September, 1829.--A chasm of many months in my journal. When last I
closed it, little could I have foreseen the terrible blow that awaited
me. Well may I exclaim with the French writer whose works I have been
just reading, "_Nous, qui sommes bornés en tout, comment le sommes-nous
si peu quand il s'agit de souffrir_." How slowly has time passed since!
Every hour counted, and each coloured by care, the past turned to with
the vain hope of forgetting the present, and the future no longer
offering the bright prospect it once unfolded!
How is my destiny changed since I last opened this book! My hopes have
faded and vanished like the leaves whose opening into life I hailed
with joy six months ago, little dreaming that before the first cold
breath of autumn had tinted them with brown, _he_ who saw them expand
with me would have passed from the earth!
_October_.--Ill, and confined to my chamber for several days, my
physician prescribes society to relieve low spirits; but in the present
state of mine, the remedy seems worse than the disease.
My old friends Mr. and Mrs. Mathews, and their clever son, have arrived
at Paris and dined here yesterday. Mr. Matthews is as entertaining as
ever, and his wife as amiable and _spirituelle_. They are excellent as
well as clever people, and their society is very agreeable. Charles
Mathews, the son, is full of talent, possesses all his father's powers
of imitation, and sings comic songs of his own composition that James
Smith himself might be proud to have written.
The Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, the Marquise de Poulpry, Lady
Combermere, Madame Craufurd, and Count Valeski, came in the evening,
and were all highly gratified with some recitations and songs given us
by Mr. Mathews and his son. They were not less pleased with Mrs.
Mathews, whose manners and conversation are peculiarly fascinating, and
whose good looks and youthfulness of appearance made them almost
disbelieve that she could be the mother of a grown-up son.
How forcibly did the recitations and songs bring back former times to
my memory, when in St. James's Square, or in his own beautiful cottage
at Highgate, I have so frequently been delighted by the performances of
this clever and worthy man! The recollection of the past occupied me
more last night than did the actual present, and caused me to return
but a faint echo to the reiterated applause which every new effort of
his drew forth from the party. There are moments when the present
appears like a dream, and that we think the past, which is gone for
ever, has more of reality in it!
I took Mr. and Mrs. Mathews to the Jardin des Plantes to-day, and was
much amused by an incident that occurred there. A pretty child, with
her _bonne_, were seated on a bench near to which we placed ourselves.
She was asking questions relative to the animals she had seen, and Mr.
Mathews having turned his head away from her, gave some admirable
imitations of the sounds peculiar to the beasts of which she was
speaking, and also of the voice and speeches of the person who had
exhibited them.
Never did he exert himself more to please a crowded and admiring
audience than to amuse this child, who, maintaining an immovable
gravity during the imitations, quietly observed to her nurse, "_Ma
bonne, ce Monsieur est bien drôle_."
The mortification of Mr. Mathews on this occasion was very diverting.
"How!" exclaimed he, "is it possible that all my efforts to amuse that
child have so wholly failed? She never moved a muscle! I suppose the
French children are not so easily pleased as our English men and women
are?"
He reverted to this disappointment more than once during our drive
back, and seemed dispirited by it. Nevertheless, he gave us some most
humorous imitations of the lower orders of the French talking loudly
together, in which he spoke in so many different voices that one could
have imagined that no less than half-a-dozen people, at least, were
engaged in the conversation.
I think so highly of the intellectual powers of Mr. Mathews, and find
his conversation so interesting that, admirable as are his imitations,
I prefer the former. He has seen so much of the world in all its
phases, that he has a piquant anecdote or a clever story to relate
touching every place and almost every person mentioned. Yet, with all
this intuitive and acquired knowledge of the world, he possesses all
the simplicity of a child, and a good nature that never can resist an
appeal to it.
Spent all yesterday in reading, and writing letters on business. I
begin to experience the _ennui_ of having affairs to attend to, and
groan in spirit, if not aloud, at having to read and write dry details
on the subject. To unbend my mind from its painful thoughts and
tension, I devoted the evening to reading, which affords me the surest
relief, by transporting my thoughts from the cares that oppress me.
Had a long visit from my old acquaintance the Count de Montalembert,
to-day. He is in very low spirits, occasioned by the recent death of an
only and charming daughter, and could not restrain his deep emotion,
when recounting to me the particulars of her latter days. His grief was
contagious, and found a chord in my heart that responded to it. When we
last met, it was in a gay and brilliant party, each of us in high
spirits; and now, though but a few more years have passed over our
heads, how changed are our feelings! We meet, not to amuse and to be
amused, but to talk of those we have lost, and whose loss has darkened
our lives. He spoke of his son, who already gives the promise of
distinguishing himself, and of reflecting credit on his family.
