The more I observe Lady C—— the more surprised I am at the romantic feelings she still indulges, and the illusions under which she labours;—yeslaboursis the suitable word, for it can be nothing short of laborious, at her age, to work oneself into the belief that love is an indispensable requisite for life. Not the affection into which the love of one's youth subsides, but the wild, the ungovernable passion peculiar to the heroes and heroines of novels, and young ladies and gentlemen recently emancipated from boarding-schools and colleges.
Poor Lady C——, with so many estimable qualities, what a pity it is she should have this weakness! She maintained in our conversation yesterday that true love could never be extinguished in the heart, and that even in age it burnt with the same fire as when first kindled. I quoted to her a passage from Le Brun, who says—"L'amour peut s'éteindre sans doute dans le coeur d'un galant homme; mais combien de dédommagements n'a-t-il pas alors à offrir! L'estime, l'amitié, la confiance, ne suffisent-elles pas aux glaces de la vieillesse?" Lady C—— thinks not.
Talking last night of ——, some one observed that "it was disagreeable to have such a neighbour, as he did nothing but watch and interfere in the concerns of others."
"Give me in preference such a man as le Comte ——," said Monsieur ——, slily, "who never bestows a thought but on self, and is too much occupied with that interesting subject to have time to meddle with the affairs of other people."
"You are right," observed Madame ——, gravely, believing him to be serious; "it is much preferable."
"But surely," said I, determined to continue the mystification, "you are unjustly severe in your animadversions on poor Monsieur ——. Does he not prove himself a true philanthropist in devoting the time to the affairs of others that might be usefully occupied in attending to his own?"
"You are quite right," said Mrs. ——; "I never viewed his conduct in this light before; and now that I understand it I really begin to like him,—a thing I thought quite impossible before you convinced me of the goodness of his motives."
How many Mrs. ——'s there are in the world, with minds ductile as wax, ready to receive any impression one wishes to give them! Yet I reproached myself for assisting to hoax her, when I saw the smiles excited by her credulity.
Mademoiselle Delphine Gay[6] is one of the agreeable proofs that genius is hereditary. I have been reading some productions of hers that greatly pleased me. Her poetry is graceful, the thoughts are natural, and the versification is polished. She is a very youthful authoress, and a beauty as well as abel esprit. Her mother's novels have beguiled many an hour of mine that might otherwise have been weary, for they have the rare advantage of displaying an equal knowledge of the world with a lively sensibility.
All Frenchwomen write well. They possess the art of giving interest even to trifles, and have a natural eloquencede plume, as well asde langue, that renders the task an easy one. It is the custom in England to decry French novels, because the English unreasonably expect that the literature of other countries should be judged by the same criterion by which they examine their own, without making sufficient allowance for the different manners and habits of the nations. Without arrogating to myself the pretension of a critic, I should be unjust if I did not acknowledge that I have perused many a French novel by modern authors, from which I have derived interest and pleasure.
The French critics are not loath to display their acumen in reviewing the works of their compatriots, for they not only analyze the demerits with pungent causticity, but apply to them the severest of all tests, that of ridicule; in the use of which dangerous weapon they excel.
House-hunting the greater part of the day. Oh the weariness of such an occupation, and, above all, after having lived in so delightful a house as the one we inhabit! Many of our French friends have come and told us that they had found hôtels exactly to suit us: and we have driven next day to see them, when lo and behold! these eligible mansions were either situated in some disagreeablequartier, or consisted of three finesalons de réception, with some half-dozen miserable dormitories, and a passage-room by way ofsalle à manger.
Though Paris abounds with finehôtels entre cour et jardin, they are seldom to be let; and those to be disposed of are generally divided into suites of apartments, appropriated to different persons. One of the hôtels recommended by a friend was on the Boulevards, with the principal rooms commanding a full view of that populous and noisy quarter of Paris. I should have gone mad in such a dwelling, for the possibility of reading, or almost of thinking, amidst such an ever-moving scene of bustle and din, would be out of the question.
The modern French do not seem to appreciate the comfort of quiet and seclusion in the position of their abodes, for they talk of the enlivening influence of a vicinity to these same Boulevards from which I shrink with alarm. It was not so in former days; witness the delightful hôtels before alluded to,entre cour et jardin, in which the inhabitants, although in the centre of Paris, might enjoy all the repose peculiar to a house in the country. There is something, I am inclined to think, in the nature of the Parisians that enables them to support noise better than we can,—nay, not only to support, but even to like it.
I received an edition of the works of L.E.L. yesterday from London. She is a charming poetess, full of imagination and fancy, dazzling one moment by the brilliancy of her flights, and the next touching the heart by some stroke of pathos. How Byron would have admired her genius, for it bears the stamp of being influenced no less by a graceful and fertile fancy than by a deep sensibility, and the union of the two gives a peculiar charm to her poems.
Drove to the Bois de Boulogne to-day, with the Comtesse d'O——, I know no such brilliant talker as she is. No matter what may be the subject of conversation, her wit flashes brightly on all, and without the slightest appearance of effort or pretension. She speaks from a mind overflowing with general information, made available by a retentive memory, a ready wit, and in exhaustible good spirits.
Letters from dear Italy. Shall I ever see that delightful land again? A letter, too, from Mrs. Francis Hare, asking me to be civil to some English friends of hers, who are come to Paris, which I shall certainly be for her sake.
À proposof the English, it is amusing to witness the avidity with which many of them not only accept but court civilities abroad, and thesang-froidwith which they seem to forget them when they return home. I have as yet had no opportunity of judging personally on this point, but I hear such tales on the subject as would justify caution, if one was disposed to extend hospitality with any prospective view to gratitude for it, which we never have done, and never will do.
Mine is the philosophy of ——, who, when his extreme hospitality to his countrymen was remarked on, answered, "I can't eat all my good dinners alone, and if I am lucky enough to find now and then a pleasant guest, it repays me for the many dull ones invited." I expect no gratitude for our hospitality to our compatriots, and "Blessed are they who expect not, for they will not be disappointed."
Longchamps has not equalled my expectations. It is a dull affair after all, resembling the drive in Hyde Park on a Sunday in May, the promenade in the Cacina at Florence, in the Corso at Rome, or the Chaija at Naples, in all save the elegance of the dresses of the women, in which Longchamps has an immeasurable superiority.
