The approach of spring is already visible here, and right glad am I to
welcome its genial influence; for a Paris winter possesses in my
opinion no superiority over a London one,--nay, though it would be
deemed by the French little less than a heresy to say so, is even more
damp and disagreeable.
The Seine has her fogs, as dense, raw, and chilling, as those of old
Father Thames himself; and the river approximating closer to "the gay
resorts" of the _beau monde_, they are more felt. The want of draining,
and the vapours that stagnate over the turbid waters of the _ruisseaux_
that intersect the streets at Paris, add to the humidity of the
atmosphere; while the sewers in London convey away unseen and unfelt,
if not always unsmelt, the rain which purifies, while it deluges, our
streets. Heaven defend me, however, from uttering this disadvantageous
comparison to Parisian cars, for the French are too fond of Paris not
to be proud even of its _ruisseaux_, and incredulous of its fogs, and
any censure on either would be ill received.
The gay butterflies when they first expand their varicoloured wings and
float in air, seem not more joyous than the Parisians have been during
the last two days of sunshine. The Jardins des Tuileries are crowded
with well-dressed groups; the budding leaves have burst forth with that
delicate green peculiar to early spring; and the chirping of
innumerable birds, as they flit from tree to tree, announces the
approach of the vernal season.
Paris is at no time so attractive, in my opinion, as in spring; and the
verdure of the foliage during its infancy is so tender, yet bright,
that it looks far more beautiful than with us in our London squares or
parks, where no sooner do the leaves open into life, than they become
stained by the impurity of the atmosphere, which soon deposes its dingy
particles on them, "making the green one"--black.
The Boulevards were well stocked with flowers to-day, the
_bouquetières_ having resumed their stalls; and many a pedestrian might
be seen bargaining for these fair and frail harbingers of rosy spring.
How exhilarating are the effects of this season on the spirits
depressed by the long and gloomy winter, and the frame rendered languid
by the same cause! The heart begins to beat with more energetic
movement, the blood flows more briskly through the veins, and the
spirit of hope is revivified in the human heart. This sympathy between
awakening nature, on the earth, and on man, renders us more, that at
any other period, fond of the country; for this is the season of
promise; and we know that each coming day, for a certain time, will
bestow some new beauty on all that is now budding forth, until glowing,
laughing summer has replaced the fitful smiles and tears of spring.
And there are persons who tell me they experience nought of this
elasticity of spirits at the approach of spring! How are such mortals
to be pitied! Yet, perhaps, they are less so than we imagine, for the
same insensibility that prevents their being exhilarated, may preclude
them from the depression so peculiar to all who have lively feelings.
"I see nothing so very delightful in spring," said ---- to me,
yesterday. "_Au contraire_, I think it rather disagreeable, for the
sunshine cheats one into the belief of warmth, and we go forth less
warmly clad in consequence, so return home chilled by the sharp cold
air which always prevails at this season, and find, as never fails to
be the case, that our stupid servants have let out the fires, because,
truly, the sun was shining in the cold blue sky." ---- reminds me of
the man mentioned in Sterne's works, who, when his friend looking on a
beautiful prospect, compared a green field with a flock of
snowy-fleeced sheep on it, to a vast emerald studded with pearls,
answered that _he_ could see nothing in it but grass and mutton.
Lord B---- set out for London to-day, to vote on the Catholic question,
which is to come on immediately. His going at this moment, when he is
far from well, is no little sacrifice of personal comfort; but never
did he consider self when a duty was to be performed. I wish the
question was carried, and he safely back again. What would our
political friends say if they knew how strongly I urged him not to go,
but to send his proxy to Lord Rosslyn? I would not have consented to
his departure, were it not that the Duke of Wellington takes such an
interest in the measure.
How times are changed! and how much is due to those statesmen who yield
up their own convictions for the general good! There is no action in
the whole life of the Duke more glorious than his self-abnegation on
this occasion, nor is that of the Tory leader of the House of Commons
less praiseworthy; yet how many attacks will both incur by this
sacrifice of their opinions to expediency! for when were the actions of
public men judged free from the prejudices that discolour and distort
all viewed through their medium? That which originates in the purest
patriotism, will be termed an unworthy tergiversation; but the reward
of these great and good men will be found in their own breasts. I am
_triste_ and unsettled, so will try the effect of a drive in the Bois
de Boulogne.
I was forcibly reminded yesterday of the truth of an observation of a
clever French writer, who says, that to judge the real merit of a cook,
one should sit down to table without the least feeling of appetite, as
the triumph of the culinary art was not to satisfy hunger but to excite
it. Our new cook achieved this triumph yesterday, for he is so
inimitable an artist, that the flavour of his _plats_ made even me,
albeit unused to the sensation of hunger, feel disposed to render
justice to them. Monsieur Louis--for so he is named--has a great
reputation in his art; and it is evident, even from the proof furnished
of his _savoir-faire_ yesterday, that he merits it.
