"Why," said he, "it certainly is not the taste of Kew, whose chief
prospect is the ugliest town on the face of the earth, and whose chief
zephyrs are the breath of its brew houses and lime-kilns. Hampton Court
has always reminded me of a monastery, which I should never dream of
inhabiting unless I put on the gown of a monk. St James's still looks the
hospital that it once was. Windsor is certainly a noble
structure--Edward's mile of palaces--but that residence is better
tenanted than by a subject. While, here I have found a desert, it is
true; but as the poet says or sings--
'I am monarch of all I survey.'"
"Yes," I observed. "But still a desert highly picturesque, and capable of
cultivation."
"Oh! I hope not," he answered laughingly. "The first appearance of
cultivation would put me to flight at once. Fortunately, cultivation is
almost impossible. The soil almost totally prohibits tillage, the sea air
prohibits trees, the shore prohibits trade, nothing can live here but a
fisherman or a shrimp, and thus I am secure against the invasion of all
_improvers_. W----, come here, and assist me to cure Mr Marston of his
skepticism on the absolute impossibility of our ever being surrounded by
London brick and mortar."
A man of a remarkably graceful air bowed to the call, and came towards us.
"W----," said the prince, "comfort me, by saying that no man can be
citizenized in this corner of the world."
"It is certainly highly improbable," was the answer. "And yet, when we
know John Bull's variety of tastes, and heroic contempt of money in
indulging them, such things may be. I lately found one of my country
constituents the inhabitant of a very pretty villa--which he had built,
too, for himself--in Sicily; and of all places, in the Val di Noto, the
most notorious spot in the island, or perhaps on the earth, for all kinds
of desperadoes--the very haunt of Italian smugglers, refugee Catalonians,
expert beyond all living knaves in piracy, and African renegades. Yet
there sat my honest and fat-cheeked friend, with Aetna roaring above him;
declaiming on liberty and property, as comfortably as if he could not be
shot for the tenth of a sixpence, or swept off, chattels and all, at the
nod of an Algerine. No, sir. If the whim takes the Londoner, you will have
him down here without mercy. To the three per cents nothing is
impossible."
"Well, well," said the good-humoured prince, "that cannot happen for
another hundred years; and in the mean time my prospect will never be shut
out. Let them build, or pull down the pyramids, if they will. The tide of
city wealth will never roll through this valley; the noise of city life
will never fill those quiet fields; the smoke of an insurrection of city
hovels will never mingle with the freshness of such an evening as this.
Here, at all events, I have spent half a dozen of the pleasantest years of
my existence, and here, if I should live so long, I might spend the next
fifty, notwithstanding your prophecies, W----, as far from London, except
in the mere matter of miles, as if I had fixed myself in a valley of the
Crimea."
His royal highness was clever, but he was no prophet, more than other men.
Need I say that London found him out within the tenth part of his fifty
years; instead of suffering him to escape, compelled him to build: and,
after the outlay of a quarter of a million, shut him up within his own
walls, like the giant of the Arabian tales in a bottle--His village a huge
suburb of the huge metropolis; his lawn surrounded by a circumvallation of
taverns and toyshops; the sea invisible; and the landscape scattered over
with prettinesses of architecture created by the wealth of Cheapside, and
worthy of all the caprices of all the tourists of this much travelled
world.
But simple as was the exterior of the cottage, all within was costliness,
so far as it can be united with elegance. Later days somewhat impaired the
taste of this accomplished man, and he sought in splendour what was only
to be found in grace. But here, every decoration, from the ceiling to the
floor, exhibited the simplicity of refinement. A few busts of his public
friends, a few statues of the patriots of antiquity, and a few pictures of
the great political geniuses of Europe--among which the broad forehead and
powerful eye of Machiavel were conspicuous--showed at a glance that we
were under the roof of a political personage. Even the figures in chased
silver on the table were characteristic of this taste. A Timoleon, a
Brutus, and a Themistocles, incomparably classic, stood on the plateau;
and a rapier which had belonged to Doria, and a sabre which had been worn
by Castruccio, hung on either side of the mantelpiece. The whole had a
republican tendency, but it was republicanism in gold and
silver--mother-of-pearl republicanism--the Whig principle embalmed in
Cellini chalices and porcelain of Frederic le Grand. Fortunately the
conversation did not turn upon home politics. It wandered lightly through
all the pleasanter topics of the day; slight ventilations of public
character, dexterous allusions to anecdotes which none but the initiated
could understand; and the general easy intercourse of well-bred men who
met under the roof of another well-bred man to spend a few hours as
agreeably as they could. The prince took his full share in the gaiety of
the evening; and I was surprised to find at once so remarkable a
familiarity with the classics, whose sound was scarcely out of my college
ears; and with those habits of the humbler ranks, which could have so
seldom come to his personal knowledge. To his exterior, nature had been
singularly favourable. His figure, though full, still retained all the
activity and grace of youth; his features, though by no means regular,
had a general look of manly beauty, and his smile was cordiality itself.
I have often since heard him praised for supreme elegance; but his manner
was rather that of a man of great natural good-humour, who yet felt his
own place in society, and of that degree of intelligence which qualified
him to enjoy the wit and talents of others, without suffering a sense of
inferiority. Among those at table were C---- and H----, names well known
in the circles of Devonshire House; Sir P---- F----, who struck me at
first sight by his penetrating physiognomy, and who was even then
suspected of being the author of that most brilliant of all libels,
Junius; W----, then in the flower of life, and whose subtilty and whim
might be seen in his fine forehead and volatile eyes; some others, whose
names I did not know, and among them one of low stature, but of
singularly animated features. He was evidently a military man, and of the
Sister Isle, a prime favourite with the prince and every body; and I
think a secretary in the prince's household. He had just returned from
Paris; and as French news was then the universal topic, he took an ample
share in the conversation. The name of La Fayette happening to be
mentioned, as then carrying every thing before him in France--
"I doubt his talents," said the prince.
"I more doubt his sincerity," said W----.
"I still more doubt whether this day three months he will have his head on
his shoulders," said Sir P----.
"None can doubt his present popularity," said the secretary.
"At all events," said his highness, "I cannot doubt that he has wit, which
in France was always something, and now, in the general crash of pedigree,
is the only thing. Any man who could furnish the Parsans with a _bon-mot_
a-day, would have a strong chance of succeeding to the throne in the
probable vacancy."
"A case has just occurred in point," said the secretary. "Last week La
Fayette had a quarrel with a battalion of the National Guard on the
subject of drill; they considering the manual exercise as an infringement
of the Rights of Man. The general being of the contrary opinion, a
deputation of corporals, for any thing higher would have looked too
aristocratic, waited on him at the quarters of his staff in the Place
Vendôme, to demand--his immediate resignation. On further enquiry, he
ascertained that all the battalions, amounting to thirty thousand men,
were precisely of the same sentiments. Next morning happened to have been
appointed for a general review of the National Guard. La Fayette appeared
on the ground as commandant at the head of his staff, and after a gallop
along the line, suddenly alighted from his horse, and taking a musket on
his shoulder, to the utter astonishment of every body walked direct into
the centre of the line, and took post in the ranks. Of course all the
field-officers flew up to learn the reason. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I am
tired of receiving orders as commander-in-chief, and that I may _give_
them, I have become a _private_, as you see.' The announcement was
received with a shout of merriment; and, as in France a pleasantry would
privilege a man to set fire to a church, the general was cheered on all
sides, was remounted and the citizen army, suspending the 'Rights of Man'
for the day, proceeded to march and manoeuvre according to the drill
framed by despots and kings."
"Well done, La Fayette," said the prince, "I did not think that there was
so much in him. To be sure, to have one's neck in danger--for the next
step to deposing would probably be to hang him--might sharpen a man's wits
a good deal."
