Charles Kemble dined here yesterday, and in the evening read to us his daughter Fanny's Tragedy ofFrancis 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 Firstbears 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 inComus, 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 yesterdayen 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 abas 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 toembonpoint, 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 ofla 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 anouveau 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 marbleconsolein 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, therôlewhich 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 ofhabitués. Talking of theatres, some ofla 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 namingles danseuses, though in later times considered as a reproach, was, originally, meant as an honourable distinction; the king, on establishing theAcadémie 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 proposof 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 andnaïveremarks 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 grandrôleswhich she filled asprima 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 feudalchâteau fortof 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 thePays-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 ofLa 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, entitledAvant,Pendant, et Aprés. There is a fearfulvraisemblancein 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 ofl'ancien régime, and thetableau des moeurs, which is vividly coloured, leaves no favourable impression in the minds of the audience of thatnoblessewhose 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 certainfierté, if not ferocity, of aspect, at beholding this vivid representation of the triumph achieved by their order over thenoblesse.
It is not wise to exhibit to a people, and above all to so inflammable a people as the French, whattheycan effect; and I confess I felt uneasy when I witnessed the deep interest and satisfaction evinced by many in theparterreduring the representation.
TheAprès, 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 theancien régimewould 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 therôlesenacted 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 ofAvant, Pendant et Après, my eye glanced on the faces of some of the emigrantnoblesse, 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 themoeurs 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 whattheyapprove, 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 themodiste, par excellence, of Paris, and it is to this habit, probably, that the want ofbienséanceso visible in Parisianboutiquiers, is to be attributed.
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 ofsavoir-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 areen routefrom Germany—where they have been sojourning since their marriage—for England, where heraccouchementis 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 receivemadame son épouseas 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 abouquetof 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 simpleorgandie, 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 andpassée.
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 ispiquanteandspirituelle. 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 anà 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 abon moteven 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 themselvestête-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; andhewas 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 mostrecherchéthat 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 theplats; while agourmandwould 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 arestaurant.
A large and richly furnishedsalon, well lighted, received the company before dinner; and in asalle à mangerof 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 dinnerà 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, cameen demi-toilette.
The exception was Mrs. Hare, who, not aware that at Paris people never goen grande toiletteto 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 anaigretteof coloured stones; so she went to our house, with a few of the party, while I accompanied the rest to the theatre.
The piece wasFaust, 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,Faustis 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 hisbons 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 sayall theyplease, 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 inbons mots, orréparties, 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 excessiveamour 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 sawSept Heuresrepresented. 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 heterogeneousmélangeof 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.
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 taskcon 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 verybeau idéalof a physician ofla 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 itcon 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 secondEl 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 remaininglouis d'orin 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 thebourgeoisie; and though they paid well, my ambition pointed to higher game, and I longed to feel the pulses ofla 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 thebourgeoisieare said to be manufactured, as I was led to believe.
"Luckily for me, thefemme de chambreof 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 thecelebratedDr. P——, adding a lively account of the extent of my practice and the great request I was in.
"Thefemme de chambreconsulted 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 nutritiousrégime, 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 saidfemme 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 ofembonpoint, occasioned by luxurious habits and the want of exercise.
"'I am very much indisposed, Doctor,' lisped the lady, 'and your prescription has done myfemme de chambreso 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, herembonpointhaving revealed it—what were her general habits andrégime; and then, having written a prescription, urged the necessity of her abandoningcafé au lait, richconsommés, and high-seasonedentrées; 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 sparingrégime, 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 disagreeablerégime, 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 thenoblesse, 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 andrégime. 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 doctorà 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 thisspirituelold 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 utterbons motsin 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 themcon amore.
The only defect I can discover in her singing is an excess offiorituri, that sometimes destroys thevraisemblanceof therôleshe 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 usualhabitués de la maison. La Duchesse is one ofl'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 ImperialCourt, and of the gaiety and love of dress of the beautiful PrincessePauline 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 primparterres; 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 thathenever would be caught.