Under the head of the True, I understand the infallible suggestions of the divine spirit in us; which restrains us from evil, generally, as from the wholly one-sided, inconsistent, and negative: and this requires no further explanation. By the False, I mean that which arises only from the Conventional; from custom, authority, from subtleties which have grown out of these foundations, and from overstrained anxiety;—in a word, from fear. Delicate, excitable natures, in whom the cerebral system predominates, in whom, therefore, the head and the fancy are more powerful and active than the heart: in whom the distributing intellect too easily breaks up and scatters the depth and intensity of the full feelings, are most subject to this kind of error. It is, however, so difficult to follow these subtle ramifications and secret counter-workings, that we often take that for a primary feeling, which is only the retro-action of a sophistical intellect.
Now, as right and wrong, applied to the individual actions of human life with all their various conditions and intricacies, must obviously be relative; nothing remains but that every man should, with the help of all the powers of his soul, make quite clear to himself, sincerely and faithfully lay down to himself, what he can reasonably regard as right and what as wrong; and having ascertained it, thenceforward tranquilly apply that standard; and not trouble himself further about his so-called conscience; that is, the inward uneasiness and uncertainty which disturb the mind under new and conflicting circumstances. These cannot possibly be avoided; since the distinctionswe have heard of right and wrong, reasonable and absurd, in our childhood and early youth, will ever exercise an irresistible influence.[41]
To give a few exemplifications.—A man of gentle temper, educated in the fear of God and the love of man, who becomes a soldier, the first time he has to take deliberate aim at human life will hardly do it without a strong pang of conscience. So, at least, it was with me. Nevertheless it is his duty; a duty which may be justified on higher, although worldly grounds; so long at least as mankind are not further advanced than they now are.
In like manner, he who after a long struggle forswears the religion of his fathers—the daily repeated lesson of his youth,—and embraces another on full conviction that it is better, will generally feel a slight, but difficultly subdued inquietude; and it is with that, just as it is with the most absurd fear of ghosts in those who have been educated in the belief of ghosts. They have aghost-conscience, which they cannot get rid of. Nay, even more; with irritable characters, the mere persuasion that others hold them guilty of an evil action will give them so much the feeling of an evil conscience, that it appears in all its usual outward signs—embarrassment, blushing, and turning pale.
This may be carried so far as to lead to insanity. For instance: A man universally believed to have killed another, or one who really, though quite innocently, has killed another, may never enjoy a moment’s tranquillity or happiness again. We even read of a Bramin, whose religious creed makes the murder of an insect as criminal as that of a man, who killed himself because an English ‘savant’ told him that he never drank a glass of water without destroying thousands of invisible creatures. ‘Il n’y a qu’un pas du sublime au ridicule.’
Ugoni, in his Life of one of the most conscientious of men, Passaroni, relates that as he was one day going over the bridge of the ‘Porta Orientale,’ he saw a man lying fast asleep on the broad stone parapet, whence, if suddenly waked, he would probably have fallen into the river. He seized him by the arm, with difficulty aroused him, and with still greater made him understand why he had waked him. The porter, in a passion, requited his trouble with a hearty curse, and bid him go to the devil. Passaroni, greatly mortified and grieved at being the innocent cause of the man’s wrath, pulled out a handful of coin, and gave it to him to drink the giver’s health. Thereupon he left him quite satisfied; but had scarcely reached the end of the bridge, when it struck him that his gift would probably produce even worse consequences than his waking of the man had done; for that it would very likely lead the poor fellow into the crime of drunkenness. He immediately hurried back in great anxiety, found the man fortunately at the same spot, where he had laid himself down again exactly in his old position, and begged him, with some embarrassment, to give him back so much of the money as he did not want for his most pressing necessities. But as the rage of the porter, who thought himself fooled, now boiled over more furiously than ever, Passaroni devised another expedient: “Here, my friend,” said he, “as you will not give me anything back, take another scudo, and promiseme solemnly, that if you spend all the rest of the money in drink, you will buy something with that scudo to eat with it.” Having received this promise from the ‘fachino,’ Passaroni’s conscience was at length at rest, and he went contentedly home.
We must, I repeat,—if we would not be either unhappy, or ridiculous, and like a reed shaken with every wind,—educateour consciences as well as all the other faculties of our souls: that is, while we preserve them in all their purity, prescribe to them due limits; for even the noblest are otherwise liable to deterioration and perversion. The simplest and most universally applicable and universally intelligible guide is the precept of Christ, “Do not unto others (nor, we might add, to yourselves) what ye would not that others do unto you.”
But as there exist, as yet, no true Christians, certain exceptions to this rule are, and, in the present state of society, must be, permitted, as for instance, the case of the soldier above cited; or that of a man who obeys the laws of honour, which in certain stations it is utterly impossible to brave. And then there remains no other solution of the difficulty, than to allow to others the same liberty of making exceptions that we find ourselves compelled to claim;—in this way we just manage to preserve charity, and, at all events, that justice which is called the ‘lex talionis.’
That man has a happy, an enviable existence, to whom nature and surrounding circumstances have made it easy or possible to walk constantly in a beaten track; to be, from youth upwards, kind and loving, moderate in his desires and pure in his actions. The first fault is pregnant with sorrow and evil; for, as our philosophical poet so truly says,
“Das eben ist der Fluch des BösenDass es fortwuchernd immer Böses muss gebahren!”
“Das eben ist der Fluch des BösenDass es fortwuchernd immer Böses muss gebahren!”
“Das eben ist der Fluch des BösenDass es fortwuchernd immer Böses muss gebahren!”
And regeneration in this life is not always to be attained. May it not, then, be the last and highest act of mercy of Eternal Love, to have appointed death as a means of wiping out the confused and blotted scrawl, and restoring the troubled, misguided, soul to the condition of a pure white sheet, ready for happier trials? For that upon which the Holy has already been written here, must far higher bliss be in store. All-loving Justice punishes not as weak man punishes; but it can reward only where reward is due,—where it follows as an inevitable consequence of the past.
January 21st.
It is become very cold again, and the fire-place, ‘wo Tag und Nacht die Kohle brennt,’ is unhappily quite insufficient to produce a warm room, such as our stoves—which, spite of their ugliness, I now think of as admirably efficient—procure us. To set my blood in motion I ride the more, and to-day, on my way home, saw one of the many Cosmorames exhibited here, which certainly affords a very agreeablechamber journey, as they call it in B——. The picture of the Coronation of Charles the Tenth in the Cathedral at Rheims, doubtless gave me a far more commodious view of it than I should have had in the crowded church. But what tasteless costume, from the King to the lowest courtier! New and old mixed in the most ludicrous and offensive manner! If people will perform such farces, the least they can do is to make them as pretty as those at Franconi’s. The ruins of Palmyra lay outstretched in solemn majesty in the boundless Desert, which a caravan in the distant horizon is slowly traversing under a torrid sun.
The most perfect illusion was the great fire at Edinburg:—it actually burned.You saw the flames stream upwards; then clouds of black smoke ascend; while the view of the whole landscape incessantly changed with the changes of this fearful light, just as in a real fire. Probably the proprietor’s kitchen was behind the picture, and the fire which heated the fancy of credulous spectators like myself, roasted the leg of mutton which our shillings paid for.
January 28th.