"Yes," said Sir P----, "so many live by their wits in Paris, that even the
marquis of the mob might have his chance; but a bon-mot actually saved,
within these few days, one even so obnoxious as a bishop from being _sus.
per coll_. In the general system of purifying the church by hanging the
priests, the rabble of the Palais Royal seized the Bishop of Autun, and
were proceeding to treat him 'à la lanterne' as an aristocrat. It must be
owned that the lamps in Paris, swinging by ropes across the streets, offer
really a very striking suggestion for giving a final lesson in politics.
It was night, and the lamp was trimmed. They were already letting it down
for the bishop to be its successor; when he observed, with the coolness of
a spectator--'Gentlemen, if I am to take the place of that lamp, it does
not strike me that the street will be better lighted.' The whimsicality of
the idea caught them at once; a bishop for a _reverbère_ was a new idea;
they roared with laughter at the conception, and bid him go home for a
'_bon enfant_!'"
"I cannot equal the La Fayette story," said C----, "but I remember one not
unlike it, when the Duke of Rutland was Irish viceroy. Charlemont was
reviewing a brigade of his volunteers when he found a sudden stop in one
of the movements, a troop of cavalry on a flank: choosing to exhibit a
will of their own in an extraordinary way. If the brigade advanced, they
halted; if it halted, they advanced. The captain bawled in vain.
Aide-de-camp after aide-de-camp was sent to enquire the cause; they all
came back roaring with laughter. At length Charlemont, rather irritated
by the ridicule of the display, rode down the line and desired the
captain to order them to move; not a man stirred; they were as immovable
as a wall of brass. He then took the affair upon himself; and angrily
asked, 'if they meant to insult him.' 'Not a bit of it, my lord,' cried
out all the Paddies together. 'But we are not on _speaking terms_ with
the captain.'"
"How perfectly I can see Charlemont's countenance at that capital answer:
his fastidious look turning into a laugh, and the real dignity of the man
forced to give way to his national sense of ridicule. Is there any hope of
his coming over this season, C----?" asked the prince.
"Not much. He talks in his letters of England, as a man married to a
termagant might talk of his first love--hopeless regrets, inevitable
destiny, and so forth. He is bound to Ireland, and she treats him as
Catharine treated Petruchio before marriage. But he has not the whip of
Petruchio, nor perhaps the will, since the knot has been tied. He is only
one of the many elegant and accomplished Irishmen who have done just the
same--who find some strange spell in the confusions of a country full of
calamities; prefer clouds to sunshine, and complain of their choice all
their lives."
"Yes," said W----. "It is like the attempt to put a coat and trousers on
the American Indian. The hero flings them off on the first opportunity,
takes to his plumes and painted skin, and prefers being tomahawked in a
swamp to dying in a feather-bed like a gentleman!"
"Or," said the prince, "as Goldsmith so charmingly expresses it of the
Swiss--to whom, however, it is much less applicable than his own
countrymen--
'For as the babe, whom rising storms molest,
Clings but the closer to his mother's breast,
So the rude whirlwind and the tempest's roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.'"
My story next came upon the _tapis_; and the sketch of my capture by the
free-traders was listened to with polite interest.
"Very possibly I may have some irregular neighbours," was the prince's
remark. "But, it must be confessed, that I am the intruder on their
domain, not they on mine; and, if I were plundered, perhaps I should have
not much more right to complain, than a whale-catcher has of being swamped
by a blow of the tail, or a man fond of law being forced to pay a bill of
costs."
"On the contrary," said the secretary, "I give them no slight credit for
their forbearance; for the sacking of this cottage would, probably, be an
easier exploit than beating off a revenue cruiser, and the value of their
prize would be worth many a successful run. I make it a point never to go
to war with the multitude. I had a little lesson on the subject myself,
within the week, in Paris"--
An attendant here brought in a letter for the prince, which stopped the
narrative. The prince honoured the letter with a smile.
"It is from Devonshire House," said he--"a very charming woman the
Duchess; just enough of the woman to reconcile us to the wit, and just
enough of the wit to give poignancy to the woman. She laughingly says she
is growing 'heartless, harmless, and old.' What a pity that so fine a
creature should grow any of the three!"
"There is no great fear of that," observed Sir P----, "if it is to be left
to her Grace's own decision. There is no question in the world on which a
fine woman is more deliberate in coming to a conclusion."
"Well, well," said the prince; "_she_, at least, is privileged. Diamonds
never grow old."
"They may require a little resetting now and then, however," said I.
"Yes, perhaps; but it is only once in a hundred years. If they sparkle
during one generation, what can _we_ ask more? Her Grace tells me an
excellent hit--the last flash of my old friend Selwyn. It happens that
Lady ----"--another fine woman was mentioned--"has looked rather distantly
upon her former associates since her husband was created a marquis. 'I
enquired the other day,' says the duchess, 'for a particular friend of
hers, the wife of an earl.' 'I have not seen her for a long time,' was the
answer. Selwyn whispered at the moment, I dare say, long enough--she has
not seen her since the _creation_.'"
"If Selwyn," said Sir P----, "had not made such a trade of wit; if he had
not been such a palpable machine for grinding every thing into _bons-mots_;
if his distillation of the dross of common talk into the spirit of
pleasantry were less tardy and less palpable; I should have allowed him to
be"--
"What?" asked some one from the end of the table.
"Less a _bore than he was_," was the succinct answer.
"For my part," said the prince, "I think that old George was amusing to
the last. He had great observation of oddity, and, you will admit, that he
had no slight opportunities; for he was a member of, I believe, every club
for five miles round St James's. But he _was_ slow. Wit should be like a
pistol-shot; a flash and a hit, and both best when they come closest
together. Still, he was a fragment of an age gone by, and I prize him as I
should a piece of pottery from Herculaneum; its use past away, but its
colours not extinguished, and, though altogether valueless at the time,
curious as the _beau reste_ of a pipkin of antiquity."
"Sheridan," observed C----, "amounts, in my idea, to a perfect wit, at
once keen and polished; nothing of either violence or virulence--nothing
of the sabre or the saw; his weapon is the stiletto, fine as a needle, yet
it strikes home."
"_Apropos_," said the prince, "does any one know whether there is to be a
debate this evening? He was to have dined here. What can have happened to
him?"
"What always happens to him," said one of the party; "he has postponed
it. Ask Sheridan for Monday at seven, and you will have him next week on
Tuesday at eight. 'Procrastination is the thief of time,' to him more
than, I suppose, any other man living."
"At all events," said H----, "it is the only thief that Sheridan has to
fear. His present condition defies all the skill of larceny. He is
completely in the position of Horace's traveller--he might sing in a
forest of felons."
At this moment the sound of a post-chaise was heard rushing up the avenue,
and Sheridan soon made his appearance. He was received by the prince with
evident gladness, and by all the table with congratulations on his having
arrived at all. He was abundant in apologies; among the rest "his carriage
had broken down halfway--he had been compelled to spend the morning with
Charles Fox--he had been subpoenaed on the trial of one of the Scottish
conspirators--he had been summoned on a committee of a contested
election." The prince smiled sceptically enough at this succession of
causes to produce the single effect of being an hour behind-hand.
"The prince bows at every new excuse," said H---- at my side, "as Boileau
took off his hat at every plagiarism in his friend's comedy--on the score
of old acquaintance. If one word of all this is true, it may be the
breaking down of his post-chaise, and even that he probably broke down for
the sake of the excuse. Sheridan could not walk from the door to the
dinner-table without a stratagem."
