House-hunting all the day with Lord B----. Went again over the Hôtel
Monaco, and abandoned the project of hiring it. Saw one house newly
built and freshly and beautifully decorated, which I like, but Lord
B---- does not think good enough. It is in the Rue de Matignon. It is
so desirable to get into a mansion where every thing is new and in good
taste, which is the case with the one in question, that I hope Lord
B---- will be satisfied with this.
Sat an hour with General d'O---- who has been unwell. Never was there
such a nurse as his wife, and so he said. Illness almost loses its
irksomeness when the sick chamber is cheered by one who is as kind as
she is clever. Madame d'O---- is glad we have not taken the Hôtel
Monaco, for she resided in it a long time when it was occupied by her
mother, and she thinks the sleeping-rooms are confined and gloomy.
"After serious consideration and mature deliberation," we have finally
decided on taking the house in the Rue de Matignon. It will be
beautiful when completed, but nevertheless not to be compared to the
Hôtel Ney. The _salons de réception_, are very good, and the
decorations are rich and handsome.
The large _salon_ is separated from the lesser by an immense plate of
unsilvered glass, which admits of the fireplaces in each room (they are
_vis-à-vis_) being seen, and has a very good effect. A door on each
side this large plate of glass opens into the smaller _salon_. The
portion of the house allotted to me will, when completed, be like fairy
land. A _salon_, destined to contain my buhl cabinets, _porcelaine de
Sèvres_, and rare _bijouterie_, opens into a library by two
glass-doors, and in the pier which divides them is a large mirror
filling up the entire space.
In the library, that opens on a terrace, which is to be covered with a
_berceau_, and converted into a garden, are two mirrors, _vis-à-vis_ to
the two glass doors that communicate from the _salon_; so that on
entering this last, the effect produced is exceedingly pretty. Another
large mirror is placed at the end of the library, and reflects the
terrace.
When my books and various treasures are arranged in this suite I shall
be very comfortably lodged. My _chambre à coucher_, dressing-room, and
boudoir, are spacious, and beautifully decorated. All this sounds well
and looks well, too, yet we shall leave the Rue de Bourbon with regret,
and Lord B---- now laments that we did not secure it for a long term.
Drove in the Bois de Boulogne. A lovely day, which produced a very
exhilarating effect on my spirits. I know not whether others experience
the same pleasurable sensations that I do on a fine day in spring, when
all nature is bursting into life, and the air and earth look joyous. My
feelings become more buoyant, my step more elastic, and all that I love
seem dearer than before. I remember that even in childhood I was
peculiarly sensible to atmospheric influence, and I find that as I grow
old this susceptibility does not diminish.
We dined at the Rocher de Cancale yesterday; and Counts Septeuil and
Valeski composed our party. The Rocher de Cancale is the Greenwich of
Paris; the oysters and various other kinds of fish served up _con
gusto_, attracting people to it, as the white bait draw visitors to
Greenwich. Our dinner was excellent, and our party very agreeable.
A _dîner de restaurant_ is pleasant from its novelty. The guests seem
less ceremonious and more gay; the absence of the elegance that marks
the dinner-table appointments in a _maison bien montée_, gives a
homeliness and heartiness to the repast; and even the attendance of two
or three ill-dressed _garçons_ hurrying about, instead of half-a-dozen
sedate servants in rich liveries, marshalled by a solemn-looking
_maître-d'hôtel_ and groom of the chambers, gives a zest to the dinner
often wanted in more luxurious feasts.
The Bois de Boulogne yesterday presented one of the gayest sights
imaginable as we drove through it, for, being Sunday, all the
_bourgeoisie_ of Paris were promenading there, and in their holyday
dresses. And very pretty and becoming were the said dresses, from those
of the _femmes de négociants_, composed of rich and tasteful materials,
down to those of the humble _grisettes_, who, with jaunty air and
roguish eyes, walked briskly along, casting glances at every smart
toilette they encountered, more intent on examining the dresses than
the wearers.
