked, yet
such is their chivalrous sentiments of honour, that they will sacrifice
every thing rather than abandon those whose prosperity they have
partaken, and thus incur all the penalty of the acts of a government
whose policy they did not approve. Had Charles the Tenth many such
devoted adherents, he would not find himself deserted in his hour of
need.
CHAPTER XXV.
I have but just returned from the Rue d'Anjou, and now that I find
myself once more within the sanctuary of my home, I am surprised at my
own courage in having ventured to pass through the streets, and
_alone_, too, at such a moment. I do not think I should have risked it,
had I not known how much my excellent friend Madame C---- stood in need
of consolation, after having seen her grandchildren and great
grandchildren driven from their late peaceful and happy dwelling,
uncertain when she may behold them again, as they have determined on
not forsaking the royal family.
I had ascended nearly to the top of the barricade at the entrance to
the Rue Verte when a head and shoulders rose from the opposite side so
suddenly as to alarm me not a little. My trepidation was infinitely
increased when I discovered that the individual to whom the said head
and shoulders appertained, was in a state of extreme intoxication, and
when with rolling eyes, flushed checks, and thick articulation he
addressed me with a familiarity, yet good nature, that I would most
willingly have dispensed with.
"Give me your hand, _ma belle_, fear nothing, I am one of the _bons
enfans_ of the revolution, take my arm and no one will molest you. We,
_les braves des braves_, wage no war against women; _au contraire_, we
love the pretty creatures. Here take my hand, and I will assist you
over the barricades."
Suiting his action to the word, he extended his hand towards me, and
reaching forward lost his equilibrium and rolled over; at which moment,
the proprietor of a wine shop at the corner of the Rue Verte came to my
assistance, and leading me through his house, opened a door on the
other side of the barricade, through which I hastily passed, he civilly
offering to open the same door when I returned if I would knock at it.
And here, _en passant_, let me render justice to the politeness I have
invariably experienced from all classes of men, and on all occasions,
in France--a politeness so general that I should be ungrateful if I did
not record it.
When I passed the barrack in the Rue Verte, it was in the possession of
the people, who had seized it by the right of conquest an hour or two
previously. Proud of the achievement, they were looking out of the
windows, shouting, singing the Marseillaise, embracing each other, and
proclaiming that they were _les bons enfans_, etc. They paid me many
homely compliments as I passed, but not a single indelicate allusion
escaped their lips; and I hurried on, not meeting a human being until I
entered the courtyard of Madame C----'s hotel, into which I found
considerable difficulty to penetrate, owing to the extreme caution of
her Swiss porter who seemed to think it very dangerous to open even the
little door to admit me.
I found dear, good Madame C---- depressed and agitated. I rejoiced to
find that she was ignorant of the scene that took place between her
grand-daughter and the populace, for a knowledge of it would have
served to increase her alarm. She was surrounded by the usual circle of
_habitués_ who endeavoured in vain to calm her fears, but my presence
re-assured her a little, and Count Valeski, who came in soon after,
succeeded in mitigating her terror. Having witnessed the horrors of the
former revolution, it is no wonder she should tremble at the thoughts
of another, and she looks on my calmness and courage as little short of
heroism.
I remained a couple of hours with her, and having resisted all her
persuasions to induce me to stay all night, I left the Rue d'Anjou, and
had reached the Rue Verte, when I heard the report of guns, and saw a
party of soldiers attacking the barracks, out of the windows of which
the people, who had taken forcible possession of it some hours before,
were firing on their assailants. I retraced my steps as hastily as
possible, fear lending swiftness to my feet, and returned to the Rue de
Matignon by the Faubourg du Roule and the Rue St.-Honoré. Our trusty
porter, having heard the shots, and knowing they proceeded from the
_quartier_ through which my route lay, was much alarmed for my safety,
and evinced great pleasure when he saw me safe again within the portal
under his charge, while I congratulated myself on having once more
proved my friendship to my dear old friend, by a personal exertion
entailing no more disagreeable consequences than a temporary alarm.
---- and ---- have just been here: they say that it is reported that a
negotiation has been opened between the king and the provisional
government, and that even still a reconciliation may be effected. I do
not believe it, though I wish it were true. The blood that has flowed
during the last days has, I fear, created an impassable gulf between
the sovereign and the people. Each party has made discoveries fatal to
the good understanding necessary to subsist between both: one having
proved his want of power to carry his wishes into effect, and the other
having but too well evinced its power of resistance.
While the negotiations are pending, the royal cause becomes every hour
more hopeless. Success has rendered the people less tractable; and the
concession implied by the king's holding out terms to them, has less
chance of producing a favourable result.
The populace attempted to force an entrance into the _Hôtel des Pages_,
and, having fired through the iron gate, killed a fine youth, the son
of General Jacquinot, one of the royal pages, and a protégé of the Duc
de Guiche. It was of this general that the Emperor Napoleon
said--"_Celui-là est brave tous les jours, en mon absence comme sous
mes yeux_." It is not more than ten days ago, since I met the mother
and sister of this promising youth with him at the Duchesse de
Guiche's. They came to return thanks to her and the duc for the
generous protection they had afforded to him; they were elate with joy
at his promotion, looked forward to his further advancement, and now--.
My heart bleeds for the poor mother who doted on her son!
Count Alfred d'Orsay, having heard that he had no relations in Paris at
this moment, has gone to arrange for the interment of this poor youth,
who yet scarcely more than a child, has lost his life at but a short
distance from the threshold of that door where he had been so often
received with kindness. How glad I am that the duchesse was spared the
horror of being so near the scene of this murder, and that she and her
children are safe from the reach of personal violence!
The interesting countenance of this fine youth, as I lately saw it,
haunts me. Beaming with affection towards his mother and sister, and
with gratitude towards his friends, it was pleasant to behold it; and
now,--how fearful is the change produced in so brief a space! That
bereaved mother and fond sister will never more look on that face so
dear;--before the fatal intelligence can have reached them, he will
have been consigned to the grave, and will owe to a stranger those last
rites which they little dream are now performing.
The number of persons killed during the last three days has excited
much less interest in my feelings than the death of this poor youth. I
cannot picture to my mind's eye any other distinct image among the
slain. They present only a ghastly mass, with all the revolting
accompaniments of gaping wounds and blood-stained garments, I never saw
them in life,--knew not the faces that will be steeped in tears, or
convulsed in agony at their deaths; but this poor boy, so young, so
fair, and so beloved, and his fond mother and gentle sister seem ever
to stand before me!
I remember reading, long years ago, the example given of a person
recounting all the details of a great battle, in which hundreds were
slain, and the listeners hearing the account unmoved, until the relater
described one individual who had been killed, and drew a vivid picture,
when those who had heard of the death of hundreds without any deeper
emotion than general pity, were melted to tears. This is my case, with
regard to the poor young page, cut off in the morning of his life; for,
having his image present to my mind, his death seems more grievous to
me than that of hundreds whom I have never seen.
_30th_.--The last news is, that the Dauphin has been named
Generalissimo, that he has placed himself at the head of the vast body
of troops that still adhere to their allegiance, and that he is to
advance on Paris. This determination has been adopted too late, and can
now, in my opinion, avail but little.
Comte d'O---- has just returned from seeing the last sad duties paid to
the remains of the poor young page. He brings the intelligence that the
royal family left St.-Cloud last night, and are now at Versailles. This
step proves that they consider their case hopeless. Unhappy Bourbons! a
fatality seems to impend over the race; and Charles the Tenth appears
doomed to die, as he has lived the greater portion of his life, in
exile. The absence of the Dauphine at this eventful period has been
peculiarly unfortunate for her family; for, with her firmness of
character and promptitude of decision, her counsel might have served,
while her presence would have given an impetus to, their cause.