It is at Longchamps that the Parisian spring fashions are first exhibited, and busy are themodistesfor many weeks previously in putting their powers of invention to the test, in order to bring out novelties, facsimiles of which are, the ensuing week, forwarded to England, Italy, Germany, Holland, and Russia. The coachmakers, saddlers, and horse-dealers, are also put in requisition for this epoch; and, though the exhibition is no longer comparable to what it was in former times, when a luxurious extravagance not only in dress, but in equipages, was displayed, some handsome and well-appointed carriages are still to be seen. Among the most remarkable for good taste, were those of the Princess Bagration, and Monsieur Schikler, whose very handsome wife attracted more admiration than the elegant vehicle in which she was seated, or the fine steeds that drew it.
Those who are disposed to question the beauty of French women, should have been at Longchamps to-day, when their scepticism would certainly have been vanquished, for I saw several women there whose beauty could admit of no doubt even by the most fastidious critic of female charms. The Duchesse de Guiche, however, bore off the bell from all competitors, and so the spectators who crowded the Champs-Elysées seemed to think. Of her may be said what Choissy stated of la Duchesse de la Vallière, she has "La grace plus belle encore que la beauté." The handsome Duchesse d'Istrie and countless otherbeautés à la modewere present, and well sustained the reputation for beauty of the Parisian ladies.
The mencaracoledbetween the carriages on their proud and prancing steeds, followed by grooms,à l'Anglaise, in smart liveries, and the people crowded the footpaths on each side of the drive, commenting aloud on the equipages and their owners that passed before them.
The promenade at Longchamps, which takes place in the Holy Week, is said to owe its origin to a religious procession that went annually to a church so called, whence it by degrees changed its character, and became a scene of gaiety, in which the most extravagant exhibitions of luxury were displayed.
One example, out of many, of this extravagance, is furnished by a publication of the epoch at which Longchamps was in its most palmy state, when a certain Mademoiselle Duthé, whose means of indulging in inordinate expense were not solely derived from her ostensible profession as one of the performers attached to the Opera, figured in the promenade in a carriage of the most sumptuous kind, drawn by no less than six thorough-bred horses, the harness of which was of blue morocco, studded with polished steel ornaments, which produced the most dazzling effect.
That our times are improved in respect, at least, to appearances, may be fairly concluded from the fact that no example of a similar ostentatious display of luxury is ever now exhibited by persons in the same position as Mademoiselle Duthé; and that if the same folly that enabled her to indulge in such extravagance still prevails, a sense of decency prevents all public display of wealth so acquired. Modern morals censure not people so much for their vices as for the display of them, as Aleibiades was blamed not for loving Nemea, but for allowing himself to be painted reposing on her lap.
Finished the perusal ofCinq Mars, by Count Alfred de Vigny. It is an admirable production, and deeply interested me. The sentiments noble and elevated, without ever degenerating into aught approaching to bombast, and the pathos such as a manly heart might feel, without incurring the accusation of weakness. The author must be a man of fine feelings, as well as of genius,—but were they ever distinct? I like to think they cannot be, for my theory is, that the feelings are to genius what the chords are to a musical instrument—they must be touched to produce effect.
The style of Count Alfred de Vigny merits the eulogium passed by Lord Shaftesbury on that of an author in his time, of which he wrote, "It is free from that affected obscurity and laboured pomp of language aiming at a false sublime, with crowded simile and mixed metaphor (the hobby-horse and rattle of the Muses.")
—— dined with us yesterday, and, clever as I admit him to be, he often displeases me by his severe strictures on mankind. I told him that he exposed himself to the suspicion of censuring it only because he had studied a bad specimen of it (self) more attentively than the good that fell in his way: a reproof that turned the current of his conversation into a more agreeable channel, though he did not seem to like the hint.
It is the fashion for people now-a-days to affect this cynicism, and to expend their wit at the expense of poor human nature, which is abuseden massefor the sins of those who abuse it from judging of all others by self. How different is ——, who thinks so well of his species, that, like our English laws, he disbelieves the existence of guilt until it is absolutely proved,—a charity originating in a superior nature, and a judgment formed from an involuntary consciousness of it!
—— suspects evil on all sides, and passes his time in guarding against it. He dares not indulge friendship, because he doubts the possibility of its being disinterested, and feels no little self-complacency when the conduct of those with whom he comes in contact justifies his suspicions. ——, on the contrary, if sometimes deceived, feels no bitterness, because he believes that the instance may be a solitary one, and finds consolation in those whose truth he has yet had no room to question. His is the best philosophy, for though it cannot preclude occasional disappointment, it ensures much happiness, as the indulgence of good feelings invariably does, and he often creates the good qualities he gives credit for, as few persons are so bad as not to wish to justify the favourable opinion entertained of them, as few are so good as to resist the demoralising influence of unfounded suspicions.
A letter from Lord B——, announcing a majority of 105 on the bill of the Catholic question. Lord Grey made an admirable speech, with a happy allusion to the fact of Lord Howard of Effingham, who commanded the English fleet in the reign of Elizabeth, having, though a Roman Catholic, destroyed the Armada under the anointed banner of the Pope. What a triumphant refutation of the notion that Roman Catholics dared not oppose the Pope! Lord B—— writes, that the brilliant and justly merited eulogium pronounced by Lord Grey on the Duke of Wellington was rapturously received by the House. How honourable to both was the praise! I feel delighted that Lord Grey should have distinguished himself on this occasion, for he is one of the friends in England whom I most esteem.
—— dined here to-day. He reminds me of the larva, which is the first state of animal existence in the caterpillar, for his appetite is voracious, and, as a French naturalist states in describing that insect, "Tout est estomac dans un larve." —— is of the opinion of Aretæus, that the stomach is the great source of pleasurable affections, and that as Nature "abhors a vacuum," the more filled it is the better.
Dining is a serious affair with ——. Soup, fish, flesh, and fowl, disappear from his plate with a rapidity that is really surprising; and while they are vanishing, not "into empty air," but into the yawning abyss of his ravenous jaws, his eyes wander around, seeking what next those same ravenous jaws may devour.
On beholding a person indulge in such gluttony, I feel a distaste to eating, as a certain double-refined lady of my acquaintance declared that witnessing the demonstrations of love between two persons of low and vulgar habits so disgusted her with the tender passion, that she was sure she never could experience it herself.