I had now, for the first time, an opportunity of seeing this remarkable
man. He was then in the prime of life, his fame, and of his powers. His
countenance struck me at a glance, as the most characteristic that I had
ever seen. Fancy may do much, but I thought that I could discover in his
physiognomy every quality for which he was distinguished: the pleasantry
of the man of the world, the keen observation of the great dramatist, and
the vividness and daring of the first-rate orator. His features were fine,
but their combination was so powerfully intellectual, that, at the moment
when he turned his face to you, you felt that you were looking on a man of
the highest order of faculties. None of the leading men of his day had a
physiognomy so palpably mental. Burke's spectacled eyes told but little;
Fox, with the grand outlines of a Greek sage, had no mobility of feature;
Pitt was evidently no favourite of whatever goddess presides over beauty
at our birth. But Sheridan's countenance was the actual mirror of one of
the most glowing, versatile, and vivid minds in the world. His eyes alone
would have given expression to a face of clay. I never saw in human head
orbs so large, of so intense a black, and of such sparkling lustre. His
manners, too, were then admirable; easy without negligence, and
respectful, as the guest at a royal table, without a shadow of servility.
He also was wholly free from that affectation of epigram, which tempts a
man who cannot help knowing that his good things are recorded. He laughed,
and listened, and rambled through the common topics of the day, with all
the evidence of one enjoying the moment, and glad to contribute to its
enjoyment; and yet, in all this ease, I could see that remoter thoughts,
from time to time, passed through his mind. In the midst of our gaiety,
the contraction of his deep and noble brows showed that he was wandering
far away from the slight topics of the table; and I could imagine what he
might be, when struggling against the gigantic strength of Pitt, or
thundering against Indian tyranny before the Peerage in Westminster Hall.
I saw him long afterwards, when the promise of his day was overcast; when
the flashes of his genius were like guns of distress; and his character,
talents, and frame were alike sinking. But, ruined as he was, and
humiliated by folly as much as by misfortune, I have never been able to
regard Sheridan but as a fallen star--a star, too, of the first magnitude;
without a superior in the whole galaxy from which he fell, and with an
original brilliancy perhaps more lustrous than them all.
"Well, Sheridan, what news have you brought with you?" asked the prince.
The answer was a laugh. "Nothing, but that Downing Street has turned into
Parnassus. The astounding fact is, that Grenville has teemed, and, as the
fruits of the long vacation, has produced a Latin epigram.
'Veris risit Amor roses caducas:
Cui Ver--"Vane puer, tuine flores,
Quaeso, perpetuum manent in aevum?'"
The prince laughed. "He writes on the principle, of course, that in one's
dotage we are privileged to return to the triflings of our infancy, and
that Downing Street cannot be better employed in these days than as a
chapel of ease to Eton."
"Yet, even there, he is but a translator," said Sir P----.
"'The tenth transmitter of an idler's line,'
It is merely a _rechauffé_ of the old Italian.
'Amor volea schernir la primavera
Sulla breve durata e passegiera
Dei vaghi fiori suoi.
Ma la belle stagione a lui rispose
Forse i piacere tuoi
Vita piu lunga avran delle mie rose.'"
The prince, who, under Cyril Jackson, had acquired no trivial scholarship,
now alluded to a singular poetic production, _printed_ in 1618, which
seemed distinctly to announce the French Revolution.
'Festinat propere cursu jam temporis ordo,
Quo locus, et Franci majestas prisca, senatus,
Papa, sacerdotes, missae, simulacra, Deique
Fictitii, atque omnis superos exosa potestas,
Judicio Domini justo sublata peribunt.[A]
[Footnote A:
The time is rushing on
When France shall be undone;
And like a dream shall pass,
Pope, monarch, priest, and mass;
And vengeance shall be just,
And all her shrines be dust,
And thunder dig the grave
Of sovereign and of slave.]
"The production is certainly curious," remarked W----; "but poets always
had something of the fortune-teller; and it is striking, that in many of
the modern Italian Latinists you will find more instances of strong
declamation against Rome, and against France as its chief supporter, than
perhaps in any other authorship of Europe. Audacity was the result of
terror. All Italy reminds one of the papal palace at Avignon--the
banqueting-rooms above, the dungeons of the Inquisition below; popes and
princes feasting within sound of the rack and the scourge. The Revolution
is but the ripening of the disease; the hydrophobia which has been lurking
in the system for centuries."
"Why, then," said Sheridan, "shall we all wonder at what all expected?
France may be running mad without waiting for the moon; mad in broad day;
absolutely stripping off, not merely the royal livery, which she wore for
the last five hundred years with so much the look of a well-bred footman;
but tearing away the last coverture of the national nakedness. Well; in a
week or two of this process, she will have got rid not only of church and
king, but of laws, property, and personal freedom. But, I ask, what
business have we to interfere? If she is madder than the maddest of March
hares, she is only the less dangerous; she will probably dash out her
brains against the first wall that she cannot spring over."
"But, at least, we know that mischief is already done among ourselves.
Those French affairs are dividing our strength in the House," remarked
C----.
"What then?" quickly demanded Sheridan. "What is it to me if others have
the nightmare, while I feel my eyes open? Burke, in his dreams, may dread
the example of France; but I as little dread it as I should a fire at the
Pole. He thinks that Englishmen have such a passion for foreign
importations, that if the pestilence were raging on the other side of the
Channel, we should send for specimens. My proposition is, that the example
of France is more likely to make slaves of us than republicans."
"Is it," asked W----, "to make us
'Fly from minor tyrants to the throne?'"
"I laugh at the whole," replied Sheridan, "as a bugbear. I have no fear of
France as either a schoolmaster, or a seducer, of England. France is
lunatic, and who dreads a lunatic after his first paroxysm? Exhaustion,
disgust, decay, perhaps death, are the natural results. If there is any
peril to us, it is only from our meddling. The lunatic never revenges
himself but on his keeper. I should leave the patient to the native
doctors, or to those best of all doctors for mad nations, suffering,
shame, and time. Chain, taunt, or torment the lunatic, and he rewards you
by knocking out your brains."
"Those are not exactly the opinions of our friend Charles," observed the
prince with peculiar emphasis.
"No," was the reply. "I think for myself. Some would take the madman by
the hand, and treat him as if in possession of his senses. Burke would
gather all the dignitaries of Church and State, and treat him as a
demoniac; attempt to exorcise the evil spirit, and if it continued
intractable, solemnly excommunicate the possessed by bell, book, and
candle. But, as I do not like throwing away my trouble, I should let him
alone."
"The doctrine of confiscation is startling to all property," remarked the
prince. "I wish Charles would remember, that his strength lies in the
aristocracy."
"No man knows it better," observed W----. "But I strongly doubt whether
his consciousness of his own extraordinary talents is not at this moment
tempting him to try a new source of hazard. The people, nay, the populace,
are a new element to him, and to all. I can conceive a man of pre-eminent
ability, as much delighted with difficulty as inferior men are delighted
with ease. Fox has managed the aristocracy so long, and has bridled them
with so much the hand of a master, that what he might have once considered
as an achievement, he now regards as child's play. If Alexander's taming
Bucephalus was a triumph for a noble boy, I scarcely think that, after
passing the Granicus, he would have been proud of his fame as a
horse-breaker. Fox sees, as all men see, that great changes, for either
good or ill, are coming on the world. Next to that of a great king,
perhaps the most tempting rank to ambition would be that of a great
demagogue."
The glitter of Sheridan's eye, and the glow which passed across his cheek,
as he looked at the speaker, showed how fully he agreed with the
sentiment; and I expected some bold burst of eloquence. But, with that
sudden change of tone and temper which was among the most curious
characteristics of the man, he laughingly said, "At all events, whatever
the Revolution may do to our neighbours, it will do a vast deal of good to
ourselves. The clubs were growing so dull, that I began to think of
withdrawing my name from them all. Their principal supporters were daily
yawning themselves to death. The wiser part were flying into the country,
where, at least, their yawning would not be visible; and the rest remained
enveloped in dry and dreary newspapers, like the herbs of a 'Hortus
siccus.' White's was an hospital of the deaf and dumb; and Brookes's
strongly resembled Westminster Hall in the long vacation. It was in the
midst of this general doze that the news from Paris came. I assure you the
effects were miraculous--the universal spasm of lock-jaw was no more. Men
no longer regarded each other with a despairing glance in St James's
Street, and passed on. All was sudden sociability. Even in the city people
grew communicative, and puns were committed that would have struck their
forefathers with amazement. As Burke said, in one of his sybilline
speeches the other night: 'The tempest had come, at once bending down the
summits of the forest and stirring up the depths of the pool.' One of the
aldermen, on being told that the French were preparing to pass the Waal,
said, that if the Dutch would take _his_ advice, and if iron spikes were
not enough, they should _glass_ their _wall_."