I have just seen ----, who told me, that on the King's departure for
Versailles he left the Dauphin in command of the troops that still
adhered to their allegiance, and that the Prince placed himself at the
head of a battalion of the _garde royale_, charged the enemy on the
Pont de Sèvres, and took possession of it; but the troops, with the
exception of a few officers, refused to follow, and left him to receive
the fire of the insurgents, which it is wonderful that he escaped. With
what feelings must he have bent his course to Versailles, deserted by
troops on whom he had bestowed so many favours and acts of munificence,
to meet his sovereign and father, with the sad news of their revolt!
I have just had the gratifying intelligence that the Duchesse de Guiche
and her children reached St.-Germain's in safety. This is a great
relief to my mind. The royal arms on the carriage, and the liveries,
were recognised at the Barrière, and the populace crowded around, many
of them expressing their dissatisfaction at beholding these memorials
of a family so lately respected, if not beloved. It had been
represented to the Duchesse, previously to her leaving Paris, that she
ran no inconsiderable risk in venturing out with the royal arms on her
carriage;[9] but she declared that she would not consent to their being
effaced. She courageously, and with a calm dignity, addressed the angry
crowd, explained her sentiments and feelings to them in a few brief
words, and they, won by her beauty and noble bearing, even perhaps
still more than by her courage (though intrepidity has always a
peculiar charm for Frenchmen), cheered her, and suffered the carriage
to proceed unmolested.
_July 30th_.--I am again alarmed for the safety of the Duchesse de
Guiche. The populace having yesterday assembled at the Place
St.-Germain, in which is the residence of her father-in-law, the Duc de
Gramont, they evinced so hostile a feeling towards all attached to the
royal family, that a friend, becoming apprehensive of violence, scaled
the wall of the garden, and entering the house, implored the Duchesse,
ere it was yet too late, to seek safety by flight.
Alarmed for her children--for this noble-minded woman is a stranger to
personal fear--she sought refuge with them in the Forest of
St.-Germain, in the Château du Val, the abode of the Princesse de Poix,
where she experiences all the kindness and hospitality which her
amiable hostess can practise, in order to soothe the anxiety of her
guest.
What a change in the position of the Duchesse, and in so brief a space!
A fugitive in that forest where, every year during the _Fête des
Loges_, she dispensed kindness to the poor, and amiability to all,
doing the honours of the Duc de Gramont's house, where her
condescension and goodness were the themes of every tongue! And now,
harassed in mind and body, terrified for the safety of her husband, who
is with the royal family, and for her two eldest sons, who are in their
college, in the Rue St.-Marceau, which is rendered inaccessible, owing
to the barricades.
_31st_.--Lafayette is now said to be the oracle of the provisional
government, and the idol of the populace. Advanced far in the vale of
life, his energies and vigour are gone, and his _name_ serves the party
more than his counsel can; for with the republicans, at least, it is a
guarantee for honest motives. What a strange destiny has his
been--called on to perform so conspicuous a part in two revolutions!
---- has just been here, and announced that the Duc d'Orléans is named
Lieutenant-general of France. It is asserted, that this appointment has
been effected by the influence of General Lafayette over the
provisional government; but how little in accordance is this measure
with the well-known Utopian scheme of a republic, which has for years
been the favourite dream of this venerable visionary?
_August 1st_. ---- now has brought the intelligence that Charles the
Tenth has nominated the Duc d'Orléans Lieutenant-general, so that his
Royal Highness has been chosen by both sides--a flattering proof of the
confidence reposed in him by each. Were he ambitious, here is an
opportunity of indulging this "infirmity of noble minds," though at the
expense of the elder branch of his family; but he will not, I am sure,
betray the trust they have confided to him. Order seems now to be in a
great measure restored; the people appear in good-humour; but there is
a consciousness of power evident in their hilarity that too forcibly
reminds one of their victory.
The Duc of Orléans has been to the Hôtel-de-Ville, where he presented
himself to the people from the balcony; embraced General Lafayette, who
stood by his side; and was applauded with enthusiasm by the immense
multitude who witnessed the _accolade_.
_2nd_.--The news of the day is, that Charles the Tenth has abdicated
the crown in favour of the Duc de Bordeaux, who is now styled Henri V.
This act might, four or five days ago, have produced some salutary
effect; but it now comes too late--at least, so think those who profess
to know more on the subject than I do. The position of the
Lieutenant-general, in this case, reminds me of that of a _confidante_
in a quarrel between lovers, in which the interest of the absent is too
often sacrificed, owing to the dangerous opportunity furnished for
forwarding that of the supposed friend.
_3d_.--Again, considerable excitement has prevailed in the town,
produced by the proclamation, that the dethroned sovereign had
determined to take up his position, with the strong military force that
still adheres to him, at Rambouillet. The publicity given to this news
was a very injudicious measure, if conciliation, or even forbearance to
the deposed family, was desired.
The populace, that many-headed monster, only seen abroad when evil
passions dictate violence, again rush through the streets, breathing
vengeance against the poor old man, whose grey hairs, more exposed by
the absence of the crown his _ci-devant_ subjects have wrested from his
head, should have claimed more respect at their hands. Truly has the
poet said,
"He who has worn crown,
When less than king is less than other men,--
A fallen star, extinguish'd, leaving blank
Its place in heaven."
This fickle people, or, at least, the dregs of them, for it would be
unjust to confound all in their enormities, will efface the credit they
have gained by the forbearance from crime that has as yet characterised
this revolution, by some act of brutality towards the royal family. But
even the very dregs of the people have not appeared desirous to adopt
any such course, until excited into it by the wicked rumours set
afloat, that Charles the Tenth had carried off all the crown jewels--a
rumour peculiarly calculated to excite their ire and meet a ready
credence, each individual of the motley train looking on himself as
having an interest in these national riches, and judging from _self_,
of the possibility--nay, more, probability, of so vile an action. How
little can such minds identify themselves with the feelings of those
who, sated with the gewgaws and trappings of grandeur, forget them in
the deep, the powerful excitement of beholding a throne crumbling into
ruin beneath them--a diadem rudely torn from their brows--the power
they wielded, even that of doing good, wrested violently, with the
sceptre, from their hands; and more than all, behold the loved, the
_trusted_--those on whom they had showered benefits with prodigality,
turn from them in their hour of need and join their foes!
"If thou canst hate, as, oh! that soul must hate
Which loves the virtuous and reveres the great;
If thou canst loathe and execrate with me
That gallic garbage of philosophy,--
That nauseous slaver of these frantic times,
With which false liberty dilutes her crimes;
If thou hast got within thy free-born breast
One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest
With honest scorn for that inglorious soul
Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control.
Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod,
And makes, like Egypt, every beast its God!"
_August 4th_.--The King has left Rambouillot, alarmed by the report of
the approach of the vast multitude who had left, or were leaving,
Paris, with hostile intentions towards the royal family. The scenes
that took place then, previously to his departure, are represented as
being most affecting.
An old man, overpowered by mental and bodily sufferings, remembering
the terrible days of a former revolution, brought with a fearful
vividness to his mind by the appalling change effected within the last
few eventful days, he had lost all presence of mind, and with it his
confidence in those whom he might have safely trusted, while he yielded
it to those whose interests were wholly opposed to his. Nor is the
deplorable effect produced on his mind by recent events to be wondered
at.
Adversity is the only school in which monarchs can acquire wisdom, and
it almost always comes too late to enable them to profit by its bitter
lessons. The defection of those hitherto supposed to be devoted
friends, the altered looks of faces never before beheld without being
dressed in smiles, the unceremoniousness of courtiers who never
previously had dared to have an opinion before royalty had decided what
it should be, might well have shook firmer nerves, and touched a
sterner heart, than belonged to the old, grey-headed monarch, who saw
himself betrayed without comprehending by whom, and who used his
authority as sovereign and father, over his religiously obedient son,
to extort an abdication of his right, as well as an approval of the
resignation of his own.
Like another Lear, this poor old man has been driven forth "to bide the
pelting of the pitiless storm" of a revolution, followed by his widowed
daughter-in-law and her helpless son, that child orphaned ere yet he
saw the light, and by Frenchmen who now condemn him to exile!