I have been readingla Chronique du Temps de Charles IX, by Prosper Mérimée, and a most interesting and admirably written book it is. Full of stirring scenes and incidents, it contains the most graphic pictures of the manners of the time in which the story is placed, and the interest progresses, never flagging from the commencement to the end. This book will be greatly admired in England, where the romances of our great Northern Wizard have taught us to appreciate the peculiar merit in which this abounds. Sir Walter Scott will be one of the first to admire and render justice to this excellent book, and to welcome into the field of literature this highly gifted brother of the craft.
The French writers deserve justice from the English, for they invariably treat the works of the latter with indulgence. Scott is not more read or esteemed in his own country than here; and even the productions of our young writers are more kindly treated than those of their own youthful aspirants for fame.
French critics have much merit for this amenity, because the greater number of them possess a peculiar talent, for the exercise of their critical acumen, which renders the indulgence of it, like that of the power of ridicule, very tempting. Among the most remarkable critics of the day Jules Janin, who though yet little more than a youth, evinces such talent as a reviewer as to be the terror of mediocrity. His style is pungent and vigorous, his satire searching and biting, and his tact in pointing ridicule unfailing. He bids fair to take a most distinguished place in his profession.
Spent last evening in the Rue d'Anjou, where I met the usual circle and ——. He bepraised every one that was named during the evening, and so injudiciously, that it was palpable he knew little of those upon whom he expended his eulogiums; nay, he lauded some whom he acknowledged he had never seen, on the same principle that actuated the Romans of old who, having deified every body they knew, erected at last an altar to the unknown Gods, lest any should by chance be omitted.
This habit of indiscriminate praise is almost as faulty as that of general censure, and is, in my opinion, more injurious to the praised than the censure is to the abused, because people are prone to indulge a greater degree of sympathy towards those attacked than towards those who are commended. No one said "Amen" to the praises heaped on some really deserving people by ——, but several put in a palliating "pourtant" to the ill-natured remarks made by ——, whose habit of abusing all who chance to be named is quite as remarkable as the other's habit of praising. I would prefer being attacked by —— to being lauded by ——, for the extravagance of the eulogiums of the latter would excite more ill-will towards me than the censures of the other, as the self-love of the listeners disposes them to feel more kindly to the one they can pity, than to the person they are disposed to envy.
I never look at dear, good Madame C—-, without thinking how soon we may,—nay, we must lose her. At her very advanced age we cannot hope that she will be long spared to us; yet her freshness of heart and wonderful vivacity of mind would almost cheat one into a hope of her long continuing amongst us.
She drove out with me yesterday to the Bois de Boulogne, and, when remarking how verdant and beautiful all around was looking, exclaimed, "Ah! why is no second spring allowed to us? I hear," continued she, "people say they would not like to renew their youth, but I cannot believe them. There are times—would you believe it?—that I forget my age, and feel so young in imagination that I can scarcely bring myself to think this heart, which is still so youthful, can appertain to the same frame to which is attached this faded and wrinkled face," and she raised her hand to her cheek. "Ah! my dear friend, it is a sad, sad thing to mark this fearful change, and I never look in my mirror without being shocked. The feelings ought to change with the person, and the heart should become as insensible as the face becomes withered."
"The change in the face is so gradual, too," continued Madame C——. "We see ourselves after thirty-five, each day looking a little less well (we are loath to think it ugly), and we attribute it not to the true cause, the approach of that enemy to beauty—age,—but to some temporary indisposition, a bad night's rest, or an unbecoming cap. We thus go on cheating ourselves, but not cheating others, until some day when the light falls more clearly on our faces, and the fearful truth stands revealed. Wrinkles have usurped the place of dimples; horrid lines, traced by Time, have encircled the eyelids; the eyes, too, no longer bright and pellucid, become dim; the lips dry and colourless, the teeth yellow, and the cheeks pale and faded, as a dried rose-leaf long pressed in ahortus siccus."
"Alas, alas! who can help thinking of all this when one sees the trees opening into their rich foliage, the earth putting forth its bright verdure, and the flowers budding into bloom, while we resemble the hoar and dreary winter, and scarcely retain a trace of the genial summer we once knew."
This conversation suggested the following lines, which I wish I could translate into French verse to give to Madame C——:
Snowy blossoms of the graveThat now o'er care-worn temples wave,Oh! what change hath pass'd since yeO'er youthful brows fell carelessly!In silken curls of ebon hueThat with such wild luxuriance grew,The raven's dark and glossy wingA richer shadow scarce could fling.The brow that tells a tale of CareThat Sorrow's pen hath written there,In characters too deeply tracedEver on earth to be effaced,Was then a page of spotless white,Where Love himself might wish to write.The jetty arches that did rise,As if to guard the brilliant eyes,Have lost their smoothness;—and no moreThe eyes can sparkle as of yore:They look like fountains form'd by tears,Where perish'd Hope in by-gone years.The nose that served as bridge betweenThe brow and mouth—for Love, I ween,To pass—hath lost its sculptured air.For Time, the spoiler, hath been there.The mouth—ah! where's the crimson dyeThat youth and health did erst supply?Are these pale lips that seldom smile,The same that laugh'd, devoid of guile.Shewing within their coral cellThe shining pearls that there did dwell,But dwell no more? The pearls are fled,And homely teeth are in their stead.The cheeks have lost the blushing roseThat once their surface could disclose;A dull, pale tint has spread around,Where rose and lily erst were found.The throat, and bust—but, ah! forbear,Let's draw a veil for ever there;Too fearful is 't to put in rhymeThe changes wrought by cruel Time,The faithful mirror well revealsThe truth that flattery conceals;The charms once boasted, now are flown,But mind and heart are still thine own;And thou canst see the wreck of years,And ghost of beauty, without tears.No outward change thy soul shouldst wring,Oh! mourn but for the change within;Grieve over bright illusions fled,O'er fondly cherish'd hope, now dead,O'er errors of the days of youth,Ere wisdom taught the path of truth.Then hail, ye blossoms of the grave,That o'er the care-worn temples wave—Sent to remind us of "that bourn,Whence traveller can ne'er return;"The harbingers of peace and rest,Where only mortals can be blest.