It is those only who have delicate appetites that can truly appreciate
the talent of a cook; for they who devour soon lose the power of
tasting. No symptom of that terrible malady, well named by the
ingenious Grimod de la Reynière _remords d'estomac_, but vulgarly
called indigestion, follows my unusual indulgence in _entrées_ and
_entremets_, another delightful proof of the admirable skill of
Monsieur Louis.
The English are apt to spoil French cooks by neglecting the _entrées_
for the _pièce de résistance_, and, when the cook discovers this, which
he is soon enabled to do by the slight breaches made in the first, and
the large one in the second, his _amour-propre_ becomes wounded, and he
begins to neglect his _entrées_. Be warned, then, by me, all ye who
wish your cooks to retain their skill, and however your native tastes
for that English favourite dish denominated "a plain joint" may
prevail, never fail to taste the _entrée_.
_À propos_ of cooks, an amusing instance of the _amour-propre_ of a
Parisian cook was related to me by the gourmand Lord ----, the last
time we dined at his house. Wishing to have a particular sauce made
which he had tasted in London, and for which he got the receipt, he
explained to his cook, an artist of great celebrity, how the component
parts were to be amalgamated.
"How, mylord!" exclaimed _Monsieur le cuisinier_; "an English sauce! Is
it possible your lordsip can taste any thing so barbarous? Why, years
ago, my lord, a profound French philosopher described the English as a
people who had a hundred religions, but only one sauce."
More anxious to get the desired sauce than to defend the taste of his
country, or correct the impertinence of his cook, Lord ---- immediately
said, "On recollection, I find I made a mistake; the sauce I mean is _à
la Hollandaise_, and not _à l'Anglaise_."
_A la bonne heure_, my lord, _c'est autre chose_; and the sauce was
forthwith made, and was served at table the day we dined with Lord
----.
An anecdote is told of this same cook, which Lord ---- relates with
great good humour. The cook of another English nobleman conversing with
him, said, "My master is like yours--a great _gourmand_."
"Pardon me," replied the other; "there is a vast difference between our
masters. Yours is simply a _gourmand_, mine is an epicure as well."
The Duc de Talleyrand, dining with us a few days ago, observed that to
give a perfect dinner, the Amphitryon should have a French cook for
soups, _entrées_ and _entremets_; an English _rôtisseur_, and an
Italian _confiseur_, as without these, a dinner could not be faultless.
"But, alas!" said he--and he sighed while he spoke it--"the Revolution
has destroyed our means of keeping these artists; and we eat now to
support nature, instead of, as formerly, when we ate because it was a
pleasure to eat." The good-natured Duc nevertheless seemed to eat his
dinner as if he still continued to take a pleasure in the operation,
and did ample justice to a certain _plat de cailles farcies_ which he
pronounced to be perfect.
Our landlord, le Marquis de L----, has sent to offer us the refusal of
our beautiful abode. The Duc de N---- has proposed to take it for
fourteen on twenty-one years, at the same rent we pay (an extravagant
one, by the bye), and as we only took it for a year, we must eithor
leave or hire it for fourteen or twenty-one years, which is out of the
question.
Nothing can be more fair or honourable than the conduct of the Marquis
de L----, for he laid before us the offer of the Duc de N----; but as
we do not intend to remain more than two or three years more in Paris,
we must leave this charming house, to our infinite regret, when the
year for which we have hired it expires. Gladly would we have engaged
it for two, or even three years more, but this is now impossible; and
we shall have the trouble of again going the round of house-hunting.
When I look on the suite of rooms in which I have passed such pleasant
days, I am filled with regret at the prospect of leaving them, but it
cannot be helped, so it is useless to repine. We have two months to
look about us, and many friends who are occupied in assisting us in the
search.
A letter from Lord B----; better, but still ailing. He presided at the
Covent Garden Theatrical Fund Dinner, at the request of the Duke of
Clarence. He writes me that he met there Lord F. Leveson Gower[5], who
was introduced to him by Mr. Charles Greville, and of whom he has
conceived a very high opinion. Lord B---- partakes my belief in
physiognomy, but in this instance the impression formed from the
countenance is justified by the reputation of the individual, who is
universally esteemed and respected.
Went again to see the Hôtel Monaco, which Lord B---- writes me to close
for; but its gloomy and uncomfortable bed-rooms discourage me, _malgré_
the splendour of the _salons_, which are decidedly the finest I have
seen at Paris, I will decide on nothing until Lord B----'s return.