They have taken the route to Cherbourg, there to embark; and of those
who lately bent the knee before them, how few have followed their now
gloomy fortunes! One, at least, has not left, and will not forsake
them. The Duc de Guiche, the kindest husband and father perhaps in
France, sacrifices his feelings of domestic affection to his sense of
duty, and accompanies the exiled family!
CHAPTER XXVI.
_August 5th_.--There are rumours today that the son of the Emperor
Napoleon will be called to fill the vacant throne. This seems to me to
be very improbable, when I reflect that General Lafayette, whose
influence is omnipotent at present, appears wholly devoted to the Duc
d'Orléans. The minds of the people are as yet wholly unsettled; a dread
of how their late exploits may be looked on by the foreign powers
allied to the deposed sovereign, pervades the multitude, and the
republicans begin to discover that their Utopian schemes are little
likely to be advanced by the revolution effected.
I was forcibly struck this morning on reading, in an Italian writer,
the following passage, which is strongly applicable to the present
time:
"When a revolution is ripe, men are always found who are
ready to commence it, and make their bodies the steps to the
throne of him who is to profit by their labours, without
having shared their dangers."
I have a presentiment that the truth of this axiom will be verified in
France.
_August 6th_.--Reports are now afloat that the crown of France has been
offered to the Duke of Orléans, but that the offer was not unanimous,
and that consequently he has not accepted it. Other rumours state, that
if he should be induced to do so, it will only be to hold it as a
sacred deposit to be restored to the rightful owner when, with safety
to both parties, it can be transferred. Should this be the case, then
will the Duke of Orleans deserve well of the elder branch of his family
who have behaved so kindly towards him, but I confess I am not one of
those who believe in the likelihood of such an abnegation of self, as
this voluntary abdication would display.
Rich possessions are seldom if ever willingly resigned, and a crown is
one said to have such irresistible charms to the person who has once
worn it, that history furnishes but few examples like that of Charles
the Fifth, or Christina of Sweden. Time will prove whether
Louis-Philippe d'Orléans will offer a _pendant_!
I walked with Comte d'O---- this evening into the Champs-Elysees, and
great was the change effected there within the last few days. It looks
ruined and desolate, the ground cut up by the pieces of cannon, and
troops as well as the mobs that have made it a thoroughfare, and many
of the trees greatly injured, if not destroyed.
A crowd was assembled around a man who was reading aloud for their
edification a proclamation nailed to one of the trees. We paused for a
moment to hear it, when some of the persons recognising my companion,
shouted aloud, "_Vive le Comte d'Orsay! Vive le Comte d'Orsay!"_ and
the cry being taken up by the mass, the reader was deserted, the fickle
multitude directing ail their attention and enthusiasm to tho new
comer. We had some difficulty in escaping from these troublesome and
unexpected demonstrations of good will; and, while hurrying from the
scene of this impromptu ovation to the unsought popularity of my
companion, I made him smile by hinting at the danger in which he stood
of being raised to the vacant throne by those who seem not to know or
care who is to fill it.
Comte d'O---- was as much puzzled as I was how to account for this
burst of enthusiasm, for, taking no part in politics, and all his
family being attached to the legitimate cause, this demonstration of
regard appears more inexplicable. It seems, however, to establish one
fact, and that is, that though the monarch has fallen into disrepute
with the people, the aristocracy have not, and this alone proves how
totally different are the feelings of those who have effected the
present revolution with those of the persons who were engaged in the
former one, a difference, perhaps, not more to be attributed to the
change produced in the people by the extension of education, than in
the _noblesse_ by the same cause, aided by the habits and feelings it
engenders. Whatever may be the cause, the effect is salutary, for the
good understanding evident between the two classes tends greatly to the
amelioration and advantage of both. There is something very contagious
in popular feeling. It resembles an epidemic from which few of the
class more peculiarly exposed to it escape.
Walked into the streets to-day, for a carriage cannot yet pass through
them. Never did any town, not actually sacked, present a more changed
aspect. Houses damaged by shots, windows smashed, pavements destroyed,
and trees cut down or mutilated, meet the eye along the Boulevards. The
destruction of the trees excited more regret in my mind than that of
the houses. There, many of them lay on the ground shorn of their leafy
honours, offering obstructions on the spots which they so lately
ornamented, while others stood bare and desolate, their giant limbs
lopped off, their trunks shattered by bullets, and retaining only a few
slight branches oh high, to which still adhered the parched,
discoloured, and withered leaves, sole remnants of their lately
luxuriant foliage.
The houses may be rebuilt and the streets newly paved, but how many
years will it take before these trees can be replaced! Those who loved
to repose beneath their shade, or who, pent in a city, were solaced by
beholding them and thinking of the country of which they brought
pleasant recollections, will grieve to miss them, and, like me, own
with a sigh, while contemplating the ravages occasioned by the events
of the last few days, that if good ever is effected by that most
dangerous of all experiments, a revolution, it is too dearly bought.
The people seem as proud and pleased as possible with the
accomplishment of the task they took in hand. How long will they
continue so? They are like a too-spirited horse who, having mastered
his rider, requires a bolder and more expert hand to subjugate him
again to obedience, and the training will be all the more painful from
the previous insubordination. Of one thing the people may be proud, and
that is, their having not stained this revolution with any of the
crimes that have left so indelible a blot on the former one.
How soon does the mind habituate itself to an unnatural state of
excitement! My _femme de chambre_ positively looked blank and
disappointed this morning, when, on entering my _chambre à coucher_,
she answered in reply to my question, whether any thing new had
occurred during the night, "_Non, miladi, positivement rien_." Strange
to say, I too felt _désoeuvré_ by the want of having something to be
alarmed or to hope about,--I, who meddle not with politics, and wish
all the world to be as quiet and as calm as myself. Every one I see
appears to experience this same flatness, just like the reaction
produced on the spirits the first day or two after the Italian
Carnival, when the cessation of gaiety, though felt to be a relief to
the frame, leaves the mind unfitted for repose.
I find this feeling is generally experienced, for several of the
shop-keepers, whose profit,--nay, whose very bread, depends on the
restoration of social order, confess it. One person, the wife of a
jeweller, owned to me to-day that Paris was now beginning to be very
_triste_.
"To be sure they were no longer afraid to open their shops, and
commerce they hoped would soon become active again, but there was no
more the same interest continually awakened, as when every hour,--nay,
every minute brought some new event, and she and her neighbours looked
out to behold the fighting in the streets, the wounded and the dying
dropping around, and trembled for their own lives, and for the safety
of those dear to them." In short, as she admitted, the want of
excitement was experienced by all those who had lately become
accustomed to it, as much as it is felt by the habitual gamester who
cannot live without play.
This is a dangerous state for the people of a great city to find
themselves in. Vastly more dangerous than if subdued by a
long-continued excess of excitement, their moral as well as their
physical force required repose, and they gladly resigned themselves to
it.
To a sober-minded denizen of England, the ungovernable pride,
insatiable vanity, and love of fighting, inherent in the French, appear
really little short of insanity, to so great an excess do they push
these manias. This will always render them so difficult to be governed,
that it will require no ordinary abilities and firmness in him who
undertakes the arduous task of ruling them. Yet the very excess of
these passions renders the French the most able, as they decidedly are
the most willing, instruments to be employed in achieving the aims of
the wildest ambition, or the most glorious enterprises. He will the
longest and most securely govern them, who calls these passions into
action, provided always that they meet no check, for the French not
only bear adversity impatiently, but soon turn against him who has
exposed them to it: witness their conduct to the Emperor Napoleon, who,
while success frowned his banner, was their idol.