A good taste in dress seems innate in Frenchwomen of every class, and a
confidence in their own attractions precludes the air of _mauvaise
honte_ and _gaucherie_ so continually observable in the women of other
countries, while it is so distinct from boldness that it never offends.
It was pretty to see the gay dresses of varied colours fluttering
beneath the delicate green foliage, like rich flowers agitated by a
more than usually brisk summer's wind, while the foliage and the
dresses are still in their pristine purity.
The _beau monde_ occupied the drive in the centre, their vehicles of
every description attracting the admiration of the pedestrians, who
glanced from the well-appointed carriages, whose owners reclined
negligently back as if unwilling to be seen, to the smart young
equestrians on prancing steeds, who caracoled past with the air half
dandy and half _militaire_ that characterises every young Frenchman.
I am always struck in a crowd in Paris with the soldier-like air of its
male population; and this air does not seem to be the result of study,
but sits as naturally on them as does the look, half fierce, half
mocking, that accompanies it. There is something in the nature of a
Frenchman that enables him to become a soldier in less time than is
usually necessary to render the natives of other countries _au fait_ in
the routine of duty, just as he learns to dance well in a quarter of
the time required to teach them to go through a simple measure.
The Emperor Napoleon quickly observed this peculiar predisposition to a
military life in his subjects, and took advantage of it to fool them to
the top of their bent. The victories achieved beneath his banner
reflect scarcely less honour on them than on him, and the memory of
them associates his name in their hearts by the strongest bonds of
sympathy that can bind a Frenchman--the love of glory. A sense of duty,
high discipline, and true courage, influence our soldiers in the
discharge of their calling. They are proud of their country and of
their regiment, for the honour of which they are ready to fight unto
the death; but a Frenchman, though proud of his country and his
regiment, is still more proud of his individual self, and, believing
that all eyes are upon _him_ acts as if his single arm could accomplish
that which only soldiers _en masse_ can achieve.
A pleasant party at dinner at home yesterday. The Marquis de Mornay,
Count Valeski, and General Ornano, were among the number. Laughed
immoderately at the _naïveté_ of ----, who is irresistibly ludicrous.
Madame ---- came in the evening and sang "God save the King." Time was
that her singing this national anthem would have electrified the
hearers, but now--. Alas! alas! that voices, like faces, should lose
their delicate flexibility and freshness, and seem but like the faint
echo of their former brilliant tones!
Does the ear of a singer, like the eye of some _has-been_ beauty, lose
its fine perception and become accustomed to the change in the voice,
as does the eye to that in the face, to which it appertains, from being
daily in the habit of seeing the said face! Merciful dispensation of
Providence, which thus saves us from the horror and dismay we must
experience could we but behold ourselves as others see us, after a
lapse of years without having met; while we, unconscious of the sad
change in ourselves, are perfectly sensible of it in them. Oh, the
misery of the _mezzo termine_ in the journey of life, when time robs
the eyes of their lustre, the cheeks of their roses, the mouth of its
pearls, and the heart of its gaiety, and writes harsh sentences on
brows once smooth and polished as marble!
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Why fleets youth so fast away,
Taking beauty in its train,
Never to return again?
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Why will health no longer stay?
After youth 't will not remain,
Chased away by care and pain.
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Youth, health, beauty, gone for aye,
Life itself must quickly wane
With its thoughts and wishes vain.
Well a-day! ah, well a-day!
Frail and perishable clay
That to earth our wishes chain,
Well it is that brief's thy reign.
I have been reading Captain Marryat's _Naval Officer_, and think it
exceedingly clever and amusing. It is like himself, full of talent,
originality, and humour. He is an accurate observer of life; nothing
escapes him; yet there is no bitterness in his satire and no
exaggeration in his comic vein. He is never obliged to explain to his
readers _why_ the characters he introduces act in such or such a
manner.
They always bear out the parts he wishes them to enact, and the whole
story goes on so naturally that one feels as if reading a narrative of
facts, instead of a work of fiction.
I have known Captain Marryat many years, and liked him from the first;
but this circumstance, far from rendering me more indulgent to his
novel, makes me more fastidious; for I find myself at all times more
disposed to criticise the writings of persons whom I know and like than
those of strangers: perhaps because I expect more from them, if, as in
the present case, I know them to be very clever.