Went to the College of Ste.-Barbe to-day, with the Duchesse de Guiche,
to see her sons. Great was their delight at the meeting. I thought they
would never have done embracing her; and I, too, was warmly welcomed by
these dear and affectionate boys, who kissed me again and again. They
have already won golden opinions at the college, by their rare aptitude
in acquiring all that is taught them, and by their docility and manly
characters.
The masters paid the Duchesse the highest compliments on the progress
her sons had made previously to their entrance at Ste.-Barbe, and
declared that they had never met any children so far advanced for their
age. I shared the triumph of this admirable mother, whose fair cheeks
glowed, and whose beautiful eyes sparkled, on hearing the eulogiums
pronounced on her boys. Her observation to me was, "How pleased their
father will be!"
Ste.-Barbe is a little world in itself, and a very different world to
any I had previously seen. In it every thing smacks of learning, and
every body seems wholly engrossed by study.
The spirit of emulation animates all, and excites the youths into an
application so intense as to be often found injurious to health. The
ambition of surpassing all competitors in their studies operates so
powerfully on the generality of the _élèves_, that the masters
frequently find it more necessary to moderate, than to urge the ardour
of the pupils. A boy's reputation for abilities soon gets known, but he
must possess no ordinary ones to be able to distinguish himself in a
college where every victory in erudition is sure to be achieved by a
well-contested battle.
We passed through the quarter of Paris known as the Pays Latin, the
aspect of which is singular, and is said to have been little changed
during the last century. The houses, chiefly occupied by literary men,
look quaint and picturesque. Every man one sees passing has the air of
an author, not as authors now are, or at least as popular ones are,
well-clothed and prosperous-looking, but as authors were when genius
could not always command a good wardrobe, and walked forth in
habiliments more derogatory to the age in which it was neglected, than
to the individual whose poverty compelled such attire.
Men in rusty threadbare black, with books under the arm, and some with
spectacles on nose, reading while they walked along, might be
encountered at every step.
The women, too, in the Pays Latin, have a totally different aspect to
those of every other part of Paris. The desire to please, inherent in
the female breast, seems to have expired in them, for their dress
betrays a total neglect, and its fashion is that of some forty years
ago. Even the youthful are equally negligent, which indicates their
conviction that the men they meet seldom notice them, proving the truth
of the old saying, that women dress to please men.
The old, with locks of snow, who had grown into senility in this
erudite quarter, still paced the same promenade which they had trodden
for many a year, habit having fixed them where hope once led their
steps. The middle-aged, too, might be seen with hair beginning to
blanch from long hours devoted to the midnight lamp, and faces marked
with "the pale cast of thought." Hope, though less sanguine in her
promises, still lures them on, and they pass the venerable old,
unconscious that they themselves are succeeding them in the same life
of study, to be followed by the same results, privation, and solitude,
until death closes the scene. And yet a life of study is, perhaps, the
one in which the privations compelled by poverty are the least felt to
be a hardship.
Study, like virtue, is its own exceeding great reward, for it engrosses
as well as elevates the mind above the sense of the wants so acutely
felt by those who have no intellectual pursuits; and many a student has
forgotten his own privations when reading the history of the great and
good who have been exposed to even still more trying ones. Days pass
uncounted in such occupations. Youth fleets away, if not happily, at
least tranquilly, while thus employed; and maturity glides into age,
and age drops into the grave, scarcely conscious of the gradations of
each, owing to the mind having been filled with a continuous train of
thought, engendered by study.
I have been reading some French poems by Madame Amabel Tastu; and very
beautiful they are. A sweet and healthy tone of mind breathes through
them, and the pensiveness that characterises many of them, marks a
reflecting spirit imbued with tenderness. There is great harmony, too,
in the versification, as well as purity and elegance in the diction.
How much some works make us wish to know their authors, and _vice
versâ_! I feel, while reading her poems, that I should like Madame
Amabel Tastu; while other books, whose cleverness I admit, convince me
I should not like the writers.
A book must always resemble, more or less, its author. It is the mind,
or at least a portion of it, of the individual; and, however
circumstances may operate on it, the natural quality must always
prevail and peep forth in spite of every effort to conceal it.
Living much in society seldom fails to deteriorate the force and
originality of superior minds; because, though unconsciously, the
persons who possess them are prone to fall into the habits of thought
of those with whom they pass a considerable portion of their time, and
suffer themselves to degenerate into taking an interest in puerilities
on which, in the privacy of their study, they would not bestow a single
thought. Hence, we are sometimes shocked at observing glaring
inconsistencies in the works of writers, and find it difficult to
imagine that the grave reflection which pervades some of the pages can
emanate from the same mind that dictated the puerilities abounding in
others. The author's profound thoughts were his own, the puerilities
were the result of the friction of his mind with inferior ones: at
least this is my theory, and, as it is a charitable one, I like to
indulge it.