Playing at soldiers is the favourite game of Frenchmen of every class
and description, and every opportunity afforded them of indulging it is
gladly seized. When I compare the reluctance with which the yeomanry of
Ireland, or the local militia of England, leave their homes and their
business to "assume the spear and shield," with the enthusiasm evinced
by the _Garde Nationale_ when they are called to leave their
_boutiques_ and don their uniforms, I am more than ever struck with the
remarkable difference existing between two nations separated by so
short a distance. The English local militia man will fight when
occasion requires, and with determined courage, too, because he
believes it to be his duty, but the French National Guard will combat
for the mere love of combating, and forget home and interest in the
pleasure of the excitement.
The Duchesse de Guiche has returned to Paris, while her amiable and
noble-minded husband has accompanied the royal family to Cherbourg,
where they are to embark for England. Nothing can exceed the courage
and dignity with which she supports her altered fortunes. She thinks
only of those to whom the Duc and herself have been so long and so
truly devoted; and in her chagrin for their sufferings forgets her own.
The Duc has such a perfect confidence in her good sense and tact, that
he has sent her his _procuration_ to act for him in his absence. No
sooner had she arrived at her abode, than she sent to demand the
protection of General Gérard[10] for the house and stables of the
Dauphin, and ho immediately ordered a guard to be placed there. Heaven
grant that she may not be exposed to any annoyance during the absence
of her husband!
The Duchesse de Guiche gave a new proof of her courage and presence of
mind yesterday. Early in the morning, having heard a noise in the
courtyard of her dwelling, she beheld from the window of her chamber an
officer gesticulating with violence, and menacing the grooms of the
Dauphin. The upper servant entered at the moment, and announced that
the officer insisted on seizing six of the finest horses in the stable,
by order of General Lafayette.
The Duchesse descended to the courtyard, informed the officer that the
whole establishment was under the protection of General Gérard, without
whose orders no horse should leave the stables. He attempted to enforce
his pretensions; but the Duchesse desired the head groom to call out
his assistants, about thirty in number, who, armed with pitchforks and
other implements of their calling, soon came forth; and the Duchesse
assured the intruder that, unless he immediately retired, he should be
forcibly expelled.
Seeing the courage and determination of this high-spirited and
beautiful woman, the officer withdrew, and the horses were saved. It
has since been ascertained, as the Duchesse anticipated, that General
Lafayette had never given any orders to the officer who had used his
name.
_7th_.--The Duke of Orleans has at length accepted the crown; and
various are the conjectures and reports to which his doing so has given
rise. Many of them, as may be easily imagined, are not creditable to
him; but on this occasion, as on most others, the least charitable
motives are generally assigned to those whose conduct is judged by the
mass often wholly ignorant of the reasons on which it is based. The
vast wealth of the Duke of Orleans has a powerful influence; and those
who a few days ago exclaimed against royalty, and vaunted the superior
advantages of a government without a king, are now reconciled to having
one whose immense private fortune will exempt the nation from the
necessity of furnishing funds for a civil list. Should the new
sovereign hereafter demand one, his popularity will be endangered; and
the King of the French, as he is styled, will be likely to find as
little favour in the eyes of his subjects as the King of France
experienced.
Popularity, always, and in all countries, an unstable possession, is in
France infinitely more so; and Louis-Philippe must have more luck, as
well as more wisdom, than falls to the lot of mankind, to retain this
fleeting good when the novelty of his reign has worn away. That he is a
man of great ability no one seems to entertain a doubt; but his wisdom
would, in my opinion at least, have been more surely manifested had he
declined instead of accepting the crown.
Those who profess to be best acquainted with his sentiments declare,
that he only acceded to the wishes of the people in ascending the
vacant throne, in order to preserve the charter, and to preclude the
dangerous theoretical experiments into which the republican party was
so desirous to plunge. It remains to be proved whether, in a few years
hence, those who have subverted one monarchy by violence may not be
tempted to have recourse to a similar measure in order to free
themselves from the successor they have chosen; for even already it
appears clear to me, that the expectations entertained, not only by the
partisans of Louis-Philippe, but by the generality of the people, are
such as he never can fulfil. He may be their idol for a brief space,
but, like all other idols, he will be expected to perform miracles; and
not having the sanctity with which time invests even false gods, he may
be thrown from the pedestal to which he has been elevated as
unceremoniously as he was raised to it.
I saw General Lafayette to-day, and never felt more disappointed, as
his appearance does not at all correspond with what I had imagined it
to be. The "Lafayette _aux cheveux blancs_," as the popular song
describes him to be, is, _au contraire_, a plain old man, with a dark
brown scratch wig, that conceals his forehead, and, consequently, gives
a very common and, to my thinking, a disagreeable expression to his
countenance. The _cheveux blancs_ would be a great improvement; for,
independently of the song thus describing him, one looks for the
venerable mark of age in this Nestor of revolutions, who in his youth
has seen his idol, Liberty, commit fearful crimes in France as well as
great deeds in America, and who now, when on the threshold of the
grave, in which ere long he must repose, beholds her regeneration in
his native land, redeemed from the cruelty that formerly stained her
course.
"_Voilà le grand Lafayette_!" exclaimed one of the people as he passed
to-day; "_Oui, la ganache des deux mondes_," replied the other. Such is
popular favour!
I walked in the Palais-Royal to-day; and felt much more disposed to
pity than envy the King of the French, as Louis-Philippe is styled,
when I beheld a crowd of idle miscreants, assembled in front of his
dwelling, rudely and boisterously vociferating his name, and in a tone
much more resembling command than entreaty, desiring his presence. He
at length came forward, bowed repeatedly, pressed his hand to his
heart, and then withdrew, looking, as I thought, rather ashamed of the
_rôle_ he was called on to enact, while his riotous audience seemed
elated at exhibiting his docility.
The Queen was then called for, and, after some delay, was handed
forward by Louis-Philippe. It made me sad to look on the altered
countenance of this amiable woman, whom all parties allow to be a most
faultless wife and mother. She is hardly to be recognised as the same
being who only a very few months ago looked the personification of
happiness. Already have deep care and anxiety left their furrows on her
brow, proving that
A diadem, howe'er so bright it be,
Brings cares that frighten gentle sleep away,
E'en when from buried ancestors it comes,
Who bless'd when they bequeath it to their heir;
For great is the responsibility
Of those who wear the symbol of a king,
In regular succession handed down
From sire to son through long antiquity.
But when th' anointed head that wore it once
Sleeps not in death--but exiled, worse than death--
And scions legitimate live to claim
Their birthright, oh! how heavy is that crown
(Though loose it fits), which well the wearer knows,
A people's breath may blow from of his brow,
Sear'd by the burning weight, it yet would guard,
E'n though it crush him.
I am told that no day passes in which a crowd does not assemble beneath
the windows of Louis-Philippe and loudly vociferate for his presence.
M. Laffitte is not unfrequently seen with the king on these occasions,
and when they embrace the crowd applauds.
I cannot imagine a more painful position than that of the Queen of the
French. Devotedly attached to her husband and family, she will have
often to tremble for their safety, exposed, as it must be, to the
inconstancy and evil passions _soi-disant_ subjects, who may, ere long,
be disposed to pull down the throne they have erected for
Louis-Philippe as rapidly as they raised the barricades for its
elevation.
Had the King of the French succeeded to the throne by the natural
demise of those who stood between him and it, how different would be
his position; for it is agreed by all who know him, that he has many
qualities that eminently fit him to fill it with credit to himself and
advantage to the people; but as it is, I foresee nothing but trouble
and anxiety for him,--a melancholy change from the domestic happiness
he formerly enjoyed. Any attempt to check the turbulence of the people
will be resented as an act of the utmost ingratitude to those who
placed the crown on his head; and if he suffers it with impunity, he
will not only lose his empire over them, but incur the contempt of the
more elevated of his subjects.
I saw the King of the French walking through the Place Vendôme to-day,
attended only by one person. He was recognised, and cheered, and
returned the salutation very graciously. And there stood the column
erected to commemorate the victories of one now sleeping in a foreign
grave; one whose very name was once the talisman that excited all
Parisian hearts into the wildest enthusiasm!
