The more I observe Lady C---- the more surprised I am at the romantic
feelings she still indulges, and the illusions under which she
labours;--yes _labours_ is the suitable word, for it can be nothing
short of laborious, at her age, to work oneself into the belief that
love is an indispensable requisite for life. Not the affection into
which the love of one's youth subsides, but the wild, the ungovernable
passion peculiar to the heroes and heroines of novels, and young ladies
and gentlemen recently emancipated from boarding-schools and colleges.
Poor Lady C----, with so many estimable qualities, what a pity it is
she should have this weakness! She maintained in our conversation
yesterday that true love could never be extinguished in the heart, and
that even in age it burnt with the same fire as when first kindled. I
quoted to her a passage from Le Brun, who says--"L'amour peut
s'éteindre sans doute dans le coeur d'un galant homme; mais combien de
dédommagements n'a-t-il pas alors à offrir! L'estime, l'amitié, la
confiance, ne suffisent-elles pas aux glaces de la vieillesse?" Lady
C---- thinks not.
Talking last night of ----, some one observed that "it was disagreeable
to have such a neighbour, as he did nothing but watch and interfere in
the concerns of others."
"Give me in preference such a man as le Comte ----," said Monsieur
----, slily, "who never bestows a thought but on self, and is too much
occupied with that interesting subject to have time to meddle with the
affairs of other people."
"You are right," observed Madame ----, gravely, believing him to be
serious; "it is much preferable."
"But surely," said I, determined to continue the mystification, "you
are unjustly severe in your animadversions on poor Monsieur ----. Does
he not prove himself a true philanthropist in devoting the time to the
affairs of others that might be usefully occupied in attending to his
own?"
"You are quite right," said Mrs. ----; "I never viewed his conduct in
this light before; and now that I understand it I really begin to like
him,--a thing I thought quite impossible before you convinced me of the
goodness of his motives."
How many Mrs. ----'s there are in the world, with minds ductile as wax,
ready to receive any impression one wishes to give them! Yet I
reproached myself for assisting to hoax her, when I saw the smiles
excited by her credulity.
Mademoiselle Delphine Gay[6] is one of the agreeable proofs that genius
is hereditary. I have been reading some productions of hers that
greatly pleased me. Her poetry is graceful, the thoughts are natural,
and the versification is polished. She is a very youthful authoress,
and a beauty as well as a _bel esprit_. Her mother's novels have
beguiled many an hour of mine that might otherwise have been weary, for
they have the rare advantage of displaying an equal knowledge of the
world with a lively sensibility.
All Frenchwomen write well. They possess the art of giving interest
even to trifles, and have a natural eloquence _de plume_, as well as
_de langue_, that renders the task an easy one. It is the custom in
England to decry French novels, because the English unreasonably expect
that the literature of other countries should be judged by the same
criterion by which they examine their own, without making sufficient
allowance for the different manners and habits of the nations. Without
arrogating to myself the pretension of a critic, I should be unjust if
I did not acknowledge that I have perused many a French novel by modern
authors, from which I have derived interest and pleasure.
The French critics are not loath to display their acumen in reviewing
the works of their compatriots, for they not only analyze the demerits
with pungent causticity, but apply to them the severest of all tests,
that of ridicule; in the use of which dangerous weapon they excel.
House-hunting the greater part of the day. Oh the weariness of such an
occupation, and, above all, after having lived in so delightful a house
as the one we inhabit! Many of our French friends have come and told us
that they had found hôtels exactly to suit us: and we have driven next
day to see them, when lo and behold! these eligible mansions were
either situated in some disagreeable _quartier_, or consisted of three
fine _salons de réception_, with some half-dozen miserable dormitories,
and a passage-room by way of _salle à manger_.
Though Paris abounds with fine _hôtels entre cour et jardin_, they are
seldom to be let; and those to be disposed of are generally divided
into suites of apartments, appropriated to different persons. One of
the hôtels recommended by a friend was on the Boulevards, with the
principal rooms commanding a full view of that populous and noisy
quarter of Paris. I should have gone mad in such a dwelling, for the
possibility of reading, or almost of thinking, amidst such an
ever-moving scene of bustle and din, would be out of the question.