The newspapers now arrived, and France for a while engrossed the
conversation. The famous Mirabeau had just made an oration with which all
France was ringing.
"That man's character," said the prince, after reading some vehement
portions of his speech, "perplexes me more and more. An aristocrat by
birth, he is a democrat by passion; but he has palpably come into the
world too early, or too late, for power. Under Louis XIV., he would have
made a magnificent minister; under his successor, a splendid courtier; but
under the present unfortunate king, he must be either the brawler or the
buffoon, the incendiary, or the sport, of the people. Yet he is evidently
a man of singular ability, and if he knows how to manage his popularity,
he may yet do great things."
"I always," said Sheridan, "am inclined to predict well of the man who
takes advantage of his time. That is the true faculty for public life; the
true test of commanding capacity. There are thousands who have ability,
for one who knows how to make use of it; as we are told that there are
monsters in the depths of the ocean which never come up to the light. But
I prefer your leviathan, which, whether he slumbers in the calm or rushes
through the storm, shows all his magnitude to the eye."
"And gets himself harpooned for his pains," observed W----.
"Well, then, at least he dies the death of a hero," was the
reply--"tempesting the brine, and perhaps even sinking the harpooner." He
uttered this sentiment with such sudden ardour, that all listened while he
declaimed--"I can imagine no worse fate for a man of true talent than to
linger down into the grave; to find the world disappearing from him while
he remains in it; his political vision growing indistinct, his political
ear losing the voice of man, his passions growing stagnant, all his
sensibilities palpably paralyzing, while the world is as loud, busy, and
brilliant round him as ever--with but one sense remaining, the unhappy
consciousness that, though not _yet_ dead, he is buried; a figure, if not
of scorn, of pity, entombed under the compassionate gaze of mankind, and
forgotten before he has mouldered. Who that could die in the vigour of his
life, would wish to drag on existence like _Somers_, coming to the Council
day after day without comprehending a word? or Marlborough, babbling out
his own imbecility? If I am to die, let me die in hot blood, let me die
like the lion biting the spear that has entered his heart, or springing
upon the hunter who has struck him--not like the crushed snake, miserable
and mutilated, hiding itself in its hole, and torpid before it is turned
into clay!"
"Will Mirabeau redeem France?" asked the prince; "or will he overwhelm the
throne?"
"I never heard of any one but Saint Christopher," said Sheridan,
sportively, "who could walk through the ocean, and yet keep his head above
water. Mirabeau is out of soundings already."
"Burke," said F----, "predicts that he must perish; that the Revolution
will go on, increasing in terrors; and that it would be as easy to stop a
planet launched through space, as the progress of France to ruin."
"So be it," said Sheridan with sudden animation. "There have been
revolutions in every age of the world, but the world has outlived them
all. Like tempests, they may wreck a royal fleet now and then, but they
prevent the ocean from being a pond, and the air from being a pestilence.
I am content if the world is the better for all this, though France may be
the worse. I am a political optimist, in spite of Voltaire; or, I agree
with a better man and a greater poet--'All's well that ends well.'"
The prince looked grave; and significantly asked, "Whether too high a
present price might not be paid for prospective good?"
Sheridan turned off the question with a smile. "The man who has as little
to pay as I have," said he, "seldom thinks of price one way or the other.
Possibly, if I were his Grace of Bedford, or my Lord Fitzwilliam, I might
begin to balance my rent-roll against my raptures. Or, if I were higher
still, I might be only more prudent. But," said he, with a bow, "if what
was fit for Parmenio was not fit for Alexander, neither would what was fit
for Alexander be fit for Parmenio."
The prince soon after rose from table, and led the way into the library,
where we spent some time in looking over an exquisite collection of
drawings of Greece and Albania, a present from the French king to his
royal highness. The windows were thrown open, and the fresh scents of the
flower garden were delicious; the night was calm, and the moon gleamed far
over the quiet ocean.
At this moment a soft sound of music arose at a distance. I looked in vain
for the musicians--none were visible. The strain, incomparably managed,
now approached, now receded, now seemed to ascend from the sea, now to
stoop from the sky. All crowded to the casement--to me, a stranger and
unexpecting, all was surprise and spell. I, almost unconsciously, repeated
the fine lines in the Tempest:--
"Where should this music be? I' the air, or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon
Some god of the island--
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air--But 'tis gone!
No, it begins again."
The prince returned my quotation with a gracious smile, and the words of
the great poet,
"This is no mortal business, nor no sound
This the earth owns."
The private band, stationed in one of the thickets, had been the
magicians. Supper was laid in this handsome apartment, not precisely
"The spare Sabine feast,
A radish and an egg,"
but perfectly simple, and perfectly elegant. The service was Sevre, and I
observed on it the arms of the Duke of Orleans, combined with those of the
Prince. It had been a present from the most luxurious, and most
unfortunate, man on earth. And thus closed my first day in the exclusive
world.
On the next evening, I had exchanged fresh breezes and bright skies for
the sullen atmosphere and perpetual smoke of the great city; stars for
lamps, and the gentle murmurs of the tide, for the turbid rush and heavy
roar of the million of London. During the day, I had been abandoned
sufficiently to my own meditations. For though we did not leave Brighton
till noon, Marianne remained steadily, and I feared angrily, invisible.
Mordecai, during the journey, consulted nothing but his tablets, and was
evidently plunged in some huge financial speculation; and when he dropped
me at a hotel in St James's, and hurried towards his den in the depths of
the city, like a bat to its cave, I felt as solitary as if I had dropped
from the moon.
But an English hotel is a cure for most of the sorrows of English life.
The well-served table--the excellent sherry--a blazing fire, not at all
unrequired in the first sharp evenings of our autumn--and the newspaper
"just come in," are capital "medicines for the mind diseased." And like
old Maréchal Louvois, who recommended roast pigeons as a cure for
grief--observing that, "whenever he heard of the loss of any of his
friends, he ordered a pair, and found himself always much comforted after
eating them"--I was beginning to sink into that easy oblivion of the
rules of life, which, without actual sleep, has all the placid enjoyment
of slumber; when a voice pronounced my name, and I was startled and half
suffocated by the embrace of a figure who rushed from an opposite box,
and in a torrent of French poured out a torrent of raptures on my
arriving in London.
When I contrived at last to disengage myself, I saw Lafontaine; but so
hollow-cheeked and pale-visaged, that I could scarcely recognize my showy
friend in the skeleton knight who stood gesticulating his ultra-happiness
before me.
At length he drew, with a trembling touch and a glistening eye, from his
bosom a letter, which he placed in my hand with a squeeze of eternal
friendship. "Read," said he, "read, and then wonder, if you can, at my
misery and my gratitude." The letter was from Mariamne, and certainly a
very pretty one--gay and tender at once; gracefully alluding to some
little fretfulness on her part, or his, I could scarcely tell which; but
assuring him that all this was at an end--that she foreswore the world
henceforth, and was quite his own. All this was expressed with an elegance
which I was not quite prepared to find in the fair one, and with a tone of
sincerity for which I was still less prepared; yet with the coquette in
every line.
I should have been glad to see him at any time, but now I received him as
a resource from solitude, or rather from those restless thoughts which
made solitude so painful to me. Another bottle, perhaps, made me more
sensitive, and him more willing to communicate; and before it was
finished, he had opened his whole heart and emptied his letter-case, and I
had consulted him on the _im_probabilities of my ever being able to
succeed in the object which had so strangely, yet so totally, occupied all
my feelings.