Louis-Philippe passed near the base of the column, which seemed to
return a sullen echo to the voices that cheered him; did he, or those
around him, remember their vicinity to this striking memorial of the
inconstancy of the nation? The scene awakened more reflections in my
mind than I dare say it did in that of those whose voices rent the air;
but though it might be only fancy, I thought the King of the French
looked very grave.
Monsieur Mignet spent last evening here; his conversation is full of
interest, being the overflowing of a rich mind, free from prejudices,
and his ideas, though methodically arranged and subjected to the ordeal
of a sober judgment, bear the warm tint of a brilliant imagination,
that might have rendered him a poet, had he not chosen to be a
historian. The Revolution has produced no visible change in this clever
and agreeable man, who, filling the office of Keeper of the Archives,
devotes his time to studies and researches in harmony with the pursuits
to which he has many years been accustomed, and hears the success of
the popular cause, to which he has long been attached, with a
moderation and equanimity highly indicative of a philosophical mind,
allied to an amiable disposition. There is something so striking in the
appearance of Monsieur Mignet, that all strangers, who meet him here,
remark the fine character of his head and the expression of his
countenance.
The celebrated General Peppé dined here yesterday, and is very unlike
the revolutionary hero I had pictured him to be. Mild, well-bred, and
amiable in his manner, he seems much more suited to command a regiment
in support of a legitimate monarchy, than to subvert one. Although
liberty appears to be with him a monomania, the warmth with which he
advocates it in conversation never urges him beyond the bounds of good
breeding.
It is a strange infatuation to suppose that as civilisation extends its
influence, men will have faith in the Utopian schemes of well-meaning
visionaries, and risk evils they know not, in exchange for a state
which, if not quite faultless, has at least much of good. How many
brave and honourable men become the dupes of heated imaginations and
erroneous opinions, which, urging them to effect an amelioration of
some grievances, incur the penalty of imparting greater ones! General
Peppé is liked by all who know him, though all lament the monomania
that has gained such an ascendency over his mind. His brother, General
Florestan Peppé at Naples, whom we esteem so much, is one of the most
excellent men I ever knew.
The Duc de Guiche has returned to Paris, after having seen the royal
family safely embarked at Cherbourg. The departure of the aged monarch
presented a melancholy scene. At his time of life, he can never hope to
behold his country again, and the sudden change from the throne of a
great kingdom to a compelled exile in a foreign land is a reverse of
fortune that demands a philosophy to support, with which few are blest.
There is something touching in the attachment of the Duc and Duchesse
de Guiche to this unfortunate family, and above all, to the Dauphin and
Dauphine. Always aware of their affection for them, I never imagined
the strength of it, until the adversity which has sent so many of those
who had previously loudly professed their devotion to them away, but
which has increased the feelings of reverence towards them in this
estimable couple, by mingling with it a sentiment of deep
commiseration, that induces a still greater display of respect, now
that so many others dispense with evincing it. The Duc is charged with
the disposal of the property of the Dauphin; and, when this task is
accomplished, he and his family will follow the fallen fortunes of
Charles the Tenth, and join him at Holyrood.
Loving France as they do, and wishing their sons to be brought up in
the land of their birth, strong indeed must be the affection that
induces them to abandon it, in order to devote themselves to the exiled
Bourbons. This devotion to the fallen is the more meritorious when the
liberality of the Duc's political opinions is taken into consideration.
How few sovereigns find such devotion in adversity! and how seldom are
men to be met with capable of sacrificing their own interests and the
future prospects of their children to a sense of duty!
* * * * *
A lapse in my journal.--All seems now settled. The foreign powers have
acknowledged the King of the French; and this acknowledgment has not
only delighted his subjects, but confirmed them in the belief of their
own right to make or unmake sovereigns according to their will and
pleasure.
The English are very popular in Paris at this moment, and the ready
recognition of Louis-Philippe by our government has increased this good
feeling. A vast crowd escorted the carriage of Mr. Hamilton, the
Secretary of the Embassy, to his door, as he returned from his first
accredited audience of the new monarch, and cries of _Vivent les
Anglais!_ filled the air. As Mr. Hamilton resides in the house next to
the one I occupy, I had an opportunity of beholding this ovation
offered to him, and the people certainly evinced very groat enthusiasm
on the occasion.
M. Thiers, M. Mignet, Count Valeski, and Mr. Francis Raring, dined here
yesterday. M. Thiers was very brilliant and amusing. It is impossible
to meet him even once without being struck with the remarkable talent
that characterises every sentence he utters; and yet each observation
comes forth with such spirit and vivacity, that it is easy to see it
has been elicited at the moment by some remark from another, and not
from meditation.
There is a hardiness in his conceptions, and an epigrammatic terseness
in the expression of them, that command attention; and the readiness
with which he seizes, analyses, and disposes of a question, betrays
such a versatility of mental power as to convey a conviction that he is
a man who cannot fail to fill a distinguished place in France, where,
at present, abilities furnish the master-key that opens the door to
honours and fortune. M. Thiers appears to entertain a consciousness of
his talents, but does not, I really think, overrate them.
The Prince and Princess Soutzo with their family, spent yesterday with
us. Their eldest daughter, the Princess Helena, is a beautiful girl,
with captivating manners, and highly cultivated mind, and the little
Mary, though still in infancy, is one of the cleverest children I ever
saw. Never did I see young people better brought up than are the sons
and daughters of this excellent couple, or a more united family.
Mr. and Miss Poulter, and William Spencer the poet, I dined here
yesterday. Mr. Poulter is a sensible man, and his sister is well
informed and intelligent.
It is now decided that we go to England! Two years ago I should have
returned there with gladness, but now!--I dread it. How changed will
all appear without _him_ whose ever-watchful affection anticipated
every wish, and realised every hope! I ought to feel pleased at leaving
Paris, where the heaviest trial of my life has occurred, but _here_ I
have now learned to get inured to the privation of his society, while
in England I shall have again to acquire the hard lesson of
resignation.
_November_, 1830.--This is the last entry I shall make in my journal in
Paris, for to-morrow we depart for England.
I have passed the day in taking leave of those dear to me, and my
spirits have failed under the effort. Some of them I shall probably
never again behold. The dear and excellent Madame Craufurd is among
those about whom I entertain the most melancholy presentiments, because
at her advanced age I can hardly hope to find her, should I again
return to France. She referred to this to-day with streaming eyes, and
brought many a tear to mine by the sadness of her anticipations.
The Duc and Duchess de Guiche I shall soon see in England, on their
route to Edinburgh, to join tho exiled family at Holyrood, for they are
determined not to forsake them in adversity.
Adieu a Paris! two years and a half ago I entered you with gladness,
and the future looked bright; I leave you with altered feelings, for
the present is cheerless and the future clouded.
* * * * *
NOTES
[1: Now Baron d'Haussey.]
[2: The hermitage was lent him by Madame d'Epinay, to whom his
subsequent ingratitude forms a dark page in her _Mémoires_.]
[3: The present Lord Abinger.]
[4: Now Lord Glenelg.]
[5: Now Lord Francis Egerton.]
[6: Now Madame Émile de Girardin.]
[7: "Where thou beholdest Genius,
There thou beholdest, too, the martyr's crown."]
[8: The present Earl of Cadogan.]
[9: The Duc de Guiche, being _premier menin_ to the Dauphin, used,
according to custom, the arms and liveries of that prince.]
[10: Now Maréchal.]
INDEX TO THE CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
NISMES.
Antiquities of this City--The Hôtel du Midi--Articles of
Merchandise--History of the Maison Carrée--Work of Poldo d'Albenas--The
Building described--Origin of it--Now used as a Museum--Monument to
Marcus Attius--Cardinal Alberoni--Barbarous Project--Removal of
Antiquities--The Amphitheatre described--Charles Martel--Excellent
Precaution in Roman Theatres--Inscription--Officious Cicerone--Gate of
Augustus--La Tour-Magne--Excavations--Fine Fountain--Temple of
Diana--Brevity of Human Life, 1.
