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 theiramor patriæoramour 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 ofla 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 ofla dernière modeto the youthful mother, with rare tact and good taste; dance with the young daughter as actively and gracefully as anygarçon de dix-huit ansin 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. Hersalonsandboudoirare objects ofvertù, 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 amaison montée, has all the scrupulous cleanliness of that of a Quaker.
Went to the Opera last night, where I saw thedébutof the newdanseuseTaglioni. 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 thosetours de forcethat 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, adanseusethinks 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 proposof 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 thenaïvetéwith 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 arespirituelle; 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 proposof 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, greatlyà la modeat 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 hersalonwith 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 decoratedsalons, 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 itin 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 peoplewillfeel 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 isnot 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 thesalonsand sleeping-rooms are good, the only entrance, except by apassage dérobéfor servants, is through thesalle 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 thesalons, and that in the evening visitors must find servants occupied in removing the dinner apparatus, should they, as generally happens, come for theprima 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 theirsalle à mangeras a passage does not annoy them.
Went to the opera last night, and saw theMuette de Portici. It is admirably got up, and the costumes and scenery, as well as thetarantulas, 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 adanseusedemands.
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. Anold danseuseis 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 almostcon amore; while the haggard face, and distorted smile revealing yellow teeth, tell a sad tale of departed youth. Yes, an olddanseuseis 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 amodisteand amarquise, the wife of aboutiquierand aduchesse, 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 aircomme il faut, the perfect freedom from allgaucherie, the ease of demeanour, the mode of walking, and, above all, the decent dignity equally removed frommauvaise honteand effrontery, appertain nearly alike to all. The class denominatedgrisettesalone 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 theentrechatsof 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 whoseentrechatswere 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, thedemi-toilette, which is peculiar to France, and admits of the after-dinner promenades or unceremonious visits in which French ladies indulge. A simple robe oforgandie, with long sleeves, acanezouof net, a light scarf, and a prettychapeauofpaille 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 achef d'oeuvreof Rainguet's in mysalonthis 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 orbesittingsin, 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 largeporte-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 imperialnoblesse, 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 singlemeublein 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 thesalle 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-visto thesalle 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 andescalier dérobéat 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 othersalons; 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 thissalonare 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 ornamentedsalon, inside which are two admirable bed-chambers and dressing-rooms, communicating by anescalier dérobéwith a suite of servants' apartments.
The door on the left-hand end of the largesalonopens into a beautiful room, known as theSalle 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.
Thissaloncommunicates with a corridor behind it, which admits the attendance of servants without the necessity of their passing through the other apartments. Inside thissalonis achambre 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 asalle de bainof 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 thesalon—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 ofhimwho 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!
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 samehas 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 thenaïvetéof 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 ofla Vieille Cour, and probably renderedà la modeby 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 fallenmouchoir 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 thesalons; 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.
Giltconsoles, andchiffonnières, with white marble tops, are placed wherever they could be disposed; and, on the chimney pieces, are finependules.
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, andfauteuils, 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 oldSèvrechina, and ruby glass.
I was told by the upholsterer, that he had pledged himself tomilordthatmiladiwas not to see herchambre 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 hethinksI 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 thinkle 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 mychambre à coucherand 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 invitingbergère. Anècritoireoccupies 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 andchaise longue, and the carpet and lamp are similar to those of the bed-room.
A toilette table stands before the window, and smalljardinièresare 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.
Thesalle de bainis draped with white muslin trimmed with lace, and the sofa andbergèreare 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 onlytristeone 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.
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 areen routefor 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 themenuat 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 theéliteof 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 ofcontourwhich 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, entitledSur 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 goodrestaurateurfurnishes 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 perfectlyà proposand 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 ofla Vieille Courand 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, representsl'ancien régime, whenles grands seigneurswere more desirous to serveles belles damesthan their country, and more anxious to be distinguished in thesalonsof the Faubourg St.-Germain than in theChambre 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 theChambre des Pairsthan on thesalons 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 eyesHave 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 theallon 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 muchfêtedat 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 fromgaucherieas 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 tofêtes, 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 lessspirituelletastes.
Lady Drummond does much good at Naples; for, while thebeau mondeof 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 readingVivian 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 deMornay, Count Flahault, the Count Maussion, Mons. de Montrond, and Mr.Standish, were the guests. Count Flahault is so very agreeable andgentlemanly a man, that no one can call in question the taste of theBaroness 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 andbon toningrafted 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.