How little do we know people whom we meet only in general society, in
which every one assumes a similar tone and manner, reserving for home
the peculiarities that distinguish each from the other, and suppressing
all demonstration of the feelings indulged only in the privacy of the
domestic circle!
I have been many years acquainted with the Count de Montalembert, yet
never really appreciated him until today. Had I been asked to describe
him yesterday, I should have spoken of him as a _spirituel_, lively,
and amusing man, with remarkably good manners, a great knowledge of the
world, and possessing in an eminent degree the tact and talent _de
société_. Had any one mentioned that he was a man of deep feeling, I
should have been disposed to question the discernment of the person who
asserted it: yet now I am as perfectly convinced of the fact as it is
possible to be, and had he paid this visit before affliction had
assailed me, he would not, I am convinced, have revealed his own grief.
Yes, affliction is like the divinatory wand, whose touch discovers
deep-buried springs the existence of which was previously unknown.
---- called on me to-day, and talked a good deal of ----. I endeavoured
to excite sympathy for the unhappy person, but failed in the attempt.
The unfortunate generally meet with more blame than pity; for as the
latter is a painful emotion, people endeavour to exonerate themselves
from its indulgence, by trying to discover some error which may have
led to the misfortune they are too selfish to commiserate. Alas! there
are but few friends who, like ivy, cling to ruin, and ---- is not one
of these.
The Prince and Princesse Soutzo dined with us yesterday. They are as
amiable and agreeable as ever, and I felt great gratification in
meeting them again. We talked over the many pleasant days we passed
together at Pisa. Alas! how changed is my domestic circle since then!
They missed _one_ who would have joined me in welcoming them to Paris,
and whose unvaried kindness they have not forgotten!
The "decent dignity" with which this interesting couple support their
altered fortunes, won my esteem on our first acquaintance. Prince
Soutzo was Hospodar, or reigning Prince of Moldavia, and married the
eldest daughter of Prince Carraga, Hospodar of Walachia. He maintained
the state attendant on his high rank, beloved and respected by those he
governed, until the patriotic sentiments inseparable from a great mind
induced him to sacrifice rank, fortune, and power, to the cause of
Greece, his native land. He only saved his life by flight; for the
angry Sultan with whom he had previously been a great favourite, had
already sent an order for his decapitation! Never was a reverse of
fortune borne with greater equanimity than by this charming family,
whose virtues, endowments, and acquirements, fit them for the most
elevated station.
My old acquaintances, Mr. Rogers the poet, and Mr. Luttrell, called on
me to-day. Of how many pleasant days in St. James's Square did the
sight of both remind me! Such days I shall pass there no more: but I
must not give way to reflections that are, alas! as unavailing as they
are painful. Both of these my old friends are unchanged. Time has dealt
gently by them during the seven years that have elapsed since we last
met: the restless tyrant has been less merciful to me. We may, however,
bear with equanimity the ravages of Time, if we meet the destroyer side
by side with those dear to us, those who have witnessed our youth and
maturity, and who have advanced with us into the autumn of life; but,
when they are lost to us, how dreary becomes the prospect!
How difficult it is to prevent the mind from dwelling on thoughts
fraught with sadness, when once the chord of memory vibrates to the
touch of grief!
Mr. Rogers talked of Byron, and evinced a deep feeling of regard for
his memory, He little knows the manner in which he is treated in a
certain poem, written by him in one of his angry moods, and which I
urged him, but in vain, to commit to the flames. The knowledge of it,
however, would, I am convinced, excite no wrath in the heart of Rogers,
who would feel more sorrow than anger that one he believed his friend
could have written so bitter a diatribe against him. And, truth to say,
the poem in question is more injurious to the memory of Byron than it
could be painful to him who is the subject of it; but I hope that it
may never be published, and I think no one who had delicacy or feeling
would bring it to light.
Byron read this lampoon to us one day at Genoa, and enjoyed our dismay
at it like a froward boy who has achieved what he considers some
mischievous prank. He offered us a copy, but we declined to accept it;
for, being in the habit of seeing Mr. Rogers frequently beneath our
roof, we thought it would be treacherous to him. Byron, however, found
others less scrupulous, and three or four copies of it have been given
away.
The love of mischief was strong in the heart of Byron even to the last,
but, while recklessly indulging it in trifles, he was capable of giving
proofs of exalted friendship to those against whom he practised it;
and, had Rogers stood in need of kindness, he would have found no lack
of it in his brother poet, even in the very hour he had penned the
malicious lampoon in question against him.