For some days I have vegetated too completely to have much to write to you about. This morning I was not a little surprised to see R——, whom I thought almost with you, enter my room. He had been shipwrecked on his way to Hamburg, and driven back by the storm to Harwich; had passed a whole night in imminent peril, and is so heartily frightened, that he will hear no more of the sea as long as he lives. I therefore send him by Calais, and only write that you may not be uneasy. He has unfortunately lost some of the things he took for you.
Hyde Park afforded a new spectacle this morning. The large lake was frozen, and swarmed with a gay and countless multitude of skaters and others, who enjoyed these wintry pleasures, so rare here, with true child-like delight. A few years ago, in weather like this, a strange wager was laid. The notorious Hunt deals in shoe-blacking: a large sort of wagon filled with it and drawn by four fine horses, which the young gentleman his son drives ‘four-in-hand,’ daily traverses the city in all directions. This young Hunt betted a hundred pounds that he would drive the equipage in question at full speed across the ‘Serpentine,’ and won his wager in brilliant style. A caricature immortalized this feat, and the sale of his blacking, as is reasonable, increased threefold.
My house is grown very musical, for Miss A——, a newly-engaged opera-singer, has come to live in it. The thin English walls give me the advantage of hearing her every morning gratis.
I have not been well for some days. The town air does not agree with me, and compels me to follow a ‘régime’ like that in your song:—
“un bouillond’un roguonde papillon.”
“un bouillond’un roguonde papillon.”
“un bouillond’un roguonde papillon.”
C—— Hall, Feb. 2d.
Lord D——, to whose wife I had been introduced in London, invited me to visit him for a few days at his country house. I accepted his invitation with more pleasure because C—— Hall is the place of which Repton says that he had laboured at its embellishment, together with its proprietor, forty years ago. Indeed it does him the greatest honour; though, from all I saw and heard, it appeared to me that the admirable taste of its Lord was entitled to the largest share of the merit; especially in sparing old trees which Repton would have removed. Nevertheless an honourable feeling of gratitude has dedicated an alcove, commanding a wonderfully beautiful prospect, to the man to whom landscape-gardening is so much indebted. Repton’s son, who was with us, had told Lady D—— a great deal about M——; and as she is almost as good a ‘parkomane’ as myself, we had a very attractive subject in common, and walked about for some hours in the flower-garden, which is still more tasteful than splendid, and is adorned with some graceful marble statues by Canova.
I did not see the master of the house, who was suffering from gout, till we came down to dinner, when I met a large company; amongst others Lord M——, who had just been to inspect the ships of war lying in the Thames.
Lord D—— was lying on a sofa, covered with a Scotch plaid, and embarrassed me a little by his first address.
“You don’t know me,” said he, “and yet we saw each other very often thirty years ago.” Now as I was in frocks at the time he spoke of, I was obliged to beg for a further explanation, though I cannot say I was much delighted at having my age so fully discussed before all the company,—for you know I claim not to look more than thirty. However, I could but admire Lord D——’s memory. He remembered every circumstance of his visit to my parents with the Duke of Portland, and recalled to me many a little forgotten incident. What originals were then to be found, and how joyously and heartily people entered into all sorts of amusement in those days, his conversation gave me new and very entertaining proof of.
He mentioned among others a certain Baron, who believed as firmly in ghosts as in the Gospel, and held Cagliostro for a sort of Messias. One day when he went out alone, to skate on the lake near our house, the whole party dressed themselves in sheets and other things borrowed from the wardrobe of the theatre, and presented to the eyes of the terrified Illuminatus the awful appearance of a party of ghosts, in broad daylight, on the ice. In mortal terror he fell on his knees, spite of his skates; and with a volubility which the venerable Lord could not think of, even now, without laughing, uttered “Abracadabra,” and bits of Faust’s incantations, interspersed with fragments of quavering psalms. During this, one of the ghosts, who, with the help of a long stick under his sheet, made himself sometimes tall and sometimes low, slipped and fell, stripped of all disguise, directly before the knees of the praying Baron. His faith was too robust, however, to be shaken by such a trifle. On the contrary, his terror was increased to such a pitch, that he sprang up, fell again, in consequence of his unlucky ‘chaussure,’ but soon scrambled up, and with a dexterity no one gave him credit for before, vanished like the wind, amid the cheers of the whole company.
Even the confession of the whole joke by the actors in it never could convince him that he had been hoaxed, and no power on earth could ever induce him to see the frightful lake again as long as he remained at M——.
You know I cannot avoid the reflections which often fill me with melancholy even on the most joyous occasions. So was it with me now, as Lord D—— thus conjured up before me the picture of departed times;—as he eulogized my grandfather’s amiable character, described my mother’s high spirit, and what a wild child I was: ‘Hélas, ils sont passés ces jours de fête.’ The amiable man has long lain mouldering in his grave; the high-spirited young woman is old, and no longer high-spirited; and even the wild boy is more than tamed—nay, not very far from those days in which he will say, “I have no pleasure in them:” the mad-cap young Englishman who played the ghost on the ice, lay before me, an old man, tortured with gout, stretched helpless on a sofa,—the tale of the merry pranks of his youth interrupted by sighs extorted by pain; while the poor fool whom he so terrified as ghost has long been a ghost himself, and the good Lord would be not a little alarmed if his visit happened to be returned. “Oh world, world!” as Napoleon said.[42]
February 3d:—Evening.
Lord D—— possesses a fine collection of pictures, among which are Titian’s celebrated Venus; the death of Regulus, by Salvator Rosa; a large picture of Rubens, which has frequently been engraved; and a very fine Guido. In the two latter indeed, a not very agreeable subject, a lifeless head, is the principal object; in the one that of Cyrus, in the other that of John the Baptist. But Guido’s Herodias is another of those figures instinct with the genius of poetical, divine beauty, uniting the most lovely womanliness with the deepest tragic expression, which leave so indelible an impression, and are so seldom found in reality. There is a lady of your acquaintance who corresponds with this ideal, Countess A—— of B——. She was, when I knew her,[43]the most beautiful and richly dressed woman I ever beheld. Perfect symmetry, absolute harmony, reigned in her person and in her mind; so that the most heterogeneous things equally became her. Majestic as a queen, when she was ‘en representation;’ distinguished by the most easy and graceful manners, the most exquisite knowledge of the world, when doing the honours of her own house; and by the most ‘naïve,’ touching kindness and sweetness in the circle of her family;—but under every aspect rendered more interesting and impressive by a trace of thoughtful melancholy never wholly effaced, allied to that perfect feminine tenderness which gives to woman the highest and most resistless charm in the eyes of men;—her resemblance to this picture of Guido’s was striking. Two very pretty attendants of Herodias are in admirable contrast with the main figure. They are perfect ladies-in-waiting, who have no soul for anything beyond their court and their service; and their beauty receives from its very unmeaningness a certain rather animal character, which we can contemplate with an agreeable carelessness—a sort of repose to the mind after the profound and thrilling impression made by the main figure. The one is watching the glance of her mistress with an unmeaning smile; the other looks at the head of the Martyr in the charger with the same indifference as if it were ‘a pudding.’
I must describe to you, once for all, the ‘vie de château’ in England; of course only the common canvas, on which the Special is in every case embroidered by each man according to his fancy. The groundwork is in all the same, nor did I find it at all altered from what I formerly saw here. It forms, without any question, the most agreeable side of English life; for there is great freedom, and a banishment of most of the wearisome ceremonies which, with us, tire both host and guest. Notwithstanding this, one finds not less luxury than in the town; this is rendered less burthensome by the custom I mentioned of receiving guests only during a short period of the year, and on invitation.