CHAPTER II.
TOWN OF ARLES.
Beaucaire--Wooden Houses--Castle of King René--Church of St.
Martha--Fabulous Monster--The Hôtel described--The Hostess--Antique
Furniture--Plentiful Dinner--Scrutiny--Visit to the Amphitheatre--The
Prefect of Arles--Subterranean Excavations--Ancient Church of St.
Anne--Altar to the Goddess of Good--Venus of Arles--Granite
Obelisk--Primitive Manners--A Liberal Landlady, 14.
CHAPTER III.
ST.-RÉMY.
Situation of the Town--Antiquities--The Triumphal Arch described--Male
and Female Figures--The Mausoleum--Bassi-relievi of Battles, Infantry,
etc.--Figure of a Winged Female--Latin Inscription--Variously
explained--Interpretation of Monsieur P. Malosse--Respect for the
Departed--On The Triumphal Arch and Mausoleum at St.-Remy, 21.
CHAPTER IV.
LYONS.
The _Fête Dieu_--Procession through the Streets--Ecclesiastical and
Military Pomp--Decorations in the Streets--Effect produced on the Mind
by Sacred Music--Excitements to Religious Fervour--the _Miserere_, 30.
CHAPTER V.
PARIS.
Fatiguing Journey--Landau Accident--The Hôtel de la Terrasse, in the
Rue de Rivoli--Six Years' Absence--The Duc and Duchesse de Guiche--Joy
of Meeting--Fashion at Paris--Visit to Herhault's Temple of
Fashion--Mademoiselle La Touche--Extravagant Charges--Caution to
Husbands--A Word, also, to Wives--Visit to Madame Craufurd--Her
prepossessing Appearance--House-hunting--Residence of the Maréchal
Lobau--Review in the Champ-de-Mars--Splendid _Coup d'oeil_--The
Marchioness de Loulé--Restrictions at Court--Accident to the Comte de
Bourmont--Alarm of the Ladies--Charles the Tenth, the Dauphin, and the
Dauphine--Melancholy Physiognomy of Charles the First--The Duchesse
d'Angoulème--Her Trials and Endurance--French Love of Country--The
Duchesse de Berri--Dinner at the Duchesse de Guiche's--William
Lock--The Comte de l'Espérance de l'Aigle--His high breeding--The
Opera--_Début_ of Taglioni--Her Poetical Style of Dancing--The Duc de
Cazes--French and English Manners contrasted--Attentions to the Fair
Sex in France--The Comtesses de Bellegarde--Character of the Duc de
Gramont--Lady Barbara Craufurd--Count Valeski--Anger of the Maréchal
Lobau--Defect in French Houses--The _Muette de Portici_--Noblet--An old
_Danseuse_--Gaiety at Tivoli--Similarity in the Exterior of Parisian
Ladies--A Quadrille Party--_Demi-toilette_--Late Tea-Party--Luxurious
Chair--Delightful House in the Rue de Bourbon--Its costly
Decorations--Its Interior described--The Princesse de la Moskowa--Sad
Interview--Maréchal Ney, 32.
CHAPTER VI.
Custom of letting out Furniture--The Prince and Princesse
Castelcicala--Lady Hawarden--Lady Combermere--Tone of Society at
Paris--Attentions paid by Young Men to Old Ladies--Flirtations at
Paris--Ceremonious Decorum--Comic Charles de Mornay--Parisian
Upholsterers--Rich Furniture--Lord Yarmouth--Elegant Suite of
Apartments--Charles Mills--Warm Affections between Relatives in France,
56.
CHAPTER VII.
Domestic Arrangements--Changes in Young People--Pleasant
Recollections--Lord Lilford--The Marquis and Marquise Zamperi--Comte
Alexander de Laborde--The Marquis de Mornay--Mode of passing the
Time--Evening Visits in France--Dinner-party--The Duc Dalberg--The Duc
de Mouchy--Party to Montmorency--Rousseau's Hermitage--Sensibility, a
Characteristic of Genius--Solitude--Letter of Rousseau to
Voltaire--Church, of Montmorency--Baths at Enghien--The Comtesse de
Gand--Colonel E. Lygon--The Marquis de Dreux-Brezé--Contrast between
him and the Duc de Talleyrand--The Baron and Baroness de Ruysch--Mr.
Douglas Kinnaird--Sir Francis Burdett--Colonel Leicester Stanhope--The
Marquis Palavicini--Charms of Italian Women--Lords Darnley and
Charlemont--Mr. Young, the Tragedian--Lord Lansdowne--Estimate of his
Character--Sir Robert Peel--Respect for the Memory of Sir William
Drummond--Lady Drummond--"Vivian Grey"--Mr. Standish--Intermarriages
between the French and the English, 64.
CHAPTER VIII.
Charles Kemble--His Daughter's Tragedy of "Francis the
First"--Recollections of John Kemble--The Opera--_Count Ory_--Sir A.
Barnard--Secret of Happiness--Visit to Mademoiselle Mars--Her Residence
described--Memorial of her Theatrical Career--The Duchesse de la
Force--Madame Grassini--Anecdote of her--Visit to Orsay--Its
Situation--The Princesse de Croy--Hamlet of Palaiseau--Drama of _La Pie
Voteuse_--Family of the Duc de Guiche--The Vaudeville Théâtre--Scribe's
_Avant, Pendant, el Après_--Its Dangerous Tendency--French
Ambition--Parisian Shopkeepers--Their Officious Conduct, 78.
CHAPTER IX.
Lord and Lady Stuart de Rothesay--French Politeness--Mr. D---- and Mr.
T---- --Study of Shakespeare--Attractions of Mrs. T---- --Lady
Charlotte Llndsay and the Misses Berry--Sir William Gell--Mr. and Mrs.
Hare--Female Amiability--Shopping--Hints on Female Dress--Brilliancy of
French Conversation--Mr. J. Strangways--A severe Trial--The
Plague-spot--Miraculous Escape--Dinner given by Comte A. de
Maussion--Goethe's _Faust_--Character of "Margaret"--The witty Mr.
M---- --Lord Byron--French Quickness of Apprehension--_Sept
Heures_--Character of Charlotte Corday--Degenerate Taste of the
Parisians--Hasty Conclusions, 91.
CHAPTER X.
The celebrated Dr. P---- --Society of Medical Men--Dr.
Guthrie--Requisites for a Surgeon--Celebrity and Merit--The Road to
Fortune, as related by Dr. P---- --Successful Stratagem--Fancied
Illness--Superfluity of _Embonpoint_--Mode of Treatment--Another
Patient--The Doctor à-la-mode--Mr. P. C. Scarlett--Lord Erskine--Mr.
H.B---- --Visit to the Théâtre Italien--Madame Malibran's
"Desdemona"--Defect in her Singing--The Princesse Pauline Borghese--The
Family of Napoleon--Particulars of the Duchesse d'Abrantes--The
Luxembourg Palace and Gardens--A Loving Couple--Holiness of
Marriage--Story of the Old Bachelor and his Crafty Housekeeper, 105.
CHAPTER XI.
Groups of Children in the Gardens of the Luxembourg--Joyous Sounds--The
Nurses--The Child of Noble Birth and that of the _Parvenu_--Joys of
Childhood--Contrast between Youth and Age--Meeting with Dr. P----
--Arrival of General and the Comtesse d'Orsay--Attractions of the
latter--Remark of Napoleon--Affection in Domestic Circles in
France--The Duchesse de Guiche--The Comtesse d'Orsay--The Duc de
Gramont--Madame Craufurd--The _ci-devant Jeune Homme_--Potter, the
actor--Sir Francis Burdett--Advantages of French Society--Topics of
Conversation--Pedigrees of Horses--French Politeness--Deferential
Treatment of the Fair Sex--Domestic Duties of the Duchesse do
Guiche--Influence of Courts--Visit to the Théâtre des Nouveautés--_La
Maison du Rempart_--Inflammable Exhibitions--Mr. Cuthbert and M.