A pleasant party at dinner yesterday. Mr. W. Spencer, the poet, was
among the guests, He was much more like the William Spencer of former
days than when he dined here before, and was occasionally brilliant,
though at intervals he relapsed into moodiness. He told some good
stories of John Kemble, and told them well; but it seemed an effort to
him; and, while the listeners were still smiling at his excellent
imitation of the great tragedian, he sank back in his chair with an air
of utter abstraction.
I looked at him, and almost shuddered at marking the "change that had
come o'er the spirit of his dream;" for whether the story touched a
chord that awakened some painful reflection in his memory, or that the
telling it had exhausted him, I know not, but his countenance for some
minutes assumed a careworn and haggard expression, and he then glanced
around at the guests with an air of surprise, like one awakened from
slumber.
It is astonishing how little people observe each other in society! This
inattention, originating in a good breeding that proscribes personal
observation, has degenerated into something that approaches very nearly
to total indifference, and I am persuaded that a man might die at table
seated between two others without their being aware of it, until he
dropped from his chair.
Civilization has its disadvantages as well as its advantages, and I
think the consciousness that one might expire between one's neighbours
at table without their noticing it, is hardly atoned for by knowing
that they will not stare one out of countenance. I often think, as I
look around at a large dinner-party, how few present have the slightest
knowledge of what is passing in the minds of the others. The smile worn
on many a face may be assumed to conceal a sadness which those who feel
it are but too well aware would meet with little sympathy, for one of
the effects of modern civilization is the disregard for the cares of
others, which it engenders.
Madame de ---- once said to me, "I never invite Monsieur de ----,
because he looks unhappy, and as if he expected to be questioned as to
the cause." This _naïve_ confession of Madame de ---- is what few would
make, but the selfishness that dictated it is what society, _en masse_,
feels and acts up to.
Monsieur de ----, talking of London last evening, told the Count ----
to be on his guard not to be too civil to people when he got there. The
Count ---- looked astonished, and inquired the reason for the advice.
"Merely to prevent your being suspected of having designs on the hearts
of the women, or the purses of the men," replied Monsieur de ----; "for
no one can evince in London society the _empressement_ peculiar to
well-bred Frenchmen without being accused of some unworthy motive for
it."
I defended my countrymen against the sweeping censure of the cynical
Monsieur de ----, who shook his head and declared that he spoke from
observation. He added, that persons more than usually polite are always
supposed to be poor in London, and that as this supposition was the
most injurious to their reception in good society, he always counselled
his friends, when about to visit it, to assume a _brusquerie_ of
manner, and a stinginess with regard to money, by which means they were
sure to escape the suspicion of poverty; as in England a parsimonious
expenditure and bluntness are supposed to imply the possession of
wealth.
I ventured to say that I could now understand why it was that he passed
for being so rich in England--a _coup de patte_ that turned the laugh
against him.
Mr. de ---- is a perfect cynic, and piques himself on saying what he
thinks,--a habit more frequently adopted by those who think
disagreeable, than agreeable things.
Dined yesterday at Madame C----'s, and being Friday, had a _dîner
maigre_, than which I know no dinner more luxurious, provided that the
cook is a perfect artist, and that the Amphitryon, as was the case in
this instance, objects not to expense.
The _soupes_ and _entrées_ left no room to regret the absence of flesh
or poultry from their component parts, and the _relevés_, in the shape
of a _brochet rôti_, and a _turbot à la hollandaise_ supplied the place
of the usual _pièces de résistance_. But not only was the flavour of
the _entrées_ quite as good as if they were composed of meat or
poultry, but the appearance offered the same variety, and the
_côtelettes de poisson_ and _fricandeau d'esturgeon_ might have
deceived all but the profoundly learned in gastronomy,--they looked so
exactly like lamb and veal.
The second course offered equally delicate substitutes for the usual
dainties, and the most fastidious epicure might have been more than
satisfied with the _entremets_.
The bishops in France are said to have had the most luxurious dinners
imaginable on what were erroneously styled fast-days; and their cooks
had such a reputation for their skill, that the having served _à
Monseigneur d'Église_ was a passport to the kitchens of all lovers of
good eating. There are people so profane as to insinuate that the
excellence at which the cooks arrived in dressing _les dîners maigres_
is one of the causes why Catholicism has continued to flourish; but
this, of course, must be looked on as a malicious hint of the enemies
to that faith which thus proves itself less addicted to indulgence in
the flesh than are its decryers.