The modern French do not seem to appreciate the comfort of quiet and
seclusion in the position of their abodes, for they talk of the
enlivening influence of a vicinity to these same Boulevards from which
I shrink with alarm. It was not so in former days; witness the
delightful hôtels before alluded to, _entre cour et jardin_, in which
the inhabitants, although in the centre of Paris, might enjoy all the
repose peculiar to a house in the country. There is something, I am
inclined to think, in the nature of the Parisians that enables them to
support noise better than we can,--nay, not only to support, but even
to like it.
I received an edition of the works of L.E.L. yesterday from London. She
is a charming poetess, full of imagination and fancy, dazzling one
moment by the brilliancy of her flights, and the next touching the
heart by some stroke of pathos. How Byron would have admired her
genius, for it bears the stamp of being influenced no less by a
graceful and fertile fancy than by a deep sensibility, and the union of
the two gives a peculiar charm to her poems.
Drove to the Bois de Boulogne to-day, with the Comtesse d'O----, I know
no such brilliant talker as she is. No matter what may be the subject
of conversation, her wit flashes brightly on all, and without the
slightest appearance of effort or pretension. She speaks from a mind
overflowing with general information, made available by a retentive
memory, a ready wit, and in exhaustible good spirits.
Letters from dear Italy. Shall I ever see that delightful land again? A
letter, too, from Mrs. Francis Hare, asking me to be civil to some
English friends of hers, who are come to Paris, which I shall certainly
be for her sake.
_À propos_ of the English, it is amusing to witness the avidity with
which many of them not only accept but court civilities abroad, and the
_sang-froid_ with which they seem to forget them when they return home.
I have as yet had no opportunity of judging personally on this point,
but I hear such tales on the subject as would justify caution, if one
was disposed to extend hospitality with any prospective view to
gratitude for it, which we never have done, and never will do.
Mine is the philosophy of ----, who, when his extreme hospitality to
his countrymen was remarked on, answered, "I can't eat all my good
dinners alone, and if I am lucky enough to find now and then a pleasant
guest, it repays me for the many dull ones invited." I expect no
gratitude for our hospitality to our compatriots, and "Blessed are they
who expect not, for they will not be disappointed."
Longchamps has not equalled my expectations. It is a dull affair after
all, resembling the drive in Hyde Park on a Sunday in May, the
promenade in the Cacina at Florence, in the Corso at Rome, or the
Chaija at Naples, in all save the elegance of the dresses of the women,
in which Longchamps has an immeasurable superiority.
It is at Longchamps that the Parisian spring fashions are first
exhibited, and busy are the _modistes_ for many weeks previously in
putting their powers of invention to the test, in order to bring out
novelties, facsimiles of which are, the ensuing week, forwarded to
England, Italy, Germany, Holland, and Russia. The coachmakers,
saddlers, and horse-dealers, are also put in requisition for this
epoch; and, though the exhibition is no longer comparable to what it
was in former times, when a luxurious extravagance not only in dress,
but in equipages, was displayed, some handsome and well-appointed
carriages are still to be seen. Among the most remarkable for good
taste, were those of the Princess Bagration, and Monsieur Schikler,
whose very handsome wife attracted more admiration than the elegant
vehicle in which she was seated, or the fine steeds that drew it.
Those who are disposed to question the beauty of French women, should
have been at Longchamps to-day, when their scepticism would certainly
have been vanquished, for I saw several women there whose beauty could
admit of no doubt even by the most fastidious critic of female charms.
The Duchesse de Guiche, however, bore off the bell from all
competitors, and so the spectators who crowded the Champs-Elysées
seemed to think. Of her may be said what Choissy stated of la Duchesse
de la Vallière, she has "_La grace plus belle encore que la beauté_."