The ostentation which, doubtless, lies at the root of such customs, we may well forgive, for the better reception it procures us.
Strangers have generally only one room allotted to them, usually a spacious apartment on the first floor. Englishmen seldom go into this room except to sleep, and to dress twice a-day, which, even without company and in the most strictly domestic circle, is always ‘de riguer;’ for all meals arecommonly taken in company, and any one who wants to write does it in the library. There, also, those who wish to converse give each other ‘rendezvous,’ to avoid either the whole society, or particular parties, in the formation of which people are quite at liberty. Here you have an opportunity of gossiping for hours with the young ladies, who are always very literarily inclined. Many a marriage is thus concocted or destroyed, between the ‘corpus juris’ on the one side and Bouffler’s Works on the other, while fashionable novels, as a sort of intermediate link, lie on the tables in the middle.
Ten or eleven is the hour for breakfast, at which you may appear in ‘negligée.’ It is always of the same kind as that I described to you in the inn, only of course more elegant and complete. The ladies do the honours of the table very agreeably. If you come down later, when the breakfast is removed, a servant brings you what you want. In many houses he is on the watch till one o’clock, or even later, to see that stragglers do not starve. That half-a-dozen newspapers must lie on the table for every one to read who likes, is, of course, understood. The men now either go out hunting or shooting, or on business; the host does the same, without troubling himself in the least degree about his guests (the truest kindness and good breeding;) and about half an hour before dinner the company meet again in the drawing-room in elegant toilette.
The course and order of dinner I have already described to you.
* * * * * * *
England is the true land of contrasts—‘du haut et du bas’ at every step. Thus, even in elegant houses in the country, coachmen and grooms wait at dinner, and are not always free from the odour of the stable. At the second breakfast, the ‘luncheon,’ which is served a few hours after the first, and is generally eaten only by the women (who like to make ‘la petite bouche’ at dinner,) there are no napkins, and altogether less neatness and elegance than at the other meals.
This as parenthesis:—I now return to the ‘order of the day.’ When the men have drunk as much as they wish, they go in search of tea, coffee, and the ladies, and remain for some hours with them, though without mixing much. To-day, for instance, I observed the company was distributed in the following manner. Our suffering host lay on the sofa, dosing a little; five ladies and gentlemen were very attentively reading in various sorts of books (of this number I was one, having some views of parks before me;) another had been playing for a quarter of an hour with a long-suffering dog; two old Members of Parliament were disputing vehemently about the ‘Corn Bill;’ and the rest of the company were in a dimly-lighted room adjoining, where a pretty girl was playing on the piano-forte, and another, with a most perforating voice, singing ballads.
I cannot help remarking here, that Lord and Lady D—— are among the most enlightened, unpretending, and therefore most agreeable, of the people of rank here. He is of the moderate Opposition, and desires the real good of his country, and nothing else; a patriot wholly devoid of egotism,—the noblest title that a cultivated man can bear. She is goodness, cordiality, and unpretendingness itself.
A light supper of cold meats and fruits is brought, at which every one helps himself, and shortly after midnight all retire. A number of small candlesticks stand ready on a side-table; every man takes his own, and lights himself up to bed; for the greater part of the servants, who have to rise early, are, as is fair and reasonable, gone to bed. The eternal sitting ofservants in an ante-room is not the custom here; and except at appointed times, when their services are expected, they are little seen, and one waits on oneself.
At night I found a most excellent chintz bed with a canopy. It was so enormously large that I lay like an icicle in it,—for the distant fire was too remote to give any sensible warmth.
February 5th.
Between ourselves be it said, however agreeable, however unconstrained may be one’s abode in another’s house, it is always too constrained, too unaccustomed, above all too dependent for me, proud and fond of ease as I am, ever to feel perfectly at home. This I can be nowhere but within my own walls, and, next to that, in a travelling carriage or an inn. This may not be the best taste in the world, but it is mine. There are so many men who have no taste of their own, at all, that I am delighted with myself for having one, though it be not of the best. I shall therefore not exhaust the term of my invitation, but evacuate my large bed to-morrow, and proceed to Brighton, a watering-place now in great fashion.
I have ridden all over the park here, in company with Lord D——’s very kind and polite son. It is less remarkable for features of striking beauty, than for the absence of all defect. Some views through wooded valleys, of the distant Thames, the town of Gravesend and its rising masts, have however a grand character; but nothing can exceed the incomparable skill with which the walls of wood within the park are planted, in masterly imitation of nature. As a study, I should recommend Cobham, in some respects, more than any of the parks I have described; though in extent and costliness it is surpassed by many. It is very modest, but to the admirer of nature its character is only the more delightful and satisfactory. It has also a great variety of hill, valley, and wood.
I took leave of Lady D—— in her own room; a little sanctuary, furnished with delightful disorder and profusion:—the walls full of small ‘consoles,’ surmounted with mirrors and crowded with choice curiosities; and the floor covered with splendid camellias, in baskets, looking as if they grew there.
Among these flowers, dear Julia, I take my leave of you. I entreat you to send me an answer of equal length, that your conscience may not reproach you with loving me less than I love you.
Your hearty Friend, L——.
Brighton, Feb. 7th, 1827.
Beloved,
I travelled these sixty miles yesterday with great rapidity, and in the most charming state of indolence, without even the exertion of looking up;—for one must once in a while travel like a fashionable Englishman.
It seems that here is a better atmosphere than in any other part of the land of fog; the bright sunshine waked me this morning as early as nine o’clock.
I soon went out;—first on the Marine Parade, which stretches to a considerable extent along the sea; then made a tour through the large, clean, and very cheerful town, which with its broad streets is like the newest partsof London; and concluded with visits to several London acquaintances. I then rode out, for I had sent my horses here before me. Vainly did I look around for a tree. The country is perfectly naked: nothing is to be seen but hilly downs covered with short turf; and sea and sky are the only picturesque objects:—even this first day of my visit they greeted me with the most beautiful sunset. The majestic orb was veiled in a rosy transparent mist, so that it darted forth no rays, but was like a ball of massive gold, glowing with the most fervid heat: as it touched the water, it appeared slowly to dissolve, and to spread itself over the surface of the blue deep. At length Ocean swallowed the fiery globe; the burning hues faded from red to violet, then gradually to whitish gray, and at length the waves driven by the evening wind, dashed murmuring on the shore in the dim twilight, as if in triumph over the buried sun.
A distinguished old Minister enjoyed this noble spectacle with me, and was fully alive to its beauty. Lord Harrowby is an amiable man, of mild refined manners, and of great experience of the world and of business.
February 8th.
Public rooms, lists of visitors (Badelisten), &c., do not exist here. Brighton has only the name of a bathing-place in our sense of the word, and is chiefly resorted to by the inhabitants of London for recreation and pure air. People who have no country-house, or who find London too expensive, spend the winter, which is the fashionable season, here. The King was formerly very fond of Brighton, and built a strange Oriental Palace, which seen from the adjoining heights, with its cupolas and minarets, looks exactly like the pieces on a chess-board. The interior is splendidly though fantastically furnished. Although it has cost enormous sums, its possessor, long sick of it, is said to have shown a desire to pull it down, which indeed would be no great subject of lamentation.
The only large trees I have seen in the neighbourhood are in the gardens of this Palace. But the walks by the sea are so ageeable that one does very well without; especially the large Chain Pier, which extends a thousand feet into the sea, and from whose extremity the steam-vessels sail for Dieppe and Boulogne.