Read Victor Hugo'sDernier Jour d'un Condamné!It is powerfully written, and the author identifies his feelings so strongly with the condemned, that he must, while writing the book, have experienced similar emotions to those which a person in the same terrible position would have felt. Wonderful power of genius, that can thus excite sympathy for the erring and the wretched, and awaken attention to a subject but too little thought of in our selfish times, namely, the expediency of the abolition of capital punishment! A perusal of Victor Hugo's graphic book will do more to lead men's minds to reflect on this point than all the dull essays; or as dull speeches, that may be written or made on it.
Talking of —— to-day with —— ——, she remarked that he had every sense but common sense, and made light of this deficiency. How frequently do we hear people do this, as if the possession of talents or various fine qualities can atone for its absence! Common sense is not only positively necessary to render talent available by directing its proper application, but is indispensable as a monitor to warn men against error. Without this guide the passions and feelings will be ever leading men astray, and even those with the best natural dispositions will fall into error.
Common sense is to the individual what the compass is to the mariner—it enables him to steer safely through the rocks, shoals, and whirlpools that intersect his way. Were the lives of criminals accurately known, I am persuaded that it would be found that from a want of common sense had proceeded their guilt; for a clear perception of crime would do more to check its perpetration, than the goodness of heart which is so frequently urged as a preventive against it.
Conscience is the only substitute for common sense, but even this will not supply its place in all cases. Conscience will lead a man to repent or atone for crime, but common sense will preclude his committing it by enabling him to judge of the result. I frequently hear people say, "So and so are very clever," or "very cunning, and are well calculated to make their way in the world." This opinion seems to me to be a severe satire on the world, for as cunning can only appertain to a mean intellect, to which it serves as a poor substitute for sense, it argues ill for the world to suppose it can be taken in by it.
I never knew a sensible, or a good person, who was cunning; and I have known so many weak and wicked ones who possessed this despicable quality, that I hold it in abhorrence, except in very young children, to whom Providence gives it before they arrive at good sense.
Went a round of the curiosity shops on the Quai d'Orsay, and bought an amber vase of rare beauty, said to have once belonged to the Empress Josephine. When I see the beautiful objects collected together in these shops, I often think of their probable histories, and of those to whom they once belonged. Each seems to identify itself with the former owner, and conjures up in my mind a little romance.
A vase of rock crystal, set in precious stones, seen today, could never have belonged to aught but some beauty, for whom it was selected by an adoring lover or husband, ere yet the honeymoon had passed. A chased goldétui, enriched with oriental agates and brilliants, must have appertained to somegrande dame, on whose table it rested in a richly-decoratedsalon; and could it speak, what piquant disclosures might it not make!
The fine old watch, around the dial of which sparkle diamonds, and on the back the motto, executed in the same precious stones, "Vous me faites oublier les heures," once adorned the slender waist of some dainty dame,—a nuptial gift. The silvery sound of its bell often reminded her of the flight of Time, and hercaro sposoof the effects of it on his inconstant heart, long before her mirror told her of the ravages of the tyrant. Theflaconso tastefully ornamented, has been held to delicate nostrils when the megrim—that malady peculiar to refined organisations and susceptible nerves—has assailed its fair owner; and the heart-shaped pincushion of crimson velvet, inclosed in its golden case and stuck with pins, has been likened by the giver to his own heart, pierced by the darts of Love—a simile that probably displeased not the fair creature to whom it was addressed.
Here are the expensive and tasteful gifts, thegages d'amour, not often disinterested, as bright and beautiful as when they left the hands of the jeweller; but the givers and the receivers where are they? Mouldered in the grave long, long years ago! Through how many hands may these objects not have passed since Death snatched away the persons for whom they were originally designed! And here they are in the ignoble custody of some avaricious vender, who having obtained them at the sale of some departed amateur for less than half their first cost, now expects to extort more than double.
He takes them up in his unwashed fingers, turns them—oh, profanation!—round and round, in order to display their various merits, descants on the delicacy of the workmanship, the sharpness of the chiseling, the pure water of the brilliants, and the fine taste displayed in the form; tells a hundred lies about the sum he gave for them, the offers he has refused, the persons to whom they once belonged, and those who wish to purchase them!
Theflaconof some defunct prude is placed side by side with thevinaigretteof somejolie danseusewho was any thing but prudish. How shocked would the original owner of theflaconfeel at the friction! The fan of somegrande dame de la courtouches the diamond-mountedétuiof the wife of somefinancier, who would have given half her diamonds to enter the circle in which she who once owned this fan found moreennuithan amusement. The cane of a deceased philosopher is in close contact with the golden-hilted sword of apetit maître de l'ancien régime, and the sparklingtabatièreof aMarquis Musqué, the partaker if not the cause of half hissuccès dans le monde, is placed by thechapeletof areligieuse de haute naissance, who often perhaps dropped a tear on the beads as she counted them in saying her Ave Marias, when some unbidden thought of the world she had resigned usurped the place of her aspirations for a brighter and more enduring world.
"And so 't will be when I am gone," as Moore's beautiful song says; the rare and beautifulbijouteriewhich I have collected with such pains, and looked on with such pleasure, will probably be scattered abroad, and find their resting places not in gildedsalons, but in the dingy coffers of the wilybrocanteur, whose exorbitant demands will preclude their finding purchasers. Even these inanimate and puerile objects have their moral, if people would but seek it; but what has not, to a reflecting mind?—complained bitterly to-day, of having been attacked by an anonymous scribbler. I was surprised to see a man accounted clever and sensible, so much annoyed by what I consider so wholly beneath his notice. It requires only a knowledge of the world and a self-respect to enable one to treat such attacks with the contempt they merit; and those who allow themselves to be mortified by them must be deficient in these necessary qualifications for passing smoothly through life.
It seems to me to indicate great weakness of mind, when a person permits his peace to be at the mercy of every anonymous scribbler who, actuated by envy or hatred (the invariable causes of such attacks), writes a libel on him. If a person so attacked would but reflect that few, if any, who have acquired celebrity, or have been favoured by fortune, have ever escaped similar assaults, he would be disposed to consider them as the certain proofs of a merit, the general acknowledgment of which has excited the ire of the envious, thus displayed by the only mean within their reach—anonymous abuse. Anonymous assailants may be likened to the cuttle-fish, which employs the inky secretions it forms as a means of tormenting its enemy and baffling pursuit.