The handsome Duchesse d'Istrie and countless other _beautés à la mode_
were present, and well sustained the reputation for beauty of the
Parisian ladies.
The men _caracoled_ between the carriages on their proud and prancing
steeds, followed by grooms, _à l'Anglaise_, in smart liveries, and the
people crowded the footpaths on each side of the drive, commenting
aloud on the equipages and their owners that passed before them.
The promenade at Longchamps, which takes place in the Holy Week, is
said to owe its origin to a religious procession that went annually to
a church so called, whence it by degrees changed its character, and
became a scene of gaiety, in which the most extravagant exhibitions of
luxury were displayed.
One example, out of many, of this extravagance, is furnished by a
publication of the epoch at which Longchamps was in its most palmy
state, when a certain Mademoiselle Duthé, whose means of indulging in
inordinate expense were not solely derived from her ostensible
profession as one of the performers attached to the Opera, figured in
the promenade in a carriage of the most sumptuous kind, drawn by no
less than six thorough-bred horses, the harness of which was of blue
morocco, studded with polished steel ornaments, which produced the most
dazzling effect.
That our times are improved in respect, at least, to appearances, may
be fairly concluded from the fact that no example of a similar
ostentatious display of luxury is ever now exhibited by persons in the
same position as Mademoiselle Duthé; and that if the same folly that
enabled her to indulge in such extravagance still prevails, a sense of
decency prevents all public display of wealth so acquired. Modern
morals censure not people so much for their vices as for the display of
them, as Aleibiades was blamed not for loving Nemea, but for allowing
himself to be painted reposing on her lap.
Finished the perusal of _Cinq Mars_, by Count Alfred de Vigny. It is an
admirable production, and deeply interested me. The sentiments noble
and elevated, without ever degenerating into aught approaching to
bombast, and the pathos such as a manly heart might feel, without
incurring the accusation of weakness. The author must be a man of fine
feelings, as well as of genius,--but were they ever distinct? I like to
think they cannot be, for my theory is, that the feelings are to genius
what the chords are to a musical instrument--they must be touched to
produce effect.
The style of Count Alfred de Vigny merits the eulogium passed by Lord
Shaftesbury on that of an author in his time, of which he wrote, "It is
free from that affected obscurity and laboured pomp of language aiming
at a false sublime, with crowded simile and mixed metaphor (the
hobby-horse and rattle of the Muses.")
---- dined with us yesterday, and, clever as I admit him to be, he
often displeases me by his severe strictures on mankind. I told him
that he exposed himself to the suspicion of censuring it only because
he had studied a bad specimen of it (self) more attentively than the
good that fell in his way: a reproof that turned the current of his
conversation into a more agreeable channel, though he did not seem to
like the hint.
It is the fashion for people now-a-days to affect this cynicism, and to
expend their wit at the expense of poor human nature, which is abused
_en masse_ for the sins of those who abuse it from judging of all
others by self. How different is ----, who thinks so well of his
species, that, like our English laws, he disbelieves the existence of
guilt until it is absolutely proved,--a charity originating in a
superior nature, and a judgment formed from an involuntary
consciousness of it!
---- suspects evil on all sides, and passes his time in guarding
against it. He dares not indulge friendship, because he doubts the
possibility of its being disinterested, and feels no little
self-complacency when the conduct of those with whom he comes in
contact justifies his suspicions. ----, on the contrary, if sometimes
deceived, feels no bitterness, because he believes that the instance
may be a solitary one, and finds consolation in those whose truth he
has yet had no room to question. His is the best philosophy, for though
it cannot preclude occasional disappointment, it ensures much
happiness, as the indulgence of good feelings invariably does, and he
often creates the good qualities he gives credit for, as few persons
are so bad as not to wish to justify the favourable opinion entertained
of them, as few are so good as to resist the demoralising influence of
unfounded suspicions.
A letter from Lord B----, announcing a majority of 105 on the bill of
the Catholic question. Lord Grey made an admirable speech, with a happy
allusion to the fact of Lord Howard of Effingham, who commanded the
English fleet in the reign of Elizabeth, having, though a Roman
Catholic, destroyed the Armada under the anointed banner of the Pope.