Not far from thence an Indian has established Oriental baths, where people are shampooed after the Turkish fashion, which is said to be very healthful and invigorating, and is in great favour with the fashionable world. I found the interior arrangements very European. The treatment is like that in the Russian vapour-baths, only I think not so good. I cannot help thinking the sudden cold after such profuse perspiration very dangerous.
I thought the method of drying linen more worth imitating. It is laid in a sort of wardrobe lined with tin, and kept at an equal heat by means of steam.
February 9th.
The sun has disappeared again, and the cold has returned with such force that I am writing to you in gloves—for the better preservation of my white hands, to which I, like Lord Byron, attach great importance. I honestly confess I don’t see that a man is ‘un fat’ merely for trying to preserve the little beauty God has given him; at all events chapped hands are a horror to me and always were.—Talking of this, I remember that I was once in the boudoir of a very beautiful woman in Strasburg,where I met Field-marshal W—— (then only General), who in eulogizing Napoleon laid a peculiar stress on his temperance, adding in a contemptuous tone, “A hero could not be a ‘gourmand.’” Now the fair lady, who was otherwise a very kind friend of mine, knew me to be not quite insensible to ‘bonne chére,’ to gratify her malicious pleasure in teasing me, made the General repeat his observation. Though I never set up for a hero, (except in a little romance or two, here and there,) I felt that I blushed; one of those stupidities of which I never could break myself, even on many occasions where there was no ground for it. Provoked at myself, I said with some pique, “It is fortunate for the lovers of a good table, General, that there are a few brilliant exceptions to your rule. Remember Alexander:—it is true that a too luxurious feast led him into the burning of Persepolis;—but I think you will allow him to have been a hero for all that: and ‘gourmandise’ did not prevent Frederick the Great from acquiring immortal renown, both as a warrior and ruler.—You, General, who have fought with the French with so much glory, should not attack a good ‘cuisine;’ for that nation, however, distinguished be her generals, will obtain a wider and perhaps more lasting fame from her cooks.” This last sentence was doubtless inspired by a prophetic spirit; and how would the enthusiastic eulogist of Napoleon have wondered, had I told him that in a little while he would stand opposed to the great ‘non-gourmond’ himself, and would receive one of the last effectual ‘coups de griffes’ of the sick lion.
You think, I dare say, dear Julia, that this anecdote is as much in place here as one of our friend H——’s ‘a-propos.’ But you are mistaken. I now go to adduce Alcibiades and Poniatowsky, as examples of men distinguished for attention to dress and to their persons; thus proving from experience that neither sensibility to good cheer, nor a little ‘fatuité,’ are any obstacles to heroism, if other qualities be not wanting.
A visit from Count F——, one of the most agreeable and respectable representatives of Napoleon’s time, who carried into the Imperial Court ‘les souvenirs de l’ancien regime,’ and into the present one the reputation of spotless integrity and fidelity, (a most rare instance!)—here interrupted me. He came to invite me to dinner to-morrow. This has detained me:—it is too late to ride; I am not in the humour to seek Club society: I shall put on a second dressing-gown, dream about you and M——, read over your letters, and patiently freeze in my room,—for more than eight degrees of heat I find it impossible to procure by means of an open fire in my airy and many-windowed room.—’Au revoir,’ then.
February 10th.
It was fair that I should indemnify myself to-day for my confinement to my room, so I wandered about in the neighbourhood for many hours. I enjoyed my freedom the more, as I was to execute myself in the evening at a great subscription ball.
The country all around is certainly very remarkable; for in a four hours ride I did not see a single full-grown tree. Yet the numerous hills, the large town in the distance, several smaller ones scattered about, the sea and ships—all under rapidly changing lights, sufficiently diversified the landscape; and even the contrast with the generally well-wooded character of England was not without its charms. The sun at length retired to rest incognito, the sky cleared, and the moon rose cloudless and brilliant over the waters. I now turned my horse’s head from the hills down to the sea, and rode five or six miles, about the distance to Brighton, hard on the edge of the waves along the sandy shore. The tide was coming in, and my horsesometimes shyed when a wave, crowned with snowy foam, rolled under his feet and quickly retreated as if in sport.
I love nothing better than to ride alone by moonlight on the wide shore,—alone with the plashing and roaring and murmuring of the waves;—so near to the mysterious deep, that my horse can only be kept within reach of its rolling waters by force, and as soon as his rein is loosened darts away with redoubled speed towards the firm land.
How different from this poetical scene was the prosaic ball!—which moreover so little answered my expectations that I was perfectly astonished. A narrow staircase led directly into the ball-room, which was ill-lighted and miserably furnished, and surrounded with worsted cords to divide the dancers from the spectators. An orchestra for the musicians was hung with ill-washed white draperies, which looked like sheets hung out to dry. Imagine a second room near it, with benches along the walls, and a large tea-table in the middle; in both rooms the numerous company raven black from head to foot, gloves inclusive; a melancholy style of dancing, without the least trace of vivacity or joyousness; so that the only feeling you have is that of compassion for the useless fatigue the poor people are enduring;—and now you have a true idea of the Brighton Almack’s, for so these very fashionable balls are called. The whole establishment is droll enough. Almack’s balls in London are the resort of people of the highest rank during the season, which lasts from April to June; and five or six of the most intensely fashionable ladies (Princess L—— among the number), who are called Patronesses, distribute the tickets. It is an immense favour to obtain one; and, for people who do not belong to the very highest or most modish world, very difficult. Intrigues are set on foot months beforehand, and the Lady-patronesses flattered in the meanest and most servile manner, to secure so important an advantage; for those who have never been seen at Almack’s are regarded as utterly unfashionable—I might almost say disreputable; and the would-be-fashionable English world naturally holds this to be the greatest of all possible calamities. So true is this, that a novel was lately written on this subject, which contains a very fair delineation of London society, and has gone through three editions. On nearer observation, however, one sees that it betrays more of the ante-chamber than of the ‘salon,’—that the author is one, as the Abbé de Voisenon said, ‘qui a écouté aux portes.’
How admirably well-informed the English are concerning foreigners is seen in a passage in this novel, in which the wife of a foreign ambassador, born however in England, is extremely facetious on the ignorant Londoners who assigned a higher rank to a German Prince than to her husband the Baron, whose title was far nobler. “But the word Prince,” adds she, “whose nullity is well known to everybody on the Continent, dazzled my stupid countrymen.” ‘C’est bien vrai,’ says a Frenchman, ‘un Duc cirait mes bottes à Naples, et à Petersbourg un Prince Russe me rasait tous les matins.’ As the English generally mis-spell and mis-quote foreign words and phrases, I strongly suspect that a slight mistake has crept in here, and that it ought to be printed, “un Prince Russe merossaittous les matins.”[44]
You may partly conceive the burlesque effect such a fashionable novel produces on people in the middling society of London, who are continually groping in the dark after ‘le bel air,’ are consequently in perpetual terror and agony, lest they should betray their acquaintance with the great world, and thus generally make themselves exquisitely ludicrous. I had a very amusing example of this a few weeks before the publication of the book in question.
I was invited, with several other foreigners, to dine with a very rich * * *
* * * * * * *
Among them was a German Prince, who had visited at the house before, and, luckily for the farce, a German Baron also. When dinner was announced, the Prince advanced, as usual, to the lady of the house to hand her out, and was not a little amazed when she turned her back upon him with a slight curtesy, and took the arm of the most agreeably-surprised Baron. A laugh, which I really found it impossible to suppress, almost offended the good Prince, who could not explain to himself the extraordinary behaviour of our hostess; but, as I instantly guessed the cause, I soon helped him out of his wonderment.