Dined yesterday at the Cadran Bleu, and went in the evening to see _La
Tour d'Auvergne_, a piece founded on the life, and taking its name from
a soldier of the time of the Republic. A nobler character than that of
La Tour d'Auvergne could not be selected for a dramatic hero, and
ancient times furnish posterity with no brighter example. A letter from
Carnot, then Minister of War, addressed to this distinguished soldier
and admirable man, has pleased me so much that I give its substance:
"On fixing my attention on the men who reflect honour on the
army, I have remarked you, citizen, and I said to the First
Consul--'La Tour d'Auvergne Corret, descendant of the family
of Turenne, has inherited its bravery and its virtues. One of
the oldest officers in the army, he counts the greatest
number of brilliant actions, and all the brave name him to be
the most brave. As modest as he is intrepid, he has shewn
himself anxious for glory alone, and has refused all the
grades offered to him. At the eastern Pyrénées the General
assembled all the companies of the grenadiers, and during the
remainder of the campaign gave them no chief. The oldest
captain was to command them, and he was Latour d'Auvergne. He
obeyed, and the corps was soon named by the enemy the
Infernal Column.
"'One of his friends had an only son, whose labour was
necessary for the support of his father, and this young man
was included in the conscription. Latour d'Auvergne, broken
down by fatigue, could not labour, but he could still fight.
He hastened to the army of the Rhine; replaced the son of his
friend; and, during two campaigns, with his knapsack on his
hack and always in the foremost rank, he was in every
engagement, animating the grenadiers by his discourse and by
his example. Poor, but proud, he has refused the gift of an
estate offered to him by the head of his family. Simple in
his manners, and temperate in his habits, he lives on the
limited pay of a captain. Highly informed, and speaking
several languages, his erudition equals his courage. We are
indebted to his pen for the interesting work entitled _Les
Origines Gauloises_. Such rare talents and virtues appertain
to the page of history, but to the First Consul belongs the
right to anticipate its award.'
"The First Consul, citizen, heard this recital with the same
emotions that I experienced. He named you instantly first
grenadier of the Republic, and decreed you this sword of
honour. _Salut et fraternité_."
The distinction accorded so readily to Latour d'Auvergne by the First
Consul, himself a hero, who could better than any other contemporary
among his countrymen appreciate the glory he was called on by Carnot to
reward, was refused by the gallant veteran.
"Among us soldiers," said he, "there is neither first nor last." He
demanded, as the sole recompense of his services, to be sent to join
his old brothers-in-arms, to fight once more with them, not as the
_first_, but as the _oldest_, soldier of the Republic.
His death was like his life, glorious; for he fell on the field of
battle at Neubourg, in 1800, mourned by the whole army, who devoted a
day's pay to the purchase of an urn to preserve his heart, for a niche
in the Pantheon.
Another distinction, not less touching, was accorded to his memory by
the regiment in which he served. The sergeant, in calling his names in
the muster of his company, always called Latour d'Auvergne, and the
corporal answered--"_Mort au champ d'honneur_." If the history of this
hero excited the warm admiration of those opposed to him in arms, the
effect of its representation on his compatriots may be more easily
imagined than described. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm it excited
in their minds. Men, women, and children, seemed electrified by it.
There is a chord in the hearts of the French that responds
instantaneously, and with vivid emotion, to any appeal made to their
national glory; and this susceptibility constitutes the germ so easily
fructified by those who know how to cultivate it.
Enthusiasm, if it sometimes leads to error, or commits its votaries
into the ridiculous, also prompts and accomplishes the most glorious
achievements; and it is impossible not to feel a sympathy with its
unsophisticated demonstrations thus evinced _en masse_. Civilization,
more than aught else, tends to discourage enthusiasm; and where it is
pushed to the utmost degree of perfection, there will this prompter of
great deeds, this darer of impossibilities and instigator of heroic
actions, be most rarely found.