It was clear, from her correspondence, that his pretty Jewess had played
him much as the angler plays the trout which he has secured on his hook.
She evidently enjoyed the display of her skill in tormenting: every second
letter was almost a declaration of breaking off the correspondence
altogether; or, what was even worse, mingled with those menaces, there
were from time to time allusions to my opinions, and quotations of my
chance remarks, which, rather to my surprise, showed me that the proverb,
"_Les absens ont toujours tort_," was true in more senses than one, and
that the Frenchman occasionally lost ground by being fifty miles off. Once
or twice it seemed to me that the little "betrothed" was evidently
thinking of the error of precipitate vows, and was beginning to change her
mind. But her last letter was a complete extinguisher of all my vanity, if
it had ever been awakened. It was a curious mingling of poignancy and
penitence; an acknowledgment of the pain which she felt in ever having
given pain, and almost an entreaty that he would hasten his affairs in
London, and return to Brighton, to "guard her against herself, once and
for ever."
All this was quite as it should be; but the envelope contained an enormous
postscript, of which I happened to be the theme. It was evidently written
in another mood of mind; and except that passion is blind, and even
refuses to see, when it might, I should probably have had another
rencontre with the best swordsman in the _Chevaux Legers_. After speaking
of me and my prospects in life, with an interest which reached at least to
the full amount of friendship, the subject of my reveries came on the
tapis. "My father and Mr Marston are on the point of going to town," said
the postscript; "the latter to dream of Mademoiselle De Tourville, without
the smallest hope of ever obtaining her hand. But I scarcely know what to
think of him and his feelings--if feelings they can be called--which
change like the fashions of the day, and at the mercy of all the triflers
of the day; or like the butterfly fluttering round the garden, as if
merely to show that it can flutter. This habit must make him for ever
incapable of the generous devotedness of heart and truth of affection
which I so much value in my '_friend_.'" But here Lafontaine interfered,
obviously through fear of my plunging into some discovery of my own
demerits, which had not struck him on his first perusal; and I surrendered
the letter, postscript and all, having first ascertained by a glance, that
the former was dated at the very hour of the discovery of my unlucky
stanzas to Clotilde, and the latter probably after the "fair penitent" had
time to reflect on the matter, and let compassion make its way. Woman is a
brilliant problem--but a problem after all.
A sudden trampling of cavalry and loud rush of carriages prevented my
attempting the solution--at least for that sitting. All the guests crowded
to the door. "His Majesty was going to Drury-Lane!" It was a performance
"by command." The never-failing pulse in the foreign heart was touched.
Lafontaine crushed his correspondence into his bosom, sprang on his feet,
wiped his eyes of all their sorrows, and proposed that we should see the
display. I was rejoiced to escape a topic too delicate for my handling. A
carriage was called, and by a double fee we contrived, through many a
hazard, in the narrowest and most dangerous defiles of any Christian city,
to reach the stately entrance, just as the troopers were brushing away the
mob from the steps, and the trumpets were outringing the cries of the
orangewomen.
By another bribe we contrived to make our way into a box, whose doors were
more unrelenting than brass or marble to the crowd in the lobby, less
acquainted with the mode of getting through the English world; and I had
my first view of national loyalty, in the handsomest theatre which I have
ever seen. How often it has been burnt down and built since, is beyond my
calculation. It was then perfection.
We had galloped to some purpose; for we had distanced the monarch and his
eight carriages. The royal party had not yet entered the house; and I
enjoyed, for a few minutes, one of the most striking displays that the
opulence and animation of a great country can possibly produce--the
_coup-d'oeil_ of a well-dressed audience in a fine and spacious theatre.
Multitudes spread over hill and dale may be picturesque; the aspect of
great public meetings may be startling, stern, or powerfully impressive;
the British House of Lords, on the opening of the session, exhibits a
majestic spectacle; but for a concentration of all the effects of art,
beauty, and magnificence, I have yet seen nothing like one of the English
theatres in their better days. To compare it in point of importance with
any other great assemblage, would in general be idle. But at this time,
even the assemblage before me, collected as it was for indulgence, had a
character of remarkable interest. The times were anxious. The nation was
avowedly on the eve of a struggle of which no human foresight could
discover the termination. The presence of the king was the presence of the
monarchy; the presence of the assemblage was the presence of the nation.
The house was only a levee on a large scale, and the crowd, composed as it
was of the most distinguished individuals of the country--the ministers,
the peerage, the heads of legislature--and the whole completed by an
immense mass of the middle order, gave a strong and admirable
representation of the power and feelings of the empire.
At length the sound of the trumpets was heard, the door of the royal box
was thrown open, and "God save the King" began. Noble as this noblest of
national songs is, it had, at that period, a higher meaning. It is
impossible to describe the spirit and ardour in which it was received;
nay, the almost sacred enthusiasm in which it was joined by all, and in
which every sentiment was followed with boundless acclamation. It was more
than an honourable and pleased welcome of a popular king. It was a
national pledge to the throne--a proud declaration of public principle--a
triumphant defiance of the enemy and the Earth to strike the stability of
a British throne, or subdue the hearts of a British people.
The king advanced to the front of the box, and bowed in return to the
general plaudits. It was the first time that I had seen George the Third,
and I was struck at once with the stateliness of his figure and the
kindliness of his countenance. Combined, they perfectly realized all that
I had conceived of a monarch, to whose steadiness of determination, and
sincerity of good-will, the empire had been already indebted in periods of
faction and foreign hostility; and to whom it was to be indebted still
more in coming periods of still wilder faction, and of hostility which
brought the world in arms against his crown.
As I glanced around for a moment, to see the effect on the house, which
was then thundering with applause, I observed a slight confusion, like a
personal quarrel, in the pit; and in the next instant saw a hand raised
above the crowd, and a pistol fired full in the direction of the royal
box. The King started back a pace or two, and the general apprehension
that he had been struck, produced a loud cry of horror. He evidently
understood the public feeling, and instantly came forward, and by a bow,
with his hand on his heart, at once assured them of his gratitude and his
safety. This was acknowledged by a shout of universal congratulation; and
many a bright eye, and many a manly one, too, streamed with tears. In the
midst of all, the Queen and the royal family rushed into the box, flung
themselves round the king, and all was embracing, fainting, and terror.
Cries for the seizure of the assassin now resounded on every side. He was
grasped by a hundred hands, and torn out of the house. Then the universal
voice demanded "God save the King" once more: the performers came forward
and the national chant, now almost elevated to a hymn, was sung by the
audience with a solemnity scarcely less than an act of devotion. All the
powers of the stage never furnished a more touching, perhaps a more
sublime scene, than the simple reality of the whole occurrence before my
eyes.
But at length the tumult sank; the order of the theatre was resumed; and
the curtain rose, displaying a remarkably fine view of Roman architecture,
a vista of temples and palaces, the opening scene of Coriolanus.
The fame of the admirable actor who played the leading character was then
at its height; and John Kemble shared with his splendid sister the honour
of being the twin leaders of the theatrical galaxy. I am not about to
dwell on Shakspeare's conception of the magnificent republican, nor on the
scarcely less magnificent representative which it found in the actor of
the night. But I speak to a generation which have never seen either
Siddons or Kemble, and will probably never see their equals. I may be
suffered, too, to indulge my own admiration of forms and faculties which
once gave me a higher sense of the beauty and the powers of which our
being is capable. Is this a dream? or, if so, is it not a dream that tends
to ennoble the spirit of man? The dimness and dulness of the passing world
require relief, and I look for it in the world of recollections.
