_Siècle réparateur,_ as Monge has christened this century.
I will give you a journal of yesterday: I know you love journals. Got up
and put on our shoes and stockings and cambric muslin gowns, which are
in high esteem here, fur-tippets and _fur-clogs_,--GOD bless Aunt Mary
and Aunt Charlotte for them,--and were in coach by nine o'clock, drove
to the excellent Abbé Morellet's, where we were invited to breakfast to
meet Madame d'Ouditot, the lady who inspired Rousseau with the idea of
Julie. Julie is now seventy-two years of age, a thin woman in a little
black bonnet: she appeared to me shockingly ugly; she squints so much
that it is impossible to tell which way she is looking; but no sooner
did I hear her speak, than I began to like her; and no sooner was I
seated beside her, than I began to find in her countenance a most
benevolent and agreeable expression. She entered into conversation
immediately: her manner invited and could not fail to obtain confidence.
She seems as gay and open-hearted as a girl of fifteen. It has been said
of her that she not only never did any harm, but never suspected any.
She is possessed of that art which Lord Kames said he would prefer to
the finest gift from the queen of the fairies,--the art of seizing the
best side of every object. She has had great misfortunes, but she has
still retained the power of making herself and her friends happy. Even
during the horrors of the Revolution, if she met with a flower, a
butterfly, an agreeable smell, a pretty colour, she would turn her
attention to these, and for the moment suspend her sense of misery, not
from frivolity, but from real philosophy. No one has exerted themselves
with more energy in the service of her friends. I felt in her company
the delightful influence of a cheerful temper, and soft attractive
manners,--enthusiasm which age cannot extinguish, and which spends but
does not waste itself on small but not trifling objects. I wish I could
at seventy-two be such a woman! She told me that Rousseau, whilst he was
writing so finely on education, and leaving his own children in the
Foundling Hospital, defended himself with so much eloquence that even
those who blamed him in their hearts, could not find tongues to answer
him. Once at dinner, at Madame d'Ouditot's, there was a fine pyramid of
fruit. Rousseau in helping himself took the peach which formed the base
of the pyramid, and the rest fell immediately. "Rousseau," said she,
"that is what you always do with all our systems; you pull down with a
single touch, but who will build up what you pull down?" I asked if he
was grateful for all the kindness shown to him? "No, he was ungrateful:
he had a thousand bad qualities, but I turned my attention from them to
his genius and the good he had done mankind."
After an excellent breakfast, including tea, chocolate, coffee, buttered
and unbuttered cakes, good conversation, and good humour, came M.
Cheron, husband of the Abbé Morellet's niece, who is translating _Early
Lessons_, French on one side and English on the other. Didot has
undertaken to publish the _Rational Primer_, which is much approved of
here for teaching the true English pronunciation.
Then we went to a lecture on Shorthand, or _Passigraphy_, and there we
met Mr. Chenevix, who came home to dine with us, and stayed till nine,
talking of Montgolfier's _bélier_ for throwing water to a great height.
We have seen it and its inventor: something like Mr. Watt in manner, not
equal to him in genius. He had received from M. de la Poype a letter my
father wrote some years ago about the method of guiding balloons, and as
far as he could judge he thought it might succeed.
We went with Madame Recamier and the Russian Princess Dalgourski to La
Harpe's house, to hear him repeat some of his own verses. He lives in a
wretched house, and we went up dirty stairs, through dirty passages,
where I wondered how fine ladies' trains and noses could go, and were
received in a dark small den by the philosopher, or rather dévot, for he
spurns the name of philosopher: he was in a dirty reddish night-gown,
and very dirty nightcap bound round the forehead with a superlatively
dirty chocolate-coloured ribbon. Madame Recamier, the beautiful, the
elegant, robed in white satin trimmed with white fur, seated herself on
the elbow of his armchair, and besought him to repeat his verses.
Charlotte has drawn a picture of this scene. We met at La Harpe's Lady
Elizabeth Foster and Lady Bessborough: very engaging manners.
We were a few days ago at a Bal d'Enfants; this you would translate a
children's ball, and so did we, till we were set right by the
learned:--not a single child was at this ball, and only half a dozen
unmarried ladies: it is a ball given by mothers to their grown-up
children. Charlotte appeared as usual to great advantage, and was much
admired for her ease and unaffected manners. She danced one English
country dance with M. de Crillon, son of the Gibraltar Duke: when she
stood up, a gentleman came to me and exclaimed, "Ah, Mademoiselle votre
soeur va danser, nous attendons le moment où elle va _paraître._" She
appeared extremely well from not being anxious to appear at all. To-day
we stayed at home to gain time for letters, etc., but thirteen visitors,
besides the washerwoman, prevented our accomplishing all our great and
good purposes. The visitors were all, except the washerwoman, so
agreeable, that even while they interrupted us, we did not know how to
wish them gone.
* * * * *
On the 27th January Mr. Edgeworth received a peremptory order from the
French Government to quit Paris immediately. He went with Maria to the
village of Passy. Their friend, Madame Gautier, generously offered to
them the use of her house there, but they would not compromise her. M.
de Pastoret and M. Delessert visited Mr. Edgeworth the next morning,
fearless of Buonaparte and his orders, and the day after M. Pictet and
M. Le Breton came to say that he could return to Paris. There had been
some misapprehension from Mr. Edgeworth having been supposed to be
brother to the Abbé Edgeworth. He wrote to Lord Whitworth that he would
never deny or give up the honour of being related to the Abbé. Lord
Whitworth advised him to state the exact degree of relationship, which
he did, and we heard no more of the matter. [Footnote: The Abbé
Edgeworth (who called himself M. de Firmont, from the estate possessed
by his branch of the family) was first cousin once removed to Mr.
Edgeworth, being the son of Essex, fifth son of Sir John Edgeworth, and
brother to Mr. Edgeworth's grandfather, Colonel Francis Edgeworth of
Edgeworthstown.]