Regardless of rank, he now took the prettiest woman of the party; while I, for my part, made haste to secure ——, that I might be sure of an amusing conversation during dinner. The soup was hardly removed, when I expressed to her as politely as I could, how much her nice tact and exact knowledge of the usages of even foreign society had surprised me. “Ah,” replied she, “when one has been —— so long, one becomes thoroughly acquainted with the world.” “Certainly,” replied I, “especially in ——, where you have all that sort of thing in black and white.” “You see,” said she, speaking rather low, “we know well enough that ‘a foreign Prince’ is nothing very great, but to a Baron we give the honour due.” “Admirably distinguished!” exclaimed I; “but in Italy you must be on your guard, for there ‘barone’ means a rascal.” “Is it possible?” said she; “what a strange title!” “Yes, madam, titles on the Continent are mysterious things; and were you the Sphinx herself, you would never fathom the enigma.” “May I help you to some fish?” said she. “With great pleasure,” answered I, and found the turbot, even without a title, excellent.
But, to return to Almack’s:—The oddest thing is, that one of these tickets, for which many English men and women struggle and strive, as if for life and death, are, after all, to be paid for with the sum of ten shillings; for Almack’s are neither more nor less than balls for money. ‘Quelle folie que le mode!’ We are sometimes forced to conclude that our planet is the mad-house of the solar system.
In Brighton we find the copy of London in little. The present Lady-patronesses are * * * When I entered, I saw no one of my acquaintance, and therefore addressedmyself to a gentleman near me to show me the Marchioness of ——, from whom I had received my ticket, through the ‘entremise’ of Countess F——. I was obliged to present myself to her, to return my thanks; and found her a very kind, amiable, domestic woman, who had never quitted England. She introduced me to her daughters, and also to a certain Lady——, who spoke very good German. That is the fashion now, and the young ladies labour hard to accomplish it.
I afterwards found a gentleman of my acquaintance who introduced me to several very pretty young ladies, among whom Miss W——, a niece of Lord C——, was peculiarly distinguished. She was brought up in Germany, and is more German than English,—of course an advantage in my eyes. She was by far the prettiest and most graceful girl in the room, so that I was almost tempted to dance once more; though from vanity (for I always danced badly) I renounced that so-called pleasure years ago. I might safely enough have attempted it here, for God knows, nowhere do people jump about more awkwardly; and a man who waltzes in time is a real curiosity. But it seems to me too ludicrous, to join the worshippers of the tarantula so far on my way towards forty. ‘Il est vrai que la fortune m’a souvent envoyé promener, mais danser—c’est trop fort!’
I was told that the chief of a Highland clan, with a name as long as a Spaniard’s,—a descendant of some island king, and proud as Holofernes of a thousand years of noble ancestry,—wished to make my acquaintance. I had reason to congratulate myself on making his; for I found him a living model of one of Walter Scott’s pictures. A genuine Highland Scot, hanging with body and soul on ancestry and ancient customs, having great contempt for the English, full of fire, good-natured, loyal-hearted, and brave; but childishly vain, and, on that side, as easy to wound as to win. I very gladly took refuge from the tedium of the crowd in conversation with a man of so original a character. I sat down by him on a bench in the tea-room, and got him to tell me of all the glories of his ancient heritage, all the battles of his forefathers, and his own travels and adventures. The worthy man described to me at great length his Highland dress, to which he evidently attached immense importance; and told me a long history of the effect his appearance in it had produced on the Court of Berlin. There was doubtless enough to excite a smile in his account of the astonishment of the King and Queen, and of the signal attentions his striking dress commanded; yet there was a fire and a simplicity in his manner of relating the triumphs of his national costume, that touched me extremely.
February 11th.
This morning I went to church, with a full intention of being pious; but it did not succeed. Everything was too cold, dry, and unæsthetic. I am an advocate for a more imaginative worship, though it be addressed rather more to the senses. If we did but follow Nature, we should find her the best instructress in religion, as in other things. Is it not by her most magnificent and sublime spectacles that she awakens our hearts to emotions of piety? by the painting of her sunsets, by the music of the rolling deep, by the forms of her mountains and her rocks? Be not wiser, my brethren, than him who created all these wonders, and formed the human heart to feel them; but imitate him, according to the measure of your feeble powers.
But on this matter I should preach to deaf ears, except to yours, dear Julia; they have long listened, with me, to the heavenly song of thespheres, which ceaselessly resounds in the eternal, beautiful creation, if men did not stop their ears with the cotton of positive dogmas and traditions, through which they cannot hear it.[45]
The sermon too which I heard, though prepared beforehand, and read, was stony and unprofitable. Preachers would do much more good if they would lay aside the old mechanical custom of taking texts only out of the Bible, and take them from local life and circumstances, and from human society as it now exists; if they would rather seek to foster the in-dwelling poetical religion, than the mere spirit of dogma; if they would treat morality not only as the Commanded, but as the Beautiful and the Useful,—the Necessary, indeed, to the happiness of the individual, and of society. If more pains were taken toinstructthe working-man from the pulpit,—to form him tothinkinstead of tobelieve,—crime would soon become less frequent; he would begin to feel a real interest in what he heard,—a positive want of the church and of the sermon, for his own guidance and information: whereas he now attends them mechanically and without reflection, or from some motives equally unprofitable. The laws of the land, too, and not the Ten Commandments alone, should be declared and expounded to the people from the pulpit;—they should be made perfectly conversant with them, and with the grounds of them; for, to use the words of Christ, how many sin without knowing what they do![46]
The best practical receipt for a universal morality is, without doubt, to ask oneself whether an action, or course of action,if adopted by every man, would be useful or injurious to society. In the first case, it is of course good,—in the second, bad. Had Governments, and those upon whom devolves the sacred and neglected duty of instructing the people, habituated them to the constant application of this test or measure of conduct, and then demonstrated to them, directly, ‘ad oculos,’ the inevitable, ultimate reaction of evil conducton themselves, they would, in the course of a few years, have improved not only the morality of the country, but its physical condition and commercial prosperity; whereas the ordinary priestly wisdom, which sets faith, authority, and dogma above everything, has left mankind in the same state for centuries,—if indeed it have not made them worse.
It would, perhaps, do no harm occasionally to choose teachers who have been converted to virtue by experience of the evil consequences of vice (as, for instance, the late Werner,) and who are therefore best informed on the subject. Not only is there more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteththan over ninety-and-nine just men, but such a man is more firm in his convictions and perceptions, and generally more zealous in reclaiming others, as the examples of many holy men prove.
Above all, in every well-organized society all clergymen, be they of what persuasion they may, must, in my opinion, be paid by fixed salary, and not be permitted to take money for every separate consolation of real, or ceremony of conventional, religion;—a meanness which necessarily destroys all true reverence for the priest, and which must degrade him in his own eyes, if he have any delicacy. It is really dreadful to see the poor man stick his twogroschenbehind the altar for the holy elements he has just received; or crowd a fee into the reverend gentleman’s hand when his child is christened, just as if he were giving him a shilling to drink. But when we hear the parson storm and scold from the pulpit, because his offerings and tithes decrease; when we hear him announce such a falling-off in his revenues as a proof of the decline of religion; then, indeed, we feel distinctly why there are so many parsons, and what they themselves regard as their true and proper vocation. Soldiers naturally love war, and in like manner priests love religion,—for their own advantage. But patriots love war only as a means of obtaining freedom; and philosophers, religion only for its beauty and its truth.