Kemble was, at that time, in the prime of his powers; his features
strongly resembling those of Siddons; and his form the perfection of manly
grace and heroic beauty. His voice was his failing part; for it was hollow
and interrupted; yet its tone was naturally sweet, and it could, at times,
swell to the highest storm of passion. In later days he seemed to take a
strange pride in feebleness, and, in his voice and his person, affected
old age. But when I saw him first, he was all force, one of the handsomest
of human beings, and, beyond all comparison, the most accomplished classic
actor that ever realized the form and feelings of the classic age. His
manners in private life completed his public charm; and, in seeing Kemble
on the stage, we saw the grace and refinement acquired by the
companionship of princes and nobles, the accomplished, the high-born, and
the high-bred of the land.
From the mingled tenderness and loftiness of Kemble's playing, a new idea
of Coriolanus struck me. I had hitherto imagined him simply a bold
patrician, aristocratically contemptuous of the multitude, indignant at
public ingratitude, and taking a ruthless revenge. But the performance of
the great actor on this night opened another and a finer view to me. Till
now, I had seen the hero, a Roman, merely a gallant chieftain of the most
unromantic of all commonwealths, the land of inflexibility, remorseless
daring, and fierce devotement to public duty. But, by throwing the softer
feelings of the character into light, Kemble made him less a Roman than a
Greek--a loftier and purer Alcibiades, or a republican Alexander, or, most
and truest of all, a Roman Achilles--the same dazzling valour, the same
sudden affections, the same deep conviction of wrong, and the same
generous, but unyielding, sense of superiority. Say what we will of the
subordination of the actor to the author, the great actor shares his
laurels. He, too, is a creator.
But while I followed, with eye and mind, the movements of the stage,
Lafontaine was otherwise employed. His opera-glass was roving the boxes;
and he continually poured into my most ungrateful ear remarks on the
diplomatic body, and recognitions of the _merveilleux_ glittering round
the circle. At last, growing petulant at being thus disturbed, I turned to
beg of him to be silent, when he simply said--"La Voilà!" and pointed to a
group which had just taken their seats in one of the private boxes. From
that moment I saw no more of the tragedy. The party consisted of Clotilde,
Madame la Maréchal, and a stern but stately-looking man, in a rich
uniform, who paid them the most marked attention.
"There is the Marquis," said my companion; "he has never smiled probably,
since he was born, or, I suppose, he would smile to-night; for the
secretary to the embassy told me, not half an hour ago, that his
marriage-contract had just come over, with the king's signature."
My heart sank within me at the sound. Still my gay informant went on,
without much concerning himself about feelings which I felt alternately
flushing and chilling me. "The match will be a capital one, if matters
hold out for us. For Montrecour is one of the largest proprietors in
France; but, as he is rather of the new noblesse, the blood of the De
Tourvilles will be of considerable service to his pedigree. His new
uniform shows me that he has got the colonelcy of my regiment, and, of
course, I must attend his levee tomorrow. Will you come?"
My look was a sufficient answer.
"Ah!" said he, "you will not. Ah! there is exactly the national
difference. Marriage opens the world to a French _belle_, as much as it
shuts the world to an English one. Mademoiselle is certainly very
handsome," said he, pausing, and fixing his opera-glass on her. "The
contour of her countenance is positively fine; it reminds me of a picture
of Clairon in Medea, in the King's private apartments--her smile charming,
her eyes brilliant, and her diamonds perfect."
I listened, without daring to lift my eyes; he rambled on--"Fortunate
fellow, the Marquis--fortunate in every thing but that intolerable
physiognomy of his--Grand Ecuyer, Gold Key, Cross of Saint Louis, and on
the point of being the husband of the finest woman between Calais and
Constantinople. Of course, you intend to leave your card on the marriage?"
"No," was my answer. I suppose that there was something in the sound which
struck him. He stared with palpable wonder.
"What! are you not an old acquaintance? Have you not known her this month?
Have you not walked, and talked, and waltzed, with her?"
"Never spoke a word to her in my life."
"Well, then, you shall not be left in such a forlorn condition long. I
must pay my respects to my colonel. I dare say you may do the same to the
_fiancée_. Mademoiselle will be charmed to have some interruption to his
dreary attentions."
I again refused, but the gay Frenchman was not to be repulsed. He made a
prodigious bow to the box, which was acknowledged by both the ladies.
"There," said he, "the affair is settled. You cannot possibly hesitate
now; that bow is a summons to their box. I can tell you also that you are
highly honoured; for, if it had been in Paris, you could not have got a
sight of the bride except under the surveillance of a pair of chaperons as
grey and watchful as cats, or a couple of provincial uncles as stiff as
their own forefathers armed cap-a-pie."
I could resist no longer; but with sensations perhaps not unlike those of
one ascending the scaffold, I mounted the stairs. As the door opened, and
Lafontaine, tripping forward, announced my name, Clotilde's cheek suffused
with a burning blush, which in the next instant passed away, and left her
pale as marble. The few words of introduction over, she sank into total
silence; and though she made an effort, from time to time, to smile at
Lafontaine's frivolities, it was but a feeble one, and she sat, with
pallid lips and a hectic spot on her statue-like cheek, gazing on the
carpet. I attempted to take some share in the conversation; but all my
powers of speech were gone, my tongue refused to utter, and I remained the
most complete and unfortunate contrast to my lively friend, who was now
engaged in detailing the attempt on the royal life to Madame la Maréchal,
whose later arrival had prevented their witnessing it in person. My nearer
view of the Marquis did not improve the sketch which Lafontaine had given
of his commanding-officer. He was a tall, stiff, but soldierly-looking
person, with an expression, which, as we are disposed to approve or the
reverse, might be called strong sense or sullen temper. But he had some
reputation in the service as a bold, if not an able officer. He had saved
the French troops in America by his daring, from the effects of some
blunders committed by the giddiness of their commander-in-chief; and as
his loyalty was not merely known but violent, and his hatred of the new
faction in France not merely determined but furious, he was regarded as
one of the pillars of the royal cause. The Marquis was evidently in
ill-humour, whether with our introduction or with his bride; yet it was
too early for a matrimonial quarrel, and too late for a lover's one.
Clotilde was evidently unhappy, and after a few common-places we took our
leave; the Marquis himself condescending to start from his seat, and shut
the door upon our parting bow. The stage had now lost all interest for
me, and I prevailed on Lafontaine, much against his will, to leave the
house. The lobby was crowded, the rush was tremendous, and after
struggling our way, with some hazard of our limbs, we reached the door
only just in time to see Montrecour escorting the ladies to their
carriage.
All was over for the night; and my companion, who now began to think that
he had tormented me too far, was drawing me slowly, and almost
unconsciously, through the multitude, when a flourish of trumpets and
drums announced that their Majesties were leaving the theatre. The life
guards rode up; and the rushing of the crowd, the crash of the carriages,
the prancing and restiveness of the startled horses, and the quarrelling
of the coachmen and the Bow Street officers, produced a scene of uproar.
My first thought was the hazard of Clotilde, and I hastened to the spot
where I had seen her last, but she was gone.
"All's safe, you see," said Lafontaine, trying to compose his ruffled
costume; "your John Bulls are dangerous, in their loyalty, to coats and
carriages." I agreed with him, and we sprang into one of the wretched
vehicles that held its ground, with English tenacity, in the midst of a
war of coronets. But our adventures were not to close so simply. Our
driver had not remained in the rain for hours, without applying to the
national remedy against all inclemencies of weather. He had no sooner
mounted the box than I found that we were running a race with every
carriage which we approached, sometimes tilting against them, and
sometimes narrowly escaping from being overturned. At last we met with an
antagonist worthy of our prowess. All my efforts to stop our charioteer
had been useless, for he was evidently beyond any kind of appeal but that
of flinging him from his seat; and Lafontaine, with the genuine fondness
of a Gaul for excitement of all kinds, seemed wonderfully amused as we
swept along. But our new rival was evidently in the same condition with
our own Jehu, and after a smart horsewhipping of each other, they rushed
forward at full speed. A sudden scream from within the other carriage
showed the terror of its inmates, as it dashed along; an old woman in full
dress, however, was all that I could discover; for we were fairly
distanced in the race, though it was still kept up, with all the
perseverance of a fool thoroughly intoxicated. In a few minutes more we
heard a tremendous collision in front, and saw by the blaze of half a
hundred flambeaux brandished in all directions, our rival a complete
wreck, plunged into the midst of a crowd of equipages, waiting for their
lordly owners in front of Devonshire house. It had been one of the weekly
balls given by the Duchess, and the fallen vehicle had damaged panels
covered with heraldry as old as the Plantagenets.