Drove yesterday to see the villa of the Duchesse de Montmorency, which
is to be let. The grounds are very pretty, and a portion of them opens
by iron rails to the Bois de Boulogne, which is a great advantage. But
neither the villa nor the grounds are to be compared to the beautiful
ones in the neighbourhood of London, where, as an old French gentleman
once observed to me, "the trees seem to take a peculiar pride and
pleasure in growing."
I have seen nothing to be compared with the tasteful villas on green
velvet lawns sloping down to the limpid Thames, near Richmond, with
umbrageous trees bending their leafy branches to the earth and water;
or to the colonnaded mansions peeping forth from the well-wooded
grounds of Roehampton and its vicinage.
I can remember as distinctly as if beheld yesterday, the various
tempting residences that meet the eye in a morning drive, or in a row
on the silvery Thames, compelling the violation of the tenth
commandment, by looking so beautiful that one imagines how happily a
life might glide away in such abodes, forgetful that in no earthly
abode can existence be passed free from the cares meant to remind us
that this is not our abiding-place.
Went to see Bagatelle yesterday with the Duchesse de G----. Here the
Duc de Bordeaux and Mademoiselle, his sister, pass much of their time.
It is a very pleasant villa, and contains many proofs of the taste and
industry of these very interesting children, who are greatly beloved by
those who have access to them. Various stories were related to us
illustrative of their goodness of heart and considerate kindness for
those around them; and, making all due allowance for the partiality of
the narrators, they went far to prove that these scions of royalty are
more amiable and unspoilt than are most children of their age, and of
even far less elevated rank. "Born in sorrow, and nursed in tears," the
Duc de Bordeaux's early infancy has not passed under bright auspices;
and those are not wanting who prophesy that he may hereafter look back
to the days passed at Bagatelle as the happiest of his life.
It requires little of the prescience of a soothsayer to make this
prediction, when we reflect that the lives of even the most popular of
those born to the dangerous inheritance of a crown must ever be more
exposed to the cares that weigh so heavily, and the responsibility that
presses so continually on them, than are those who, exempt from the
splendour of sovereignty, escape also its toils. "Oh happy they, the
happiest of their kind," who enjoy, in the peace and repose of a
private station, a competency, good health, a love of, and power of
indulging in, study; an unreproaching conscience, and a cheerful mind!
With such blessings they may contemplate, without a feeling of envy,
the more brilliant but less fortunate lots of those great ones of the
earth, whose elevation but too often serves to render them the target
at which Fortune loves aim her most envenomed darts.
Passed the greater part of the morning in the house in the Rue de
Matignon, superintending the alterations and improvements to be carried
into execution there. It has been found necessary to build an
additional room, which the proprietor pledges himself can be ready for
occupation in six weeks, and already have its walls reached nearly to
their intended height. The builders seem to be as expeditious as the
upholsterers at Paris, and adding a room or two to a mansion appears to
be as easily accomplished as adding some extra furniture.
One is made to pay dearly, however, for this facility and expedition;
for rents are extravagantly high at Paris, as are also the prices of
furniture.
Already does the terrace begin to assume the appearance of a garden.
Deep beds of earth inclosed in green cases line the sides, and an
abundance of orange-trees, flowering shrubs, plants, and flowers, are
placed in them.
At the end of the terrace, the wall which bounds it has been painted in
fresco, with a view of Italian scenery; and this wall forms the back of
an aviary, with a fountain that plays in the centre. A smaller aviary,
constructed of glass, is erected on the end of the terrace, close to my
library, from the window of which I can feed my favourite birds; and
this aviary, as well as the library, is warmed by means of a stove
beneath the latter. The terrace is covered by a lattice-work, formed
into arched windows at the side next the court: over the sides and roof
there are trailing parasitical plants. Nothing in the new residence
pleases me so much as this suite, and the terrace attached to it.
Already do we begin to feel the unsettled state peculiar to an intended
change of abode, and the prospect of entering a new one disturbs the
sense of enjoyment of the old. Gladly would we remain where we are, for
we prefer this hôtel to any other at Paris; but the days we have to
sojourn in it are numbered, and our regret is unavailing.