Charles Lafitte--advance of Civilization--Lady Combermere--Mr. Charles
Grant (now Lord Glenelg)--Curiosity Shops on the Quai Voltaire--Madame
de Sévigné--Objects that have belonged to celebrated People--A Hint to
the Ladies--Pincushion of Madame de Maintenon--The Marquis de
Rambouillet--Molière's _Précieuses Ridicules_--Pangs of Jealousy--Julie
d'Angennes--Brilliant Coterie, 120.
CHAPTER XII.
The Marquise de Pouleprie---The celebrated Madame du
Barry--Anecdote--Mademoiselle Mars in _Valerie_--Her admirable Style
of Acting--Playing to the Galleries--Exclusive Nature of Parisian
Society--French Conversation--Quickness of Perception--Walk in
the Gardens of the Tuileries--Comparative Beauty of French and
English Ladies--Graceful Walking of the Former--Difference of
Etiquette--Well-bred Englishmen--Flight of Time--Colonel Caradoc, son
of Lord Howden--New Year's Day--Custom of making Presents--Gallery of
the Louvre--The Statues therein--Works of Art--_Chefs-d'oeuvre_ of the
Old Masters--Consolation for Men of Genius--Nicolas Poussin, 134.
CHAPTER XIII.
Visit to the Hotel d'Orsay--Sad Change in it--Mr. Millingon, the
Antiquary--Liberality of Comte d'Orsay--A Fanciful Notion--General
Or-nano--Unhappy Marriages accounted for--_La Gazza Ladra_--Mallbran's
"Ninetta"--_The Calamities of Authors_--Mr. D'Israeli--The Princesse de
Talleyrand--Her Person described--Her Dress and Manners--Amusing Story
told by the Abbé Denon--Unexpected Arrival--_Yes and No_, by Lord
Normanby--Lady Dysart-Comte Valeski--Influence of Agreeable
Manners--Effects of opposite ones--Injudicious Friends--A Candid
Admission--Lord ---- --Love of Contradiction--Remarks on the Novel of
_Pelham_--Misery of receiving stupid Books--Malibran in _La
Cenerentola_--French Customs--Proofs d'_Amilié_--Wedding Dresses, 146.
CHAPTER XIV.
Comte Charles de Mornay--His Wit and Good Nature--Mademoiselle Mars, in
_Henri III_--Some Account of the Play--Love and Ambition--Curious
Incident--Romantic Notions--Passion of Love--Wordsworth's
Poems--Admiration of his Writings--Religion displayed by the Upper
Classes--The Duc de Bordeaux--Piety of the Great--Popularity of the
Duchesse de Berri--Anecdote of her--Walter Savage Landor--His
_Imaginary Conversations_--Sir William Gell--The Duc d'Orléans--His
Enviable Situation--The Duc de Chartres--Genius of Shelley--Beauty of
his Writings--His Wild Theories--William Spencer the Poet--Melancholy
Change in Him--French Prejudices towards the English--Example of
it--Accomplishments of French Ladies--Talent for Conversation, 169.
CHAPTER XV.
Consequences of the Revolution in France--Corruption of the
Regency--Sarcastic Verses of St.-Evremond--Reign of Louis the
Fifteenth--Lessons taught by Affliction--Dangers of Anarchy--The _Haute
Noblesse_ previously to the Revolution--Want of Affection between
Parents and Children--Superficial Judgments erroneous--Power of
Fashion--The Novel of _Devereux_--Infrequency of Elopements in
France--Les Dames de B---- --Their Attachment to each other--Old
Maids--Servitude in England and France contrasted--French Masters and
Mistresses--Treatment of Servants--Avoidance of Politics--French
Discontent--Charles the Tenth--National Prosperity--The Duchesse de
Guiche and her two Sons--Position of the Duc de Guiche, 171.
CHAPTER XVI.
Approach of Spring--Fogs on the Seine--The Jardins des
Tuileries--Impurity of the London Atmosphere--Exhilaration of the
Spirits--Anecdote--The Catholic Question--Lord Rosslyn--The Duke of
Wellington--Merits of a Cook--_Amour-propre_ of a Parisian
Cook--English Sauce--A Gourmand and an Epicure--The Duc de
Talleyrand--A perfect Dinner--The Marquis de L---- --House-hunting
again--Letter from Lord B---- --The Hôtel Monaco--College of
St.-Barbe--The Duchesse de Guiche and her Sons--A Mother's
Triumph--Spirit of Emulation--The Quarter called the Pays Latin--An
Author's Dress--Aspect of the Women--A Life of Study--Amable Tastu's
Poems--Effect of Living much in Society--Mr. W. Spencer--His
Abstraction--Disadvantages of Civilization--Confession of Madame de
---- --A Hint to Comte ---- on visiting London--Suspicion of Poverty--A
_Diner Maigre_--Luxurious Bishops, 182.
CHAPTER XVII.
Romantic Feelings of Lady C---- --True Love--Disagreeable
Neighbours--Credulity--Mademoiselle Delphine Gay--French Novels--French
Critics--Eligible Mansions--Comforts of Seclusion--Genius of
L.E.L.--The Comtesse d'O---- --A Brilliant Talker--Letter from
Mrs. Hare--Extreme Hospitality--Longchamps--Exhibition of
Spring Fashions--French Beauties--Animated Scene--Promenade at
Longchamps--Extravagance of Mademoiselle Duthé--Modern Morals--_Cinq
Mars_, by Comte Alfred de Vigny--His Style--Strictures on Mankind--The
best Philosophy--Speech of Lord Grey--The Caterpillar--A Voracious
Appetite--A Refined Lady--_La Chronique du temps de Charles
IX_, by Prosper Merimée--Estimation of Sir Walter Scott--Jules
Janin--Injudicious Praise--Renewal of Youth--Self-Deception--Grey
Hairs, 194.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Victor Hugo's _Dernier Jour d'un Condamné_--Value of Common
Sense--Conscience--Cunning--Curiosity Shops on the Quai
d'Orsay--Expensive and Tasteful Gifts--An Avaricious Vender--A
Moral--Anonymous Scribbler--Weakness of Mind--Poems of Mrs. Hemans--The
Minds of Genius--Poetesses of England--Arrival of Lord D---- --The
Catholic Question carried--Irish prejudices--Letters from Absent
Friends--Sir William Gell--The Archbishop of Tarentum--Discoveries at
Pompeii--Novel of _The Disowned_--Advantages to be derived from the
Perusal of Works of Fiction--Politics--Charles the Tenth
unpopular--Charles the First--The House of Bourbon--"Uneasy lies the
Head that wears a Crown"--The Duc de T---- --Mr. Hook's _Sayings and
Doings_--_Visit to the Hotel Monaco_, 207.
CHAPTER XIX.
A new Resilience--Consolation in Sickness--House in the Rue de
Matignon--Its Interior described--The Library--Drive in the Bois de
Boulogne--Atmospheric Influence--The Rocher de Cancale--A _Diner de
Restaurant--_A Gay Sight--Good Taste in Dress innate in
Frenchwomen--Well-appointed Carriages--Soldier-like Air of the Male
Population--Observation of the Emperor Napoleon--Characteristics of the
British Soldier--National Anthem--Changes in the Journey of
Life--Captain Marryat's _Naval Officer_--Performance of _La Tour
d'Auvergne_--Letter of Carnot--Distinction awarded to Merit by
Napoleon--National Glory--Effect of Enthusiasm--Villa of the Duchesse
de Montmorency--Residences on the Banks of the Thames--Bagatelle, the
Seat of the Duc de Bordeaux--Earthly Happiness--Domestic
Alterations--High Rents at Paris--Terrace and Aviary--Unsettled Slate,
219.
CHAPTER XX.