Arriving with almost equal rapidity, but with better fortune, I had but
just time to spring into the street, at the instant when the old lady,
writhing herself out of the window, which was now uppermost, was about to
trust her portly person to chance. I caught her as she clung to the
carriage with her many-braceleted arms, and was almost strangled by the
vigour of her involuntary embrace as she rolled down upon me.
There was nothing in the world less romantic than my position in the midst
of a circle of sneering footmen; and, as if to put romance for ever out of
the question, I was relieved from my plumed and mantled encumbrance only
by the assistance of Townshend, then the prince of Bow Street officers;
who, knowing every thing and every body, informed me that the lady was a
person of prodigious rank, and that he should 'feel it his duty,' before
he parted with me, to ascertain whether her ladyship's purse had not
suffered defalcation by my volunteering.
I was indignant, as might be supposed; and my indignation was not at all
decreased by the coming up of half a dozen Bow Street officers, every one
of whom either "believed," or "suspected," or "knew," me to be "an old
offender." But I was relieved from the laughter of the liveried mob round
me, and probably from figuring in the police histories of the morning, by
the extreme terrors of the lady for the fate of her daughter. The carriage
had by this time been raised up, but its other inmate was not to be found.
She now produced the purse, which had been so impudently the cause of
impeaching my honour; "and offered its contents to all who should bring
any tidings of her daughter, her lost child, her Clotilde!" The name
thrilled on my ear. I flew off to renew the search, followed by the
crowd--was unsuccessful, and returned, only to see my _protégé_ in strong
hysterics. My situation now became embarrassing; when a way was made
through the crowd by a highly-powdered personage, the chamberlain of the
mansion, who announced himself as sent by "her Grace," to say that the
Countess de Tourville was safe, having been taken into the house; and,
further, conveying "her Grace's compliments to Madame la Maréchal de
Tourville, to entreat that she would do her the honour to join her
daughter." This message, delivered with all the pomp of a "gentleman of
the bedchamber," produced its immediate effect upon the circle of cocked
hats and worsted epaulettes. They grew grave at once; and guided by
Townshend, who moved on, hat in hand, and bowing with the obsequiousness
of one escorting a prince of the blood, we reached the door of the
mansion.
But here a new difficulty arose. The duchess was known to La Maréchal, for
to whom in misfortune was not that most generous and kind-hearted duchess
known? But _I_ was still a stranger. However, with my old Frenchwoman,
ceremony was not then the prevailing point. _I_ had been her "preserver,"
as she was pleased to term me. _I_ had been "introduced," which was quite
sufficient for knowledge; above all other merits, "I spoke French like a
Parisian;" in short, it was wholly impossible for her to ascend the
crowded staircase, with her numberless dislocations, by the help of any
other arm on earth. The slightest hope of seeing Clotilde would have made
me confront all the etiquette of Spain; and I bore the contrast of my
undress costume with the feathered and silken multitude which filled the
stairs, in the spirit of a philosopher, until, by "many a step and slow,"
we reached the private wing of the mansion.
There, in an apartment fitted up with all the luxury of a boudoir, yet
looking melancholy from the dim lights and the silent attendants, lay
Clotilde on a sofa. But how changed from the being whom I had just seen at
the theatre! She had been in imminent danger, and was literally dragged
from under the horses' feet. A slight wound in her temple was still
bleeding, and her livid lips and half-closed eyes gave me the image of
death. As for Madame, she was in distraction; the volubility of her
sorrows made the well-trained domestics shrink, as from a display at which
they ought not to be present; and at length the only recipients of her
woes were myself and the physician, who, with ominous visage, and drops in
hand, was administering his aid to the passive patient. As Madame's
despair rendered her wholly useless, the doctor called on me to assist him
in raising her from the floor, on which she had flung herself like a
heroine in a tragedy.
While I was engaged in this most reluctant performance, the accents of a
sweet voice, and the rustling of silk, made me raise my eyes, and a vision
floated across the apartment; it was the duchess herself, glittering in
gold and jewels, turbaned and embroidered, as a Semiramis or a queen of
Sheba; she was brilliant enough for either. She had just left the fancy
ball behind, and was come "to make her personal enquiries for the health
of her young friend."
My office was rather startling, even to the habitual presence of mind of
the leader of fashion. I might have figured in her eyes, as the husband,
or the lover, or the doctor's apprentice; she almost uttered a scream. But
the sound, slight as it was, recalled the Maréchal to her senses. The
explanation was given with promptitude, and received with politeness. My
family, in all its branches, came into her Grace's quick recollection; and
I was thus indebted to my adventure, not only for an introduction to one
of the most elegant women of her time--to the goddess of fashion in her
temple, the Circe of high life, at the "witching hour," but of being most
"graciously" received; and even hearing a panegyric on my chivalry, from
the Maréchal, smilingly echoed by lips which seemed made only for smiles.
A summons from the ball-room soon withdrew the captivating mistress of the
mansion, who retired with the step and glance of the very queen of
courtesy; and I was about to take my leave, when a ceremonial of still
higher interest awaited me. Clotilde, feebly rising from her sofa, and
sustaining herself on the neck of her kneeling mother, murmured her thanks
to me "for the preservation of her dear parent." The sound of her voice,
feeble as it was, fell on my ear like music. I advanced towards her. The
Maréchal stood with her handkerchief to her eyes, and venting her
sensibilities in sobs. The fairer object before me shed no tears, but,
with her eyes half-closed, and looking the marble model of paleness and
beauty, she held out her hand. She was, perhaps, unconscious of offering
more than a simple testimony of her gratitude for the services which her
mother had described with such needless eloquence. But in that delicious,
yet unaccountable feeling--that superstition of the heart, which makes
every thing eventful--even that simple pressure of her hand created a
long and living future in my mind.
Yet let me do myself justice; whether wise or weak in the presence of the
only being who had ever mastered my mind, I was determined not "to point a
moral and adorn a tale." I had other duties and other purposes before me
than to degenerate into a slave of sighs. I was to be no Romeo, bathing my
soul in the luxuries of Italian palace-chambers, moonlight speeches, and
the song of nightingales. I felt that I was an Englishman, and had the
rugged steep of fortune to climb, and climb alone. The time, too, in which
I was to begin my struggle for distinction, aroused me to shake off the
spirit of dreams which threatened to steal over my nature. The spot in
which I lived was the metropolis of mankind. I was in the centre of the
machinery which moved the living world. The wheels of the globe were
rushing, rolling, and resounding in my ears. Every interest, necessity,
stimulant, and passion of mankind, came in an incessant current to London,
as to the universal heart, and flowed back, refreshed and invigorated, to
the extremities of civilization. I saw the hourly operations of that
mighty furnace in which the fortunes of all nations were mingled, and
poured forth remolded. And London itself was never more alive. Every
journal which I took up was filled with the signs of this extraordinary
energy; the projects and meetings, the harangues and political
experiments, of bold men, some rising from the mire into notoriety, if not
into fame; some plunging from the highest rank of public life into the
mire, in the hope of rising, if with darkened, yet a freshened wing. The
debates in parliament, never more vivid than at this crisis, with the two
great parties in full force, and throwing out flashes in every movement,
like the collision of two vast thunder clouds, were a perpetual summons to
action in every breast which felt itself above the dust it trod. But the
French journals were the true excitements to political ardour. They were
more than lamps, guiding mankind along the dusky paths of public
regeneration--they were torches, dazzling the multitude who attempted to
profit by their light; and, while they threw a glare round the head of the
march, blinding all who followed. To one born, like myself, in the most
aristocratic system of society on earth, yet excluded from its advantages
by the mere chance of birth, it was new, and undoubtedly not displeasing,
to see the pride of nobility tamed by the new rush of talent and ambition
which had started up from obscurity in France; village attorneys and
physicians, clerks in offices, journalists, men from the plough and the
pen, supplying the places of the noblesse of Clovis and Capet, possessing
themselves of the highest power while their predecessors were flying
through Europe; conducting negotiations, commanding armies, ruling
assemblies, holding the helm of government in the storm which had
scattered the great names of France upon the waters. I anticipated all the
triumph of the "younger sons."