I have been reading the poems of Mrs. Hemans, and exquisite they are. They affect me like sacred music, and never fail to excite religious sentiments. England only could have produced this poetess, and peculiar circumstances were necessary to the developement of her genius. The music of the versification harmonises well with the elevated character of the thoughts, which inspire the reader (at least such is their effect on me) with a pensive sentiment of resignation that is not without a deep charm to a mind that loves to withdraw itself from the turmoil and bustle incidental to a life passed in a gay and brilliant capital.
The mind of this charming poetess must be like an Æolian harp, that every sighing wind awakes to music, but to grave and chastened melody, the full charm of which can only be truly appreciated by those who have sorrowed, and who look beyond this earth for repose. Well might Goëthe write,
"Wo du das Genie erblickstErblickst du auch zugleich die martkrone"[7]
for where is Genius to be found that has not been tried by suffering?
Moore has beautifully said,
"The hearths that are soonest awake to the flowers,Are always the first to be pierced by the thorns;"
and so it is with poets: they feel intensely before they can make others feel even superficially.
And there are those who can talk lightly and irreverently of the sufferings from which spring such exquisite, such glorious music, unconscious that the fine organization and delicate susceptibility of the minds of Genius which give such precious gifts to delight others, receive deep wounds from weapons that could not make an incision on impenetrable hearts like their own. Yes, the hearts of people of genius may be said to resemble the American maple-trees, which must be pierced ere they yield their honied treasures.
If Mrs. Hemans had been as happy as she deserved to be, it is probable that she would never have written the exquisite poems I have been reading; for the fulness of content leaves no room for the sweet and bitter fancies engendered by an imagination that finds its Hippocrene in the fountain of Sorrow, whose source is in the heart, and can only flow when touched by the hand of Care.
Well may England be proud of such poetesses as she can now boast! Johanna Baillie, the noble-minded and elevated; Miss Bowles, the pure, the true; Miss Mitford, the gifted and the natural; and Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon, though last not least in the galaxy of Genius, with imaginations as brilliant as their hearts are generous and tender. Who can read the productions of these gifted women, without feeling a lively interest in their welfare, and a pride in belonging to the country that has given them birth?
Lord B—— arrived yesterday, and, Heaven be thanked! is in better health. He says the spring is three weeks more advanced at Paris than in London. He is delighted at the Catholic Question having been carried; and trusts, as I do, that Ireland will derive the greatest benefit from the measure. How few, with estates in a province where so strong a prejudice is entertained against Roman Catholics as exists in the north of Ireland, would have voted as Lord B—— has done; but, like his father, Lord B—— never allows personal interest to interfere in the discharge of a duty! If there were many such landlords in Ireland, prejudices, the bane of that country, would soon subside. Lord B—— came back laden with presents for me. Some of them are quite beautiful, and would excite the envy of half my sex.
Received letters from good, dear Sir William Gell, and the no less dear and good Archbishop of Tarentum, both urging us to return to Italy to see them, as they say, once more before they die. Receiving letters from absent friends who are dear to us, has almost as much of sadness as of pleasure in it; for although it is consolatory to know that they are in life, and are not unmindful of us, still a closely written sheet of paper is but a poor substitute for the animated conversation, the cordial grasp of the hand, and the kind glance of the eye; and we become more sensible of the distance that divides us when letters written many days ago arrive, and we remember with dread that, since these very epistles were indited, the hands that traced them may be chilled by death. This fear, which recurs so often to the mind in all cases of absence from those dear to us, becomes still more vivid where infirmity of health and advanced age render the probability of the loss of friends the greater.
Italy—dear, beautiful Italy—with all its sunshine and attractions, would not be the same delightful residence to me if I no longer found there the friends who made myséjourthere so pleasant; and among these the Archbishop and Sir William Gell stand prominent.
Gell writes me that some new and interesting discoveries have been made at Pompeii. Would that I could be transported there for a few days to see them with him, as I have beheld so many before when we were present at several excavations together, and saw exposed to the light of day objects that had been for two thousand years buried in darkness! There was a thrilling feeling of interest awakened in the breast by the first view of these so-long-interred articles of use or ornament of a bygone generation, and on the spot where their owners perished. It was as though the secrets of the grave were revealed; and that, to convince us of the perishable coil of which mortals are formed, it is given us to behold how much more durable are the commonest utensils of daily use than the frames of those who boast themselves lords of the creation. But here am I moralizing, when I ought to be taking advantage of this glorious day by a promenade in the Bois de Boulogne, where I promised to conduct Madame d'O——; soallons en voiture.
Read theDisowned, and like it exceedingly. It is full of beautiful thoughts, sparkling with wit, teeming with sentiment, and each and all of them based on immutable truths. The more I read of the works of this highly gifted writer, the more am I delighted with them; for his philosophy passes through the alembic of a mind glowing with noble and generous sentiments, of which it imbibes the hues.
The generality of readers pause not to reflect on the truth and beauty of the sentiments to be found in novels. They hurry on to thedénoûment; and a stirring incident, skilfully managed, which serves to develope the plot, finds more admirers than the noblest thoughts, or most witty maxims. Yet as people who read nothing else, will read novels, authors like Mr. Bulwer, whose minds are overflowing with genius, are compelled to make fiction the vehicle for giving to the public thoughts and opinions that are deserving of a higher grade of literature.
The greater portion of novel readers, liking not to be detained from the interest of the story by any extraneous matter, however admirable it may be, skip over the passages that most delight those who read to reflect, and not for mere amusement.
I find myself continually pausing over the admirable and profound reflections of Mr. Bulwer, and almost regret that his writings do not meet the public as the papers of theSpectatordid, when a single one of them was deemed as essential to the breakfast-table of all lovers of literature as a morning journal is now to the lovers of news. The merit of the thoughts would be then duly appreciated, instead of being hastily passed over in the excitement of the story which they intersect.
A long visit from ——, and, as usual, politics furnished the topic. How I wish people would never talk politics to me! I have no vocation for that abstruse science,—a science in which even those who devote all their time and talents to it, but rarely arrive at a proficiency. In vain do I profess my ignorance and inability; people will not believe me, and think it necessary to enter into political discussions thatennuientme beyond expression.
If —— is to be credited, Charles the Tenth and his government are so unpopular that his reign will not pass without some violent commotion. A fatality appears to attend this family, which, like the house of Stuart, seems doomed never to conciliate the affections of the people. And yet, Charles the Tenth is said not to be disposed to tyrannical measures, neither is he without many good qualities. But the last of the Stuart sovereigns also was naturally a humane and good man, yet he was driven from his kingdom and his throne,—a proof that weakness of mind is, perhaps, of all faults in a monarch, the one most likely to compromise the security of his dynasty.