What a triumphant refutation of the notion that Roman Catholics dared
not oppose the Pope! Lord B---- writes, that the brilliant and justly
merited eulogium pronounced by Lord Grey on the Duke of Wellington was
rapturously received by the House. How honourable to both was the
praise! I feel delighted that Lord Grey should have distinguished
himself on this occasion, for he is one of the friends in England whom
I most esteem.
---- dined here to-day. He reminds me of the larva, which is the first
state of animal existence in the caterpillar, for his appetite is
voracious, and, as a French naturalist states in describing that
insect, "Tout est estomac dans un larve." ---- is of the opinion of
Aretæus, that the stomach is the great source of pleasurable
affections, and that as Nature "abhors a vacuum," the more filled it is
the better.
Dining is a serious affair with ----. Soup, fish, flesh, and fowl,
disappear from his plate with a rapidity that is really surprising; and
while they are vanishing, not "into empty air," but into the yawning
abyss of his ravenous jaws, his eyes wander around, seeking what next
those same ravenous jaws may devour.
On beholding a person indulge in such gluttony, I feel a distaste to
eating, as a certain double-refined lady of my acquaintance declared
that witnessing the demonstrations of love between two persons of low
and vulgar habits so disgusted her with the tender passion, that she
was sure she never could experience it herself.
I have been reading _la Chronique du Temps de Charles IX_, by Prosper
Mérimée, and a most interesting and admirably written book it is. Full
of stirring scenes and incidents, it contains the most graphic pictures
of the manners of the time in which the story is placed, and the
interest progresses, never flagging from the commencement to the end.
This book will be greatly admired in England, where the romances of our
great Northern Wizard have taught us to appreciate the peculiar merit
in which this abounds. Sir Walter Scott will be one of the first to
admire and render justice to this excellent book, and to welcome into
the field of literature this highly gifted brother of the craft.
The French writers deserve justice from the English, for they
invariably treat the works of the latter with indulgence. Scott is not
more read or esteemed in his own country than here; and even the
productions of our young writers are more kindly treated than those of
their own youthful aspirants for fame.
French critics have much merit for this amenity, because the greater
number of them possess a peculiar talent, for the exercise of their
critical acumen, which renders the indulgence of it, like that of the
power of ridicule, very tempting. Among the most remarkable critics of
the day Jules Janin, who though yet little more than a youth, evinces
such talent as a reviewer as to be the terror of mediocrity. His style
is pungent and vigorous, his satire searching and biting, and his tact
in pointing ridicule unfailing. He bids fair to take a most
distinguished place in his profession.
Spent last evening in the Rue d'Anjou, where I met the usual circle and
----. He bepraised every one that was named during the evening, and so
injudiciously, that it was palpable he knew little of those upon whom
he expended his eulogiums; nay, he lauded some whom he acknowledged he
had never seen, on the same principle that actuated the Romans of old
who, having deified every body they knew, erected at last an altar to
the unknown Gods, lest any should by chance be omitted.
This habit of indiscriminate praise is almost as faulty as that of
general censure, and is, in my opinion, more injurious to the praised
than the censure is to the abused, because people are prone to indulge
a greater degree of sympathy towards those attacked than towards those
who are commended. No one said "Amen" to the praises heaped on some
really deserving people by ----, but several put in a palliating
"_pourtant_" to the ill-natured remarks made by ----, whose habit of
abusing all who chance to be named is quite as remarkable as the
other's habit of praising. I would prefer being attacked by ---- to
being lauded by ----, for the extravagance of the eulogiums of the
latter would excite more ill-will towards me than the censures of the
other, as the self-love of the listeners disposes them to feel more
kindly to the one they can pity, than to the person they are disposed
to envy.
I never look at dear, good Madame C---, without thinking how soon we
may,--nay, we must lose her. At her very advanced age we cannot hope
that she will be long spared to us; yet her freshness of heart and
wonderful vivacity of mind would almost cheat one into a hope of her
long continuing amongst us.