That is the difference.—But, as the author of the Zillah so truly says, “Establishments endure longer than opinions; the church outlasts the faith which founded it; and if a priesthood has once succeeded in interweaving itself with the institutions of the country, it may continue to subsist and to flourish long after its forms of worship is regarded with aversion and contempt.”
The afternoon was more satisfactory.—I climbed the hills around the town, and at last crept up to the top of a windmill in order to see the whole panorama of Brighton. The wind turned the sails of the mill with such force that the whole building rocked like a ship. The miller’s lad, who had shown me the way up, went to a flourbin and took out a telescope. Spite of its soft bed, it was unhappily broken. I was however well satisfied with the general view, enlivened as it was by hundreds of fishing-boats which seemed struggling with the storm, and hastened back with the sinking sun to my social duties.
The party at Count F——’s was small but interesting; it was rendered so in the first place by the host himself; then by a lady celebrated for her beauty; and lastly, by a former well-known leader of ‘ton’ in Paris. In his youth he played a considerable part there, and was at the same time constantly implicated in political affairs. He now passes a great part of the year in England, probably still not without political views. He is one of that sort of men, daily becoming more rare, who live in great style, one knows not how; contrive to acquire a sort of authority everywhere, one knows not why; and under whom one always expects to find something mysterious, one knows not wherefore. —— is very agreeable, at least when he chooses: he narrates admirably, and has forgotten nothing of his eventful life which can give zest to his conversation. For adventurers of this high order, whose consummate knowledge of the world affords continual matter for admiration, (though generally employed only to make dupes,) the French character is better suited than any other. Their agreeableness in society smooths their way; and their not over warm hearts and œconomical understandings, (if I may use the expression,) admirably enable them to keep all the ground they have won, and to maintain a firm footing on it for ever.
The clever man of whom I am now speaking plays also very agreeably;and jestingly declares, like Fox, that after the pleasure of winning, he knows no greater than that of losing.
We talked a great deal about Napoleon, of whom our host, like all who lived long in immediate intercourse with him, could not speak without veneration. He mentioned a circumstance which struck me. The Emperor, he said, was so incredibly exhausted by the violent excitement of the Hundred Days and the events that succeeded them, that on his retreat from Waterloo, in the early part of which he was protected by a batallion of his ‘Garde,’ he proceeded very slowly, and without any precipitation (quite contrary to our version of the affair.) Two or three times he fell asleep on his horse; and would have fallen off, had not Count F—— himself held him on. But the Count declared that, except by this complete corporeal exhaustion, he never exhibited the slightest mark of internal agitation.
February 14th.
My original friend, the Scot—who, I am told, has killed two or three men in duels—visited me this morning, and brought me his genealogy, printed, with the whole history of his race or ‘clan.’ He complained bitterly that another man of his name contested the rank of chieftain with him; and took great pains to prove to me, from the work he had brought, that he was the true one: he added, that “the judgment of Heaven between them would be the best way of deciding their respective claims.” He then called my attention to his arms, of the origin of which he related a curious history,
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
It was, like most of these traditions, poetical enough, and a striking picture of those rude but vigorous ages. I did not fail to relate to him a ‘pendant’ to his story, from the Nibelungenlied, concerning my own ancestors;—probably both were equally true. We parted over the ghosts of our forefathers, the best friends in the world.
There are now private balls every evening: and in rooms to which a respectable German citizen would not venture to invite twelve people, some hundreds are here packed like negro slaves. It is even worse than in London; and the space allotted to the quadrilles allows only the mathematical possibility of making something like dancing demonstrations. A ball without this crowd would be despised; and a visitor of any fashion who found the staircase empty, would probably drive away from the door. This strange taste reminded me of one of Potier’s characters, a ‘ci-devant jeune homme’ who orders a pair of pantaloons of his tailor which are to be ‘extraordinairement collant:’ as the ‘artiste’ is going away he calls after him, “Entendez vous?—extraordinairement collant; si j’y entre, je ne le prends pas.” In like manner an English dandy would say of a rout, “Si j’y entre, je n’y vais pas.”
When you are once in, however, I must confess that nowhere do you see a greater number of pretty girls, against whom you are squeezed ‘bongré malgré,’ than here. Some of them have been educated for a year or two in France, and are distinguished for a better ‘tournure’ and style of dress; many of them speak German. A man may have as many invitations to ‘soirées’ of this sort as he likes; but he may go away as perfect a stranger as if he had been uninvited; for if he does not stay long, he does not so much as see the hostess, and certainly she does not know half the people present. At one o’clock a very ‘recherché’ cold supper is served, with ‘force champagne.’ The supper-room is usually on the ground-floor, and the table of course cannot contain above twenty persons at a time, so that the company go down in troops, and meet, pushing and elbowing, on the narrow staircase.If you succeed in getting a seat, you may rest a little; and many avail themselves of this privilege with small regard to their successors: little attention is paid to giving place to the ladies. On the other hand, the servants are very active in continually replacing the dishes and bottles, as fast as they are emptied, on the side of the table to which the guests have no access.
In order to see the whole of the thing, I stayed till four in the morning in one of the best houses, and found the end of the fête, after three-fourths of the company were gone, the most agreeable; the more so as the daughters of the house were remarkably pretty amiable girls. There were some famous originals, however, at the ball; among others, a fat lady of at least fifty-five, dressed in black velvet with white trimmings, and a turban with floating ostrich feathers, who waltzed like a Bacchante whenever she could find room. Her very pretty daughters tried in vain to rival their mamma. My curiosity being excited by such a display of Herculean vigour and pertinacity, I found the lady’s large fortune had been made by speculations in cattle. The music in most of these balls was extremely meagre and bad. The musicians, however, contrive to produce such a noise with such instruments as they have, that you cannot hear yourself speak near them.
February 16th.
I read yesterday that “strong passions are increased by distance.” Mine for you must be very strong then—though indeed tender friendship is ever the surest of any—for I love you better than ever:—but this is intelligible enough. If we truly love a person, we have, when absent from him, only his good and agreeable qualities before our eyes; the unpleasant little defects which exist in every man, and which, however trifling they may be, annoy us when present, vanish from our recollection,—and thus love naturally increases in absence. And you—what do you think on this subject? How many more faults have you to cover with the mantle of Christian love in me!
I am going to London to-morrow, expressly to deliver this letter to our ambassador with my own hands, since the last was delayed so long. Probably it fell into the hands of the curious, for we shall not soon get rid of the ‘infamie’ of opening letters. In two days I shall return, and shall be happy enough to miss three or four balls in the interval.—I took a long walk this morning, and this time not entirely alone, but with one of the many agreeable girls I have met with here. When young unmarried women are once ‘lancées’ in the world, they enjoy more rational freedom in England than in any other country in Europe. The young lady ‘quæstionis’ was just seventeen, and polished in Paris.
On my return home I found, to my no small astonishment, a letter from the luckless R——, who has been again driven back to Harwich, and despairingly implores money and help. Contrary to my desire, as I now learn for the first time, he did not go by Calais. These wanderings of the Garden-Odysseus are as ludicrous as they are disagreeable, and you will doubtless think the adventurer ‘malgré lui’ is eaten by the fishes, till you have ocular proof of the contrary. I recollect that twelve years ago, about this same season, I was going to embark for Hamburg, from which I was fortunately dissuaded by my old French valet. He said, with rather an odd turn of expression; “Dans ces tems ci, il y a toujoursquelques équinoxesdangéreuses, qui peuvent devenir funestes.” He was right; the vessel was wrecked, and several lives lost.