The restoration of the Stuarts after Cromwell, was hailed with much more enthusiasm in England than that of Louis the Eighteenth, after the abdication of the Emperor Napoleon. Yet that enthusiasm was no pledge that the people would bear from the descendants of the ill-fated Charles the First—that most perfect of all gentlemen and meekest of Christians—what they deprived him of not only his kingdom but his life for attempting.
The house of Bourbon, like that of Stuart, has had its tragedy, offering a fearful lesson to sovereigns and a terrific example to subjects. It has had, also, its restoration; and, if report may be credited, the parallel will not rest here: for there are those who assert that as James was supplanted on the throne of England by a relative while yet the legitimate and unoffending heir lived, so will also the place of Charles the Tenth be filled by one between whom and the crown stand two legitimate barriers. Time will tell how far the predictions of —— are just; but,en attendant, I never can believe that ambition can so blindonewho possesses all that can render life a scene of happiness to himself and of usefulness to others, to throw away a positive good for the uncertain and unquiet possession of a crown, bestowed by hands that to confer the dangerous gift must have subverted a monarchy.
Pandora's box contained not more evils than the crown of France would inflict on him on whose brow a revolution would place it. From that hour let him bid adieu to peaceful slumber, to domestic happiness, to well-merited confidence and esteem, all of which are now his own. Popularity, never a stable possession in any country, is infinitely less so in France, where the vivacity of perception of the people leads them to discover grave faults where only slight errors exist, and where a natural inconstancy, love of change, and a reckless impatience under aught that offends them, prompt them to hurl down from the pedestal the idol of yesterday to replace it by the idol of to-day.
I hear so much good of the Duc and Duchesse d'O—— that I feel a lively interest in them, and heartily wish they may never be elevated (unless by the natural demise of the legitimate heirs) to the dangerous height to which —— and others assert they will ultimately ascend. Even in the contingency of a legitimate inheritance of the crown, the Tuileries would offer a less peaceful couch to them than they find in the blissful domestic circle at N——.
A long visit from the Duc de T——. I never meet him without being reminded of the truth of an observation of a French writer, who says—"On a vu des gens se passer d'esprit en sachant mêler la politesse avec des manières nobles et élégantes." The Duc de T—— passes off perfectly well withoutesprit, the absence of which his noble manners perfectly conceal; while ——, who is so very clever, makes one continually conscious of his want of good breeding andbon ton.
Finished readingSayings and Doings, by Mr. Theodore Hook. Every page teems with wit, humour, or pathos, and reveals a knowledge of the world under all the various phases of the ever-moving scene that gives a lively interest to all he writes. This profound acquaintance with human life, which stamps the impress of truth on every character portrayed by his graphic pen, has not soured his feelings or produced that cynical disposition so frequently engendered by it.
Mr. Hook is no misanthrope, and while he exposes the ridiculous with a rare wit and humour he evinces a natural and warm sympathy with the good. He is a very original thinker and writer, hits off characters with a facility and felicity that few authors possess, and makes them invariably act in accordance with the peculiar characteristics with which he has endowed them. Thevraisemblanceis never for a moment violated, which makes the reader imagine he is perusing a true narration instead of a fiction.
House-hunting to-day. Went again over the Hôtel Monaco, but its dilapidated state somewhat alarms us. The suite of reception rooms are magnificent, but the garden into which they open pleases me still more, for it is vast and umbrageous. The line old hôtels in the Faubourg St.-Germain, and this is one of the finest, give one a good idea of the splendour of thenoblesse de l'ancien régime. The number and spaciousness of the apartments, the richness of the decorations, though no longer retaining their pristine beauty, and above all, the terraces and gardens, have a grand effect.
House-hunting all the day with Lord B——. Went again over the Hôtel Monaco, and abandoned the project of hiring it. Saw one house newly built and freshly and beautifully decorated, which I like, but Lord B—— does not think good enough. It is in the Rue de Matignon. It is so desirable to get into a mansion where every thing is new and in good taste, which is the case with the one in question, that I hope Lord B—— will be satisfied with this.
Sat an hour with General d'O—— who has been unwell. Never was there such a nurse as his wife, and so he said. Illness almost loses its irksomeness when the sick chamber is cheered by one who is as kind as she is clever. Madame d'O—— is glad we have not taken the Hôtel Monaco, for she resided in it a long time when it was occupied by her mother, and she thinks the sleeping-rooms are confined and gloomy.
"After serious consideration and mature deliberation," we have finally decided on taking the house in the Rue de Matignon. It will be beautiful when completed, but nevertheless not to be compared to the Hôtel Ney. Thesalons de réception, are very good, and the decorations are rich and handsome.
The largesalonis separated from the lesser by an immense plate of unsilvered glass, which admits of the fireplaces in each room (they arevis-à-vis) being seen, and has a very good effect. A door on each side this large plate of glass opens into the smallersalon. The portion of the house allotted to me will, when completed, be like fairy land. Asalon, destined to contain my buhl cabinets,porcelaine de Sèvres, and rarebijouterie, opens into a library by two glass-doors, and in the pier which divides them is a large mirror filling up the entire space.
In the library, that opens on a terrace, which is to be covered with aberceau, and converted into a garden, are two mirrors,vis-à-visto the two glass doors that communicate from thesalon; so that on entering this last, the effect produced is exceedingly pretty. Another large mirror is placed at the end of the library, and reflects the terrace.
When my books and various treasures are arranged in this suite I shall be very comfortably lodged. Mychambre à coucher, dressing-room, and boudoir, are spacious, and beautifully decorated. All this sounds well and looks well, too, yet we shall leave the Rue de Bourbon with regret, and Lord B—— now laments that we did not secure it for a long term.
Drove in the Bois de Boulogne. A lovely day, which produced a very exhilarating effect on my spirits. I know not whether others experience the same pleasurable sensations that I do on a fine day in spring, when all nature is bursting into life, and the air and earth look joyous. My feelings become more buoyant, my step more elastic, and all that I love seem dearer than before. I remember that even in childhood I was peculiarly sensible to atmospheric influence, and I find that as I grow old this susceptibility does not diminish.