Comte d'Orsay, with his frank _naÏveté_, observed, "I thought you were
one of Mr. Rogers's most intimate friends, and so all the world had
reason to think, after reading your dedication of the _Giaour_ to him."
"Yes," answered Byron, laughing, "and it is our friendship that gives
me the privilege of taking a liberty with him."
"If it is thus you evince your friendship," replied Comte d'Orsay, "I
should be disposed to prefer your enmity."
"You," said Byron, "could never excite this last sentiment in my
breast, for you neither say nor do spiteful things."
Brief as was the period Byron had lived in what is termed fashionable
society in London, it was long enough to have engendered in him a habit
of _persiflage_, and a love of uttering sarcasms, (more from a desire
of displaying wit than from malice,) peculiar to that circle in which,
if every man's hand is not against his associates, every man's tongue
is. He drew no line of demarcation between _uttering_ and _writing_
satirical things; and the first being, if not sanctioned, at least
permitted in the society in which he had lived in London, he considered
himself not more culpable in inditing his satires than the others were
in speaking them. He would have laughed at being censured for putting
on paper the epigrammatic malice that his former associates would
delight in uttering before all except the person at whom it was aimed;
yet the world see the matter in another point of view, and many of
those who _speak_ as much evil of their _soi-disant_ friends, would
declare, if not feel, themselves shocked at Byron's writing it.
I know no more agreeable member of society than Mr. Luttrell. His
conversation, like a limpid stream, flows smoothly and brightly along,
revealing the depths beneath its current, now sparkling over the
objects it discloses or reflecting those by which it glides. He never
talks for talking's sake; but his mind is so well filled that, like a
fountain which when stirred sends up from its bosom sparkling showers,
his mind, when excited, sends forth thoughts no less bright than
profound, revealing the treasures with which it is so richly stored.
The conversation of Mr. Luttrell makes me think, while that of many
others only amuses me.
Lord John Russell has arrived at Paris, and sat with me a considerable
time to-day. How very agreeable he can be when his reserve wears off,
and what a pity it is he should ever allow it to veil the many fine
qualities he possesses! Few men have a finer taste in literature, or a
more highly cultivated mind. It seizes with rapidity whatever is
brought before it; and being wholly free from passion or egotism, the
views he takes on all subjects are just and unprejudiced. He has a
quick perception of the ridiculous, and possesses a fund of dry caustic
humour that might render him a very dangerous opponent in a debate,
were it not governed by a good breeding and a calmness that never
forsake him.
Lord John Russell is precisely the person calculated to fill a high
official situation. Well informed on all subjects, with an ardent love
of his country, and an anxious desire to serve it, he has a sobriety of
judgment and a strictness of principle that will for ever place him
beyond the reach of suspicion, even to the most prejudiced of his
political adversaries. The reserve complained of by those who are only
superficially acquainted with him, would be highly advantageous to a
minister; for it would not only preserve him from the approaches to
familiarity, so injurious to men in power, but would discourage the
hopes founded on the facility of manner of those whose very smiles and
simple acts of politeness are by the many looked on as an encouragement
to form the most unreasonable ones, and as an excuse for the indulgence
of angry feelings when those unreasonable hopes are frustrated.
Lord John Russell, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Luttrell, Monsieur Thiers, Monsieur
Mignet, and Mr. Poulett Thomson, dined here yesterday. The party was an
agreeable one, and the guests seemed mutually pleased with each other.
Monsieur Thiers is a very remarkable person--quick, animated, and
observant: nothing escapes him, and his remarks are indicative of a
mind of great power. I enjoy listening to his conversation, which is at
once full of originality, yet free from the slightest shade of
eccentricity.
Monsieur Mignet, who is the inseparable friend of Monsieur Thiers,
reminds me every time I see him of Byron, for there is a striking
likeness in the countenance. With great abilities, Monsieur Mignet
gives me the notion of being more fitted to a life of philosophical
research and contemplation than of action, while Monsieur Thiers
impresses me with the conviction of his being formed to fill a busy and
conspicuous part in the drama of life.
He is a sort of modern Prometheus, capable of creating and of vivifying
with the electric spark of mind; but, whether he would steal the fire
from Heaven, or a less elevated region, I am not prepared to say. He
has called into life a body--and a vast one--by his vigorous writings,
and has infused into it a spirit that will not be soon or easily
quelled. Whether that spirit will tend to the advancement of his
country or not, time will prove; but, _en attendant_, its ebullitions
may occasion as much trouble to the _powers that be_ as did the spirit
engendered by Mirabeau in a former reign.