London, Feb. 18th.
Honour to Mr. Temple!—Your letter, which he forwarded, reached mein ten days, while those which come through our diplomacy are three weeks on the road. Give him my best thanks. I laughed heartily at the news H—— sends me so humourously. The littleCriminal-rath(‘conseiller criminel’) whom the jester calls ‘le Rat criminel’; the ‘Renvoyé extraordinaire,’ and the ‘Diplomate à la fourchette,’ are admirably painted; so is The Fortunate house-court-state-and body-servant. Don’t wonder at his success: it is indisputable that there is a sort of narrowness which almost always succeeds in the world; and a character of mind which never succeeds. Mine is of this latter sort—a fantastic picture-making mind, that fashions its own dream-world anew every day, and thence remains for ever a stranger in the actual world. You tell me that if Fortune had offered herself to me, I should have slighted her, or at most, playfully taken her by the finger, instead of clutching her earnestly;—that I never valued the present till it stood as a picture in the far distance;—that then indeed it was often a picture of repentance and regret; the future, a picture of longing and aspiration; the present, never anything but a misty spot. ‘A merveille.’ You say all this most charmingly; and I must acknowledge that nobody understands better how to moralize impressively than you.—If it were but of any use to me! But tell me,—if you could convince the lame man that it were far better for him not to be lame;—as soon as the poor wretch tries to set one foot before the other, does he limp the less? ‘Naturam expellas furca,’ &c. Vainly do you desire your stomach to digest better, your wit to be sharper, your reason to be more efficient:—things go on in their old train, with a few modifications.
The decisions of the Ministers on the S—— affair, which you communicate to me, also remain after the old sort, in spite of the extreme politeness of those gentlemen. Is it not strange, however, that our inferior functionaries distinguish themselves as much by their ‘tracasseries,’ and by their ill-bred, and I might say contemptuous style, as the higher do (with a single exception) by their care in using none but the most refined and polished forms? Do not these on this very account wear the appearance of the bitterest irony? You may give this as a subject for a prize-essay to our G—— dilettante academy.
‘A propos,’—who is that very wise Minister of whom H—— speaks? Ah ha! I guess—but all Ministers are now-a-days so wise ‘ex officio,’ that it is difficult to know which he means. The other, however, I guessed instantly—as well as the pure horizontal individual, whose illness grieves me heartily; for when he is well, he stands, in my opinion, most singularly perpendicular, towering above disfavour or envy, by the dignity of his character, and by his experience and talents for business. There are, to be sure, some official persons in our country whom one might fairly ask, with Bürger’s Lenore, every time one sees them, “Bist lebend, Liebster, oder todt?”[47]
Heaven preserve us both in better health of body and mind! And, above all, may it preserve to me your tender friendship, the most essential element of my well-being!
Your faithful L——.
Brighton, Feb. 19th, 1827.
Dear Julia,
‘To make the best of my time,’ (as the practical English say,) before I left town yesterday I visited three theatres in succession. In the first pieceI saw, the principal person was an Irish servant. According to all I have been able to learn from plays and novels, these Irish must be an odd people,—of a fresh originality very unlike the English. Irish beggars are very common in the streets of London, where they are easily recognized by their Gascon-like manner and dialect. A modern author remarks with equal drollery and truth: “The English beggar whines out the same monotonous words in a drawling tone, ‘Give a poor man a halfpenny, Give a poor man a halfpenny.’—What an orator is his Irish colleague! ‘O your honour, give us a penny, only one blessed penny, your honour’s honour, and God’s blessing be upon your children, and your children’s children! Give us only one little penny, and may Heaven grant you a long life, and a quiet death, and a blessed resurrection!’” Who can withstand entreaties so humorously moving?
In the next theatre we were regaled with a pantomime, in which was a quadrille of birds, and another of tea-things; after which the tea-pot, milk-jug, and cup, executed a ‘pas de trois,’ while spoons, knives, and forks danced around them as ‘figurantes.’ The birds were ‘à s’y méprendre,’ and I recommend something of the same kind, with parrots which might speak too, to be arranged for the S—— Court theatre by Mephistophiles. A clever account of it would be a still further novelty, and a tea-kettle and accompaniments would be very suitable additions to the society.
I saw the Indian jugglers for the third time. They exhibited something quite new. Instead of balls, they threw up and caught short burning torches. This produces a curious sort of fire-work, a continuous developement of burning figures,—wheels, serpents, triangles, stars, flowers, &c., as if in a kaleidescope. The immovable steadiness and accuracy of these people never misses.
The fantastic absurdities of the pantomimes probably affected my imagination in the night, which I dosed away between London and Brighton; for I had the strangest visions in my carriage. At first I was mounted on my beautiful gray, whom for once I could not manage: he constantly resisted my will; and when at last I mastered him, shook his head with such fury, that it broke from his neck and flew to a distance of twenty paces, while I plunged down a precipice on the headless body.—I was next sitting on a bench in my park, and watching the devastations made by a frightful hurricane, which tore up the old trees far and near, and threw them together like faggots.—At last I quarrelled with you, dear Julia, and in despair went for a soldier. I forgot you (which is possible only in sleep,) and found myself in my new sphere, once more young and brilliant, full of fresh spirit, and not less full of wanton pride. It was the day of battle. The thunder of the cannon rolled magnificently; noble martial music accompanied it, and animated our spirits; while, with the prerogative of a dream, we sat quietly breakfasting on a ‘pâté aux truffes et champagne,’ in the midst of a fire of musketry. A spent cannon-ball now came ‘en ricochet’ towards us; and before I could spring aside, carried off the head of my comrade, who was sitting on the ground by my side, and both my legs, so that I fell groaning with pain and horror. When I recovered my senses, the storm was roaring around me, and the sea howled in my ears. I thought myself on the voyage, when, behold my carriage stopped at the door of the inn on the Marine Parade at Brighton! To-morrow perhaps I shall dream out the rest. But are the waking fancies of life much less confused? Castles in the air, for good and for evil;—nothing but castles in the air. Some stand for minutes, some for years, some for tens[48]of years; but they all fall at last, andpalace, just as easily as a miserable hut, a grave or a dungeon. But you are ever by, my Julia, either sharing the palace, adorning the hut, weeping over the grave, or consoling me in bonds. At this moment I am floating midway, without any determinate abode: I am, however, all the more ethereal and light-hearted for that; but, I must confess, with a very sleepy ‘physique,’ for it is three in the morning: and so I kiss your hand, and bid you good-night. But I beg you to look in your dream-book what these adventures of mine portend.