We dined at the Rocher de Cancale yesterday; and Counts Septeuil andValeski composed our party. The Rocher de Cancale is the Greenwich ofParis; the oysters and various other kinds of fish served upcongusto, attracting people to it, as the white bait draw visitors toGreenwich. Our dinner was excellent, and our party very agreeable.
Adîner de restaurantis pleasant from its novelty. The guests seem less ceremonious and more gay; the absence of the elegance that marks the dinner-table appointments in amaison bien montée, gives a homeliness and heartiness to the repast; and even the attendance of two or three ill-dressedgarçonshurrying about, instead of half-a-dozen sedate servants in rich liveries, marshalled by a solemn-lookingmaître-d'hôteland groom of the chambers, gives a zest to the dinner often wanted in more luxurious feasts.
The Bois de Boulogne yesterday presented one of the gayest sights imaginable as we drove through it, for, being Sunday, all thebourgeoisieof Paris were promenading there, and in their holyday dresses. And very pretty and becoming were the said dresses, from those of thefemmes de négociants, composed of rich and tasteful materials, down to those of the humblegrisettes, who, with jaunty air and roguish eyes, walked briskly along, casting glances at every smart toilette they encountered, more intent on examining the dresses than the wearers.
A good taste in dress seems innate in Frenchwomen of every class, and a confidence in their own attractions precludes the air ofmauvaise honteandgaucherieso continually observable in the women of other countries, while it is so distinct from boldness that it never offends. It was pretty to see the gay dresses of varied colours fluttering beneath the delicate green foliage, like rich flowers agitated by a more than usually brisk summer's wind, while the foliage and the dresses are still in their pristine purity.
Thebeau mondeoccupied the drive in the centre, their vehicles of every description attracting the admiration of the pedestrians, who glanced from the well-appointed carriages, whose owners reclined negligently back as if unwilling to be seen, to the smart young equestrians on prancing steeds, who caracoled past with the air half dandy and halfmilitairethat characterises every young Frenchman.
I am always struck in a crowd in Paris with the soldier-like air of its male population; and this air does not seem to be the result of study, but sits as naturally on them as does the look, half fierce, half mocking, that accompanies it. There is something in the nature of a Frenchman that enables him to become a soldier in less time than is usually necessary to render the natives of other countriesau faitin the routine of duty, just as he learns to dance well in a quarter of the time required to teach them to go through a simple measure.
The Emperor Napoleon quickly observed this peculiar predisposition to a military life in his subjects, and took advantage of it to fool them to the top of their bent. The victories achieved beneath his banner reflect scarcely less honour on them than on him, and the memory of them associates his name in their hearts by the strongest bonds of sympathy that can bind a Frenchman—the love of glory. A sense of duty, high discipline, and true courage, influence our soldiers in the discharge of their calling. They are proud of their country and of their regiment, for the honour of which they are ready to fight unto the death; but a Frenchman, though proud of his country and his regiment, is still more proud of his individual self, and, believing that all eyes are uponhimacts as if his single arm could accomplish that which only soldiersen massecan achieve.
A pleasant party at dinner at home yesterday. The Marquis de Mornay, Count Valeski, and General Ornano, were among the number. Laughed immoderately at thenaïvetéof ——, who is irresistibly ludicrous.
Madame —— came in the evening and sang "God save the King." Time was that her singing this national anthem would have electrified the hearers, but now—. Alas! alas! that voices, like faces, should lose their delicate flexibility and freshness, and seem but like the faint echo of their former brilliant tones!
Does the ear of a singer, like the eye of somehas-beenbeauty, lose its fine perception and become accustomed to the change in the voice, as does the eye to that in the face, to which it appertains, from being daily in the habit of seeing the said face! Merciful dispensation of Providence, which thus saves us from the horror and dismay we must experience could we but behold ourselves as others see us, after a lapse of years without having met; while we, unconscious of the sad change in ourselves, are perfectly sensible of it in them. Oh, the misery of themezzo terminein the journey of life, when time robs the eyes of their lustre, the cheeks of their roses, the mouth of its pearls, and the heart of its gaiety, and writes harsh sentences on brows once smooth and polished as marble!
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!Why fleets youth so fast away,Taking beauty in its train,Never to return again?
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!Why will health no longer stay?After youth 't will not remain,Chased away by care and pain.
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!Youth, health, beauty, gone for aye,Life itself must quickly waneWith its thoughts and wishes vain.
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!Frail and perishable clayThat to earth our wishes chain,Well it is that brief's thy reign.
I have been reading Captain Marryat'sNaval Officer, and think it exceedingly clever and amusing. It is like himself, full of talent, originality, and humour. He is an accurate observer of life; nothing escapes him; yet there is no bitterness in his satire and no exaggeration in his comic vein. He is never obliged to explain to his readerswhythe characters he introduces act in such or such a manner.
They always bear out the parts he wishes them to enact, and the whole story goes on so naturally that one feels as if reading a narrative of facts, instead of a work of fiction.
I have known Captain Marryat many years, and liked him from the first; but this circumstance, far from rendering me more indulgent to his novel, makes me more fastidious; for I find myself at all times more disposed to criticise the writings of persons whom I know and like than those of strangers: perhaps because I expect more from them, if, as in the present case, I know them to be very clever.
Dined yesterday at the Cadran Bleu, and went in the evening to seeLa Tour d'Auvergne, a piece founded on the life, and taking its name from a soldier of the time of the Republic. A nobler character than that of La Tour d'Auvergne could not be selected for a dramatic hero, and ancient times furnish posterity with no brighter example. A letter from Carnot, then Minister of War, addressed to this distinguished soldier and admirable man, has pleased me so much that I give its substance:
"On fixing my attention on the men who reflect honour on the army, I have remarked you, citizen, and I said to the First Consul—'La Tour d'Auvergne Corret, descendant of the family of Turenne, has inherited its bravery and its virtues. One of the oldest officers in the army, he counts the greatest number of brilliant actions, and all the brave name him to be the most brave. As modest as he is intrepid, he has shewn himself anxious for glory alone, and has refused all the grades offered to him. At the eastern Pyrénées the General assembled all the companies of the grenadiers, and during the remainder of the campaign gave them no chief. The oldest captain was to command them, and he was Latour d'Auvergne. He obeyed, and the corps was soon named by the enemy the Infernal Column.