Unexpected Events--Mr. and Mrs. Mathews--Their son, Charles--Evening
Party--Recitations and Songs--Pleasant Recollections--Visit
to the _Jardin des Plantes_--Amusing Incident--Humorous
Imitations--Intellectual Powers--Recourse to Reading--The Comte
Montalembert--His Grief on the Death of his Daughter--Restraint
imposed by Society--Fate of the Unfortunate--The Prince and Princess
Soutzo--Particulars relative to them--Reverse of Fortune--Mr. Rogers
and Mr. Luttrell--Memory of Lord Byron--His Lampoon on Rogers--Love
of Sarcasm--Conversation of Mr. Luttrell--Lord John Russell--His
Qualifications--Monsieur Thiers--Monsieur Mignet--His Vigorous
Writings--Friendship between Thiers and Mignet--The Baron
Cailleux--Visit to the Louvre--Taste for the Fine Arts--The Marquis
and Marquise de B---- --Clever People--Lord Allen and Sir Andrew
Barnard--The Culinary Art, 230.
CHAPTER XXI.
Mr. Rogers and Mr. Luttrell--Society of Refined Englishmen--Mercurial
Temperament of the French--Opposite Characters--M. Erard's Collection
of Pictures--Antique _Bijouterie_--Lord Pembroke--The Duke of
Hamilton--Dr. Parr--Reproof of the Duc de Blacas--Monsieur Mignet--His
great Knowledge--A Clever Man--Influence of Conscience--Abilities of
Lord Palmerston--Lord Castlereagh--His Uncle, the late Marquess of
Londonderry--Dangers of Fashion--Mr. Cutlar Fergusson--The Baron and
Baroness de Ruysch--A Mind at Ease--Dreary Weather--Sad State of the
Streets--Fogs--Fascination of Madame Grassini--Sledge Party--Sledge of
the Duc de Guiche--That of Comte d'Orsay--Picturesque Night
Scene--Revival of an Old Fashion--The Prince Polignac--His Amiable
Manners--His Difficult Position, 242.
CHAPTER XXII.
Effects of Indisposition--Instability of Earthly Blessings--Captain
William Anson (Brother of Lord Anson)--His varied Acquirements--The
pretty Madame de la H---- --Prince Paul Lieven--Captain Cadogan (now
Earl Cadogan)--Life at Sea--Visit to the Duchesse de Guiche--Her
Warmth and Gentleness of Manner--Political Crisis--The Conquest of
Algiers--General Excelmans--Rash Measure--Charles the Tenth--His
Ministry unpopular--Prosperity of France--Extorted Concessions--
Dissolution of the Chambers--The Public Press--Controversy--Commotion
before the Hôtel of the Ministre des Finances--The Ministers
insulted--Counsel of the Duc de Guiche--Serious Aspect of
Affairs--Crowds in the Streets--Household of Charles the
Tenth--Noblesse of his Court--Confusion and Alarm--Riotous
Conduct--Firing on the People--Formation of Barricades--Absence of the
Civil Authorities--Nocturnal Impressions--Comtes d'Orsay and
Valeski--Scene in the Place de la Bourse--The Corps-de-Garde set on
Fire--Darkness in the Rue Richelleu.--Further disturbances--Continued
Depredations--Breach between the People and the Sovereign--Anecdote of
Monsieur Salvandy, 225.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Dead paraded through the Streets to inflame the Populace--The
Shops closed--The Duc de Raguse censured--His Supineness--Devotion
of the Duc de Guiche to his Sovereign--The Military Dispositions
defective--Flag of the Bourbons--Troops in Want of Refreshment--
Destruction of the Royal Emblems--Disgusting Exhibition--Rumours
of Fresh Disasters--Opinion of Sir Roger de Coverley--Revolutions
the Carnivals of History--Observation of Voltaire--Doctors
Pasquier and de Guise--Report of Fire arms--Paucity of
Provisions--Female Courage--Domestic Entrenchment--Further
Hostilities--Conflicting Rumours--The Sublime and the
Ridiculous--Juvenal Intrepidity--Fatality--The Soldiers and
the populace--Visit to Madame Craufurd--Barricade in the Rue
Verte--Approaching Mob--Safe Arrival in the Rue d'Anjou--Terror of
Madame Craufurd--Her Anxiety for her Relatives--Composure of the
Marquis d'Aligre--Riotous Assembly in the Rue Verte--Their Conduct
towards the Author--Dangerous Symbol of Aristocracy--Arrival at
Home, 282.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Familiarity of French Servants--Power of the People--Misguided
Men--Further Rumours--Who are the People?--An Intruder--A Revolutionary
Hero--The Tuileries and the Louvre taken--Sir Thomas Lawrence's
Portrait of the Dauphin--The Terrible and the Comic--Trophies of
Victory--The Palace of the Archbishop of Paris sacked--Concessions of
Charles the Tenth--The Duchesse de Berri--Lord Stuart de
Rothesay--Noble Conduct--The Duchesse de Guiche--Her trying
Situation--The Provisional Government--The Tri-coloured Flag--Meeting
of the Deputies--Bitter Feeling towards the Royal Family Bravery of the
Populace--Lafayette and his followers--Scene in the Street--"The Good
Cause"--The wealthy M. Laffitte--Valuable Collections at
Paris--Courageous Conduct of the Duchesse de Guiche--Her
Champions--Attack on the Hôtel of the Duc de Guiche--Comte Alfred
d'Orsay--Painful Position, 272.
CHAPTER XXV.
Sanctuary of Home--Madame C---- --Intoxicated Revolutionist--His
Good-Nature--the Proprietor of a Wine-Shop--Politeness of all Classes
in France--Barracks in the Rue Verte--Difficulty of obtaining
Admission--Agitation of Madame C---- --Comte Valeski--The Barracks
attacked and taken--Dangerous Route--Impassable Gulf between the
Sovereign and the People--The Royal Cause hopeless--A Fine Youth
killed--Reflections on his Death--Number of Persons killed during
the last Three Days--Details of a Battle--Rumour respecting
the Dauphin--Interment of the Page--Fatality attending the
Bourbons--Absence of the Dauphine--Revolt of the Troops--The Duchesse
de Guiche at St.-Germain--Her noble Bearing--The Duc de Gramont--The
Château du Val, the Residence of the Princesse de Poix--The Fugitive
Duchess--Popularity of Lafayette--The duc d'Orléans named
Lieut.-General of France--Order restored--Abdication of Charles the
Tenth--Renewed Excitement--Clamour against the King--A Fickle
People--Wicked Rumours--The King quits Rambouillet--School of
Adversity--Desertion by Friends--Route to Cherbourg, 294.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Rumour relative to the Son of Napoleon--Unsettled State of
Affairs--Conflicting Rumours--The Duke of Orleans--Charms of a
Crown--Aspect of the Champs-Elysées--Unsought popularity--Comte
d'Orsay--Scene of Destruction--Shattered Trees--Pride of the
People--Re-action after Excitement--Anecdote--The Jeweller's
Wife--Passion of the French--Playing at Soldiers--Enthusiasm
of the _Garde Nationale_--Return to Paris of the Duchesse de
Guiche--Confidence of the Duc--Courage of the Duchesse--General
Gèrard--The Duke of Orleans accepts the Crown--Popularity, an
unstable Possession--Abilities of Louis-Philippe--Expectations
formed of him--Person of Lafayette--Appearance in Public of
the new Sovereign--The Queen--Her painful Position--The King
of the French in the Place Vendôme--Monsieur Mignet--His
varied Acquirements--The celebrated General Peppé--Strange
Infatuation--Charles the Tenth embarks at Cherbourg--Devotion
to the exiled Bourbons--The English Popular at Paris--Mr.
Hamilton, Secretary of the Embassy--Brilliant conversation of
M. Thiers--The Prince and Princesse Soutzo--Mr. Poulter--Lesson
of Resignation--Departure for England--Leave-taking--Adieu to
Paris, 294.
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