The countenance of Monsieur Thiers is remarkable. The eyes, even
through his spectacles, flash with intelligence, and the expression of
his face varies with every sentiment he utters. Thiers is a man to
effect a revolution, and Mignet would be the historian to narrate it.
There is something very interesting in the unbroken friendship of these
two men of genius, and its constancy elevates both in my estimation.
They are not more unlike than are their respective works, both of
which, though so dissimilar, are admirable in their way. The mobility
and extreme excitability of the French, render such men as Monsieur
Thiers extremely dangerous to monarchical power. His genius, his
eloquence, and his boldness, furnish him with the means of exciting the
enthusiasm of his countrymen as surely as a torch applied to gunpowder
produces an explosion. In England these qualities, however elevated,
would fail to produce similar results; for enthusiasm is there little
known, and, when it comes forth, satisfies itself with a brief
manifestation, and swiftly resigns itself to the prudent jurisdiction
of reason. Napoleon himself, with all the glory associated with his
name--a glory that intoxicated the French--would have failed to
inebriate the sober-minded English.
Through my acquaintance with the Baron de Cailleux, who is at the head
of the Musée, I obtained permission to take Lord John Russell, Mr.
Rogers, and Mr. Luttrell, to the galleries of the Louvre yesterday, it
being a day on which the public are excluded. The Baron received us,
did the honours of the Musée with all the intelligence and urbanity
that distinguish him, and made as favourable an impression on my
countrymen as they seemed to have produced on him.
Rogers has a pure taste in the fine arts, and has cultivated it _con
amore_; Luttrell brings to the study a practised eye and a matured
judgment; but Lord John, nurtured from infancy in dwellings, the walls
of which glow with the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of the old masters and the best
works of the modern ones, possesses an exquisite tact in recognizing at
a glance the finest points in a picture, and reasons on them with all
the _savoir_ of a connoisseur and the feeling of an amateur.
It is a pleasant thing to view collections of art with those fully
capable of appreciating them, and I enjoyed this satisfaction
yesterday. The Baron de Cailleux evinced no little pleasure in
conducting my companions from one masterpiece to another, and two or
three hours passed away rapidly in the interesting study.
The Marquis and Marquise de B----, Comte V----, and some others, dined
here yesterday. The Marquise de B---- is very clever, has agreeable
manners, knows the world thoroughly, and neither under nor overvalues
it. A constant friction with society, while it smoothes down asperities
and polishes manners, is apt to impair if not destroy much of the
originality and raciness peculiar to clever people. To suit themselves
to the ordinary level of society, they become either insipid or
satirical; they mix too much water, or apply cayenne pepper to the wine
of their conversation: hence that mind which, apart from the artificial
atmosphere of the busy world, might have grown into strength and
beauty, becomes like some poor child nurtured in the unhealthy
precincts of a dense and crowded city,--diseased, stunted, rickety, and
incapable of distinguishing itself from its fellows.
As clever people cannot elevate the mass with which they herd to their
own level, they are apt to sink to theirs; and persons with talents
that might have served for nobler purposes are suffered to degenerate
into _diseurs de bons mots_ and _raconteurs de société_, content with
the paltry distinction of being considered amusing. How many such have
I encountered, satisfied with being pigmies, who might have grown to be
giants, but who were consoled by the reflection that in that world in
which their sole aim is to shine, pigmies are more tolerated than
giants, as people prefer looking down to looking up!
Lord Allen and Sir Andrew Barnard dined here yesterday. They appear to
enter into the gaiety of Paris with great zest, go the round of the
theatres, dine at all the celebrated _restaurateurs_, mix enough in the
_beau monde_ to be enabled to observe the difference between the
Parisian and London one, and will, at the expiration of the term
assigned to their _séjour_ here, return to England well satisfied with
their trip and with themselves.
Lord A---- has tasted all the _nouveaux plats à la mode_, for at Paris
new dishes are as frequently invented as new bonnets or caps; and the
proficiency in the culinary art which he has acquired will render him
an oracle at his clubs, until the more recent arrival of some other
epicurean from the French capital deposes his brief sovereignty.
But it is not in the culinary art alone that Lord Allen evinces his
good taste, for no one is a better judge of all that constitutes the
_agrémens_ of life, or more _au fait_ of the [* omitted word?] of
contributing to them.
Sir A. B----, as devoted as ever to music, has heard all the new, and
finds that the old, like old friends, loses nothing by comparison. It
is pleasant to see that the advance of years impairs not the taste for
a refined and innocent pleasure.