"'One of his friends had an only son, whose labour was necessary for the support of his father, and this young man was included in the conscription. Latour d'Auvergne, broken down by fatigue, could not labour, but he could still fight. He hastened to the army of the Rhine; replaced the son of his friend; and, during two campaigns, with his knapsack on his hack and always in the foremost rank, he was in every engagement, animating the grenadiers by his discourse and by his example. Poor, but proud, he has refused the gift of an estate offered to him by the head of his family. Simple in his manners, and temperate in his habits, he lives on the limited pay of a captain. Highly informed, and speaking several languages, his erudition equals his courage. We are indebted to his pen for the interesting work entitledLes Origines Gauloises. Such rare talents and virtues appertain to the page of history, but to the First Consul belongs the right to anticipate its award.'
"The First Consul, citizen, heard this recital with the same emotions that I experienced. He named you instantly first grenadier of the Republic, and decreed you this sword of honour.Salut et fraternité."
The distinction accorded so readily to Latour d'Auvergne by the First Consul, himself a hero, who could better than any other contemporary among his countrymen appreciate the glory he was called on by Carnot to reward, was refused by the gallant veteran.
"Among us soldiers," said he, "there is neither first nor last." He demanded, as the sole recompense of his services, to be sent to join his old brothers-in-arms, to fight once more with them, not as thefirst, but as theoldest, soldier of the Republic.
His death was like his life, glorious; for he fell on the field of battle at Neubourg, in 1800, mourned by the whole army, who devoted a day's pay to the purchase of an urn to preserve his heart, for a niche in the Pantheon.
Another distinction, not less touching, was accorded to his memory by the regiment in which he served. The sergeant, in calling his names in the muster of his company, always called Latour d'Auvergne, and the corporal answered—"Mort au champ d'honneur." If the history of this hero excited the warm admiration of those opposed to him in arms, the effect of its representation on his compatriots may be more easily imagined than described. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm it excited in their minds. Men, women, and children, seemed electrified by it.
There is a chord in the hearts of the French that responds instantaneously, and with vivid emotion, to any appeal made to their national glory; and this susceptibility constitutes the germ so easily fructified by those who know how to cultivate it.
Enthusiasm, if it sometimes leads to error, or commits its votaries into the ridiculous, also prompts and accomplishes the most glorious achievements; and it is impossible not to feel a sympathy with its unsophisticated demonstrations thus evinceden masse. Civilization, more than aught else, tends to discourage enthusiasm; and where it is pushed to the utmost degree of perfection, there will this prompter of great deeds, this darer of impossibilities and instigator of heroic actions, be most rarely found.
Drove yesterday to see the villa of the Duchesse de Montmorency, which is to be let. The grounds are very pretty, and a portion of them opens by iron rails to the Bois de Boulogne, which is a great advantage. But neither the villa nor the grounds are to be compared to the beautiful ones in the neighbourhood of London, where, as an old French gentleman once observed to me, "the trees seem to take a peculiar pride and pleasure in growing."
I have seen nothing to be compared with the tasteful villas on green velvet lawns sloping down to the limpid Thames, near Richmond, with umbrageous trees bending their leafy branches to the earth and water; or to the colonnaded mansions peeping forth from the well-wooded grounds of Roehampton and its vicinage.
I can remember as distinctly as if beheld yesterday, the various tempting residences that meet the eye in a morning drive, or in a row on the silvery Thames, compelling the violation of the tenth commandment, by looking so beautiful that one imagines how happily a life might glide away in such abodes, forgetful that in no earthly abode can existence be passed free from the cares meant to remind us that this is not our abiding-place.
Went to see Bagatelle yesterday with the Duchesse de G——. Here the Duc de Bordeaux and Mademoiselle, his sister, pass much of their time. It is a very pleasant villa, and contains many proofs of the taste and industry of these very interesting children, who are greatly beloved by those who have access to them. Various stories were related to us illustrative of their goodness of heart and considerate kindness for those around them; and, making all due allowance for the partiality of the narrators, they went far to prove that these scions of royalty are more amiable and unspoilt than are most children of their age, and of even far less elevated rank. "Born in sorrow, and nursed in tears," the Duc de Bordeaux's early infancy has not passed under bright auspices; and those are not wanting who prophesy that he may hereafter look back to the days passed at Bagatelle as the happiest of his life.
It requires little of the prescience of a soothsayer to make this prediction, when we reflect that the lives of even the most popular of those born to the dangerous inheritance of a crown must ever be more exposed to the cares that weigh so heavily, and the responsibility that presses so continually on them, than are those who, exempt from the splendour of sovereignty, escape also its toils. "Oh happy they, the happiest of their kind," who enjoy, in the peace and repose of a private station, a competency, good health, a love of, and power of indulging in, study; an unreproaching conscience, and a cheerful mind! With such blessings they may contemplate, without a feeling of envy, the more brilliant but less fortunate lots of those great ones of the earth, whose elevation but too often serves to render them the target at which Fortune loves aim her most envenomed darts.
Passed the greater part of the morning in the house in the Rue de Matignon, superintending the alterations and improvements to be carried into execution there. It has been found necessary to build an additional room, which the proprietor pledges himself can be ready for occupation in six weeks, and already have its walls reached nearly to their intended height. The builders seem to be as expeditious as the upholsterers at Paris, and adding a room or two to a mansion appears to be as easily accomplished as adding some extra furniture.
One is made to pay dearly, however, for this facility and expedition; for rents are extravagantly high at Paris, as are also the prices of furniture.
Already does the terrace begin to assume the appearance of a garden. Deep beds of earth inclosed in green cases line the sides, and an abundance of orange-trees, flowering shrubs, plants, and flowers, are placed in them.
At the end of the terrace, the wall which bounds it has been painted in fresco, with a view of Italian scenery; and this wall forms the back of an aviary, with a fountain that plays in the centre. A smaller aviary, constructed of glass, is erected on the end of the terrace, close to my library, from the window of which I can feed my favourite birds; and this aviary, as well as the library, is warmed by means of a stove beneath the latter. The terrace is covered by a lattice-work, formed into arched windows at the side next the court: over the sides and roof there are trailing parasitical plants. Nothing in the new residence pleases me so much as this suite, and the terrace attached to it.
Already do we begin to feel the unsettled state peculiar to an intended change of abode, and the prospect of entering a new one disturbs the sense of enjoyment of the old. Gladly would we remain where we are, for we prefer this hôtel to any other at Paris; but the days we have to sojourn in it are numbered, and our regret is unavailing.