You know my favourite superstition, which I set too high a value upon to have it torn from me by chaffy reasonings. As, for instance, when an ‘esprit fort’ shrugs up his shoulder, (if he does not venture to turn up his nose in my face,) or a well-anointed priest says, “It is extraordinary to see how inconsistently many men refuse to believe in religion, (by which parsons always meantheirChurch and its ordinances,) and yet give way to the utmost credulity in the greatest absurdities.” “But, reverend Sir,” I ask in reply, “in what then do these absurdities consist?” “Why, the belief in sympathies, in dreams, in the influence of the stars, and so on.” “But, most respected Sir, I see no inconsistency in the matter. Every reflecting man must confess that there are a number of mysterious powers in nature,—influences, and attractions, both of our earth, and of the system to which it belongs, of which many that formerly passed for fables have been discovered; others that as yet we do but suspect or divine, and cannot ascertain. It is therefore by no means contrary to reason to make one’s own hypothesis concerning them, and to believe in these more or less. I do not, therefore, contest your miracles, nor your symbols;—I contest only certain other things, which many of you teach, and which are equally incomprehensible to the understanding and repugnant to the heart: for instance, a God more passionate and partial than the frailest man; infinite torments appointed by infinite love, for finite sins; arbitrarily-predestined forgiveness or damnation,—and so on. Such things can be possible only when two and two shall make five, and no superstition can approach the insanity of such a belief.”
February 22nd.
I am just returned from a grand Almack’s fancy ball, where everybody was either in some fantastic outlandish dress, or in uniform,—a ‘mélange’ which does not seem to me in very good taste, nor very respectful to the latter. You may imagine that my friend the Highland chieftain did not fail to appear in his national costume. It is really very handsome; in the highest degree rich, picturesque, and manly: the only thing that does not please me is the shoes with the large buckles. The sword is just in the form of one of our student’s rapiers; and besides that, there is a dagger, pistols, and cartouche-box. The arms are set with precious stones; and an eagle’s feather, the badge of a chieftain, adorns the cap.
I escorted two ladies to the ball,—the one a good-natured and sensible woman, still very pretty at five-and-thirty, who likes the world and is liked by it, and nurses an invalid husband with the most unremitting care. Her ‘tournure’ is agreeable, her disposition kind and good,—so that she is just the person ‘pour en faire une amie dans le monde.’ The other lady, her intimate friend, is a young and very pretty widow; not a very considerable onlyseemrealities. Nobody can furnish a greater abundance of plans to architects of such castles than I. On the slightest inducement I can build a fairyperson, but a good-tempered friendly little creature, who is perfectly contented if you tell her that her teeth are pearls and her eyes violets.
I had no reason to be ashamed of my ladies, either as to person or dress; but they, and all present, were eclipsed by the youthful Miss ——. She is really one of the most beautiful girls I have seen,—a little sylph,—who must have stolen her exquisite foot and her graces from another land. She is only sixteen,—wild, and mobile as quicksilver; unwearied in dancing as in frolic. I was so fortunate as to gain her good graces to-day by a lucky offering. This consisted in a ‘cornet’ of remarkably well-made ‘bonbon’ crackers, in the distribution of which she had found infinite diversion at the last ball. This indecorum had been strongly reprobated by the mammas; so that there were no more to be had at supper, as heretofore. I had providentially laid in a stock at the confectioner’s, and now presented them to her unexpectedly; and I doubt whether the gift of a million of money would give poor me half the pleasure I now bestowed by such a trifle. The little thing was in an ecstacy of delight, and immediately prepared her batteries, which were the more successful, as the enemy thought themselves secure. At every explosion she laughed as if she would kill herself; and every time I met her she smiled upon me with her sparkling eyes, as sweetly as a little angel. Poor child! this perfect innocence, this overflow of happiness and joy, touched me deeply—for, alas! she will soon, like all the rest, be undeceived.
There were many other very pretty young women; but they were too ‘dressées’; some were loaded with jewels and trinkets, but none were comparable to this girl.
February 24th.
I spent this evening at Mrs. F——’s, a very dignified and delightful woman, formerly, as it is affirmed, married to the King. She is now without influence in that region, but still universally beloved and respected,—’d’un excellent ton et sans prétension.’ I there heard some interesting details concerning Lord Liverpool: a man who, an hour before, ruled half a world with energy and sagacity, becomes an ‘imbecile’ from the neglect to open a vein! His predecessor, Lord Castlereagh, from the same cause commits suicide!—On how frail a tenure hangs the human intellect!
In this house one sees only ‘beau monde.’ Indeed there is not much of the very emptiest, the exclusive society here; or they live completely retired, that they may not come into collision with the persons they call ‘Nobodies,’ whom they shun with greater horror than Brahmins shun Parias. Though my station and connexions allow me to enter the sanctuary, I do not on that account disdain the world without. As a foreigner, and still more as an independent man, I take the liberty to seek enjoyment wherever I can find it, unfettered by such restrictions,—nor do I always find the most in the highest places. Even the vulgar and laughable ‘singerie’ of the ‘parvenus’ is sometimes extremely amusing, and has a much more burlesque character in England than in any other country; since wealth, establishment, and luxury,—in a word, all their ‘entourage,’—are essentially the same as those of the great and high-bred; only the persons wander among them as if stripped bare.
Here occurred a long pause in my correspondence. Pardon,—I was eating my solitary dinner; a snipe stood before me, a ‘mouton qui rêve’ by my side. You guess who is the latter. Don’t be distressed about the place on the left, for on the right is a blazing fire, and I know how much you fear that.
I shall spend the evening again at Count F——’s, who is of the Brahmin class. Have I described him to you? He is no insignificant person. Uniting French agreeableness with English solidity, he speaks both languages with nearly equal ease and fluency. Though no longer young, he is still a handsome man, and his external appearance is rendered more striking by a very noble, dignified air. Simple, and thoroughly polite, cheerful without sarcasm or malignity, his conversation amuses and satisfies, even when it is not brilliant at the moment. His wife is neither remarkable for beauty nor the contrary. She has sense, ‘l’usage du grand monde, et quelque fois de la politesse;’ no inconsiderable talent for music, and ten-thousand a-year. With all these materials, I need not tell you the house is an extremely pleasant one.
February 25th.
There is a delightful custom for the men at English balls. After the conclusion of a dance, each takes his partner on his arm, and walks about with her till the next begins. Many a man has thus time to conquer his timidity, and nothing is wanting but our large and numerous rooms to make it more agreeable. Here there is no wider field to expatiate in than down the stairs to the eating-room, and up again; still many a gentle word may be whispered in the crowd, for nobody heeds what his neighbour does.
As I am tormented on all sides to dance, (a German who does not waltz appears incomprehensible here,) and do not like it, I have given out that I am restrained by a vow, and leave it to be inferred that it is a tender one. The ladies do not know how to reconcile this with the persuasion that I came here in search of a wife, which they stoutly maintain. Thank Heaven! I find my tranquillity quite undisturbed. * * *
A poor Englishman here is in much worse plight. He threw himself off the pier to-day, being, as the English say, ‘crossed in love,’ and only yesterday he was dancing as if stung by a tarantula. The poor fellow must have been like the turkeys that are made to dance ballets in Paris by being set on a metal plate, under which a fire is lighted. The spectator who sees their convulsive bounds, thinks they are very merry, while the poor things are burning by inches.
I have often complained that Brighton has no vegetation; but the sun sets in the sea, and the cloud-pictures by which they are accompanied, exceed all I ever beheld in variety. To-day it had rained all day, and in the evening, when it cleared up, a dark range of mountains formed itself above the watery mirror, gradually acquiring a firmer consistency as the sun reached the highest peak, and broke through the black masses as if with clefts of flaming gold; I thought I saw Vesuvius again, streaming with lava. After I had attended this magnificent ‘coucher’ of the monarch of the heavens till its last moment, I wandered about the bare downs till it was perfectly dark, scouring hill and dale on my swift steed. Probably he too had pictures in his fancy which urged him to greater speed,—enticing visions of oats and hay.