Even the brief interval of my Brighton visit had curiously changed the
aspect of the metropolis. The emigration was in full force, and every spot
was crowded with foreign visages. Sallow cheeks and starting eyes,
scowling brows and fierce mustaches, were the order of the day; the monks
and the military had run off together. The English language was almost
overwhelmed by the perpetual jargon of all the loud-tongued
provincialities of France. But the most singular portion was the
ecclesiastical. The streets and parks were filled with the unlucky sheep
of the Gallican church, scattered before the teeth and howl of the
republican wolf; and England saw, for the first time, the secrets of the
monastery poured out before the light of day. The appearance of some among
this sable multitude, though venerable and dignified, could not prevent
the infinite grotesque of the others from having its effect on the
spectator. The monks and priesthood of France amounted to little less than
a hundred and fifty thousand. All were now thrown up from the darkness of
centuries before a wondering world. I had Milton's vision of Limbo before
my eyes.
"Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars,
A violent cross wind from either coast
Blew them transverse. Then might ye see
Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost,
And flutter'd into rags; their reliques, beads,
Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls,
The sport of winds."
The mire was fully stirred up in which the hierarchy had enjoyed its sleep
and sunshine for a thousand years. The weeds and worms had been fairly
scraped off, which for a thousand years had grown upon the keel of the
national vessel, and of which the true wonder was, that the vessel had
been able to make sail with them clinging to her so long. In fact, I was
thus present at one of the most remarkable phenomena of the whole
Revolution. The flight of a noblesse was nothing to this change. The
glittering peerage of France, created by a court, and living in perpetual
connexion with the court, as naturally followed its fate as a lapdog
follows the fortunes of its mistress; but here was a digging up of the
moles, an extermination of the bats, a general extrusion of the subversive
principle, to a race of existence which, whether above or below ground,
seemed almost to form a part of the soil. Monkery was broken up, like a
ship dashed against the shores of the bay of Biscay. The ship was not only
wrecked, but all its fragments continued to be tossed on the ceaseless
surge. The Gallican church was flung loose over Europe, at a time when all
Europe itself was in commotion. I own, to the discredit of my political
foresight, that I thought its forms and follies extinguished for ever. The
snake was more tenacious of life than I had dreamed. But if I erred, I did
not err alone.
Mordecai, whom I found immersed deeper and deeper in continental politics,
and who scarcely denied his being the accredited agent of the emigrant
princes, gave his opinion of this strange portion of French society with
much more promptitude than he probably would of the probable fall or rise
of stocks.
"Of all the gamblers at the great gambling-table of France," said he, "the
clergy have played their game the worst. By leaving their defence to the
throne, they have only dragged down the throne. By relying on the good
sense of the National Assembly, they have left themselves without a
syllable to say. Like men pleading by counsel, they have been at the mercy
of their counsel, and been ruined at once by their weakness and their
treachery."
On my observing to him that the church of France was necessarily feebler
than either the throne or the nobles, and that, therefore, its natural
course was to depend on both--
"Rely upon it," said the keen Jew "that any one great institution of the
state which suffers itself, in the day of danger, to depend on any other
for existence, will be ruined. When all are pressed, each will be glad to
get rid of the pressure, by sacrificing the most dependent. The church
should have stood on its own defence. The Gallican hierarchy was, beyond
all question, the most powerful in Europe. Rome and her cardinals were
tinsel and toys to the solid strength of the great provincial clergy of
France. They had numbers, wealth, and station. Those things could give
influence among a population of Hottentots. Let other hierarchies take
example. They threw them all away, at the first move of a bloody
handkerchief on the top of a Parisian pike. They had vast power with the
throne; but what had once been energy they turned into encumbrance, and if
the throne is pulled down, it will be by their weight. They had a third of
the land in actual possession, and they allowed themselves to be stripped
of it by a midnight vote of a drunken assembly. If they were caricatured
in Paris, they had three-fourths of the population as fast bound to them
as bigotry and their daily bread could bind. Three months ago, they might
have marched to Paris with their crucifixes in front, and three millions
of stout peasantry in their rear, have captured the capital, and fricaseed
the foolish legislature. And now, they have archbishops learning to live
on a shilling a-day."
From the Horse guards I had yet obtained nothing, but promises of "being
remembered on the first vacancy;" Clotilde was still a sufferer, and my
time, like that of every man without an object, began to be a deplorable
encumbrance. In short, my vision of high life and its happiness was fairly
vanishing hour by hour. I occasionally met Lafontaine; but, congenial as
our tempers might be, our natures had all the national difference, and I
sometimes envied, and as often disdained, his buoyancy. Even he, too, had
his fluctuations; and a letter from Mariamne, a little more or less
petulant, raised and sank him like the spirits in a thermometer.
But one day he rushed into my apartment with a look of that despair which
only foreigners can assume, and which actually gave me the idea that he
was about to commit suicide. Flinging himself into a chair, and plunging
his hand deep into his bosom, from which I almost expected to see him draw
the fatal weapon, he extracted a paper, and held it forth to me. "Read!"
he exclaimed, with the most pathetic tones of Talma in tragedy--"read my
ruin!" I read, and found that it was a letter from his domineering little
Jewess, commanding him to throw up his commission on the spot, and
especially not to go to France, on penalty of her eternal displeasure. My
looks asked an explanation. "There!" cried the hero of the romance,
"there!--see the caprice, the cruelty, the intolerable tyranny of that most
uncertain, intractable, and imperious of all human beings!" I had neither
consolation nor contradiction to offer.
He then let me into his own secret, with an occasional episode of the
secrets of others--the substance of the whole being, that a counter
revolution was preparing in France; that, after conducting the
correspondence in London for some time, he had been ordered to carry a
despatch, of the highest importance, to the secret agency in Paris; and
that the question was now between love and honour--Mariamne having, by
some unlucky hint dropped from her father, received intimation of the
design, and putting her _veto_ on his bearing any part in it in the most
peremptory manner. What was to be done? The unfortunate youth was fairly
on the horns of the dilemma, and he obviously saw no ray of extrication
but the usual Parisian expedient of the pistol.
While he alternately raved and wept, the thought struck me--"Why might I
not go in his place?" I was growing weary of the world, however little I
knew of it. I had no Mariamne either to prohibit or to weep for me. The
only being for whom I wished to live was lost to me already. I offered
myself as the carrier of the despatch without delay.
I never saw ecstasy so visible in a human being; his eloquence exhausted
the whole vocabulary of national rapture. "I was his friend, his brother,
his preserver. I was the best, the ablest, the noblest of men." But when I
attempted to escape from this overflow of gratitude, by observing on the
very simple nature of the service, his recollection returned, and he
generously endeavoured, with equal zeal, to dissuade me from an enterprise
of which the perils were certainly neither few nor trifling. He was now in
despair at my obstinacy. The emigration of the French princes had not
merely weakened their cause in France, but had sharpened the malice of
their enemies. Their agents had been arrested in all quarters, and any man
who ventured to carry on a correspondence with them, was now alike in
danger of assassination and of the law. After debating the matter long,
without producing conviction on either side, it was at length agreed to
refer the question to Mordecai, whom Lafontaine now formally acknowledged
to be master of the secret on both sides of the Channel.
* * * * *