She drove out with me yesterday to the Bois de Boulogne, and, when
remarking how verdant and beautiful all around was looking, exclaimed,
"Ah! why is no second spring allowed to us? I hear," continued she,
"people say they would not like to renew their youth, but I cannot
believe them. There are times--would you believe it?--that I forget my
age, and feel so young in imagination that I can scarcely bring myself
to think this heart, which is still so youthful, can appertain to the
same frame to which is attached this faded and wrinkled face," and she
raised her hand to her cheek. "Ah! my dear friend, it is a sad, sad
thing to mark this fearful change, and I never look in my mirror
without being shocked. The feelings ought to change with the person,
and the heart should become as insensible as the face becomes
withered."
"The change in the face is so gradual, too," continued Madame C----.
"We see ourselves after thirty-five, each day looking a little less
well (we are loath to think it ugly), and we attribute it not to the
true cause, the approach of that enemy to beauty--age,--but to some
temporary indisposition, a bad night's rest, or an unbecoming cap. We
thus go on cheating ourselves, but not cheating others, until some day
when the light falls more clearly on our faces, and the fearful truth
stands revealed. Wrinkles have usurped the place of dimples; horrid
lines, traced by Time, have encircled the eyelids; the eyes, too, no
longer bright and pellucid, become dim; the lips dry and colourless,
the teeth yellow, and the cheeks pale and faded, as a dried rose-leaf
long pressed in a _hortus siccus_."
"Alas, alas! who can help thinking of all this when one sees the trees
opening into their rich foliage, the earth putting forth its bright
verdure, and the flowers budding into bloom, while we resemble the hoar
and dreary winter, and scarcely retain a trace of the genial summer we
once knew."
This conversation suggested the following lines, which I wish I could
translate into French verse to give to Madame C----:
GRAY HAIRS.
Snowy blossoms of the grave
That now o'er care-worn temples wave,
Oh! what change hath pass'd since ye
O'er youthful brows fell carelessly!
In silken curls of ebon hue
That with such wild luxuriance grew,
The raven's dark and glossy wing
A richer shadow scarce could fling.
The brow that tells a tale of Care
That Sorrow's pen hath written there,
In characters too deeply traced
Ever on earth to be effaced,
Was then a page of spotless white,
Where Love himself might wish to write.
The jetty arches that did rise,
As if to guard the brilliant eyes,
Have lost their smoothness;--and no more
The eyes can sparkle as of yore:
They look like fountains form'd by tears,
Where perish'd Hope in by-gone years.
The nose that served as bridge between
The brow and mouth--for Love, I ween,
To pass--hath lost its sculptured air.
For Time, the spoiler, hath been there.
The mouth--ah! where's the crimson dye
That youth and health did erst supply?
Are these pale lips that seldom smile,
The same that laugh'd, devoid of guile.
Shewing within their coral cell
The shining pearls that there did dwell,
But dwell no more? The pearls are fled,
And homely teeth are in their stead.
The cheeks have lost the blushing rose
That once their surface could disclose;
A dull, pale tint has spread around,
Where rose and lily erst were found.
The throat, and bust--but, ah! forbear,
Let's draw a veil for ever there;
Too fearful is 't to put in rhyme
The changes wrought by cruel Time,
The faithful mirror well reveals
The truth that flattery conceals;
The charms once boasted, now are flown,
But mind and heart are still thine own;
And thou canst see the wreck of years,
And ghost of beauty, without tears.
No outward change thy soul shouldst wring,
Oh! mourn but for the change within;
Grieve over bright illusions fled,
O'er fondly cherish'd hope, now dead,
O'er errors of the days of youth,
Ere wisdom taught the path of truth.
Then hail, ye blossoms of the grave,
That o'er the care-worn temples wave--
Sent to remind us of "that bourn,
Whence traveller can ne'er return;"
The harbingers of peace and rest,
Where only mortals can be blest.