It is sometimes a perfect want with me to spend a day entirely alone in
my own room. I pass it in a sort of dreamy brooding. I go over the past
and the future,--all that I have felt and suffered,--till, by the
mixture of so many colours, one misty grey tint overspreads the whole;
and the dissonances of life melt away at length, in a soft objectless
melancholy.
The barrel-organs which resound day and night in every street, and are
at other times insufferable, are favourable to such a state of mind.
They too mingle a hundred different airs, till all music loses itself in
an indistinct dreamy ringing in the ears.
A much more entertaining thing is another sort of street performance,--a
genuine national comedy. It afforded me great amusement from my window,
and is well worth a somewhat particular description.
The hero of this drama is Punch,--the English Punch,--perfectly
different from the Italian Pulcinella. I send you a faithful portrait of
him in the act of beating his wife to death;--for he is the most godless
droll that ever I met with; and as completely without conscience as the
wood out of which he is made;--a little, too, the type of the nation he
represents.
Punch has, like his namesake, something of rum, lemon and sugar in him;
he is strong, sour and sweet, and withal pretty indifferent to the
confusion he causes. He is, moreover, the most absolute egotist the
earth contains, 'et ne doute jamais de rien.' He conquers everything by
his invincible merriment and humour, laughs at the laws, at men, and at
the devil himself; and shows in part what the Englishman is, in part
what he wishes to be, in one composite picture;--on the native side,
selfishness, perseverance and high spirit, and, wherever it is called
for, reckless determination;--on the foreign, unconquerable levity, and
ever ready wit. But allow me to paint Punch to you by his own proper
words, and to take my further account of him from his biography.
As a descendant of Pulcinella of Acerra, he is, in the first place,
unquestionably a nobleman of ancient stock. Harlequin, Clown, the German
Casperle and others are his near of kin;--but he, for his great
audacity, stands best as head of the family. Pious, alas! he is not:
being a true Englishman, he doubtless goes to church on Sundays; though,
may be, would beat any parson to death who bored him with attempts to
convert him. It is not to be denied that Punch is a wild fellow,--no
very moral personage, and not made of wood for nothing. No man can be
better fitted for a boxer,--other men's hits he feels not, and his own
are irresistible. With that, he is a true Turk in his small respect for
human life; endures no contradiction, and fears not the devil himself.
On the other hand, we can but admire his great qualities in many
respects. His admirable insensibility, and his already-commended
invariable good humour; his high heroic egotism; his unalterable
self-complacency; his exhaustless wit, and the consummate cunning with
which he gets himself out of every scrape, and triumphs victoriously
over every antagonist,--throws a bright lustre over all the little
freedoms which he is apt to take with human life. In him has not inaptly
been observed a compound of Richard the Third and Falstaff. Even in his
outward man he unites the crooked legs and hump-back of Richard, with
the portly rotundity of Falstaff; to which are added the long nose and
the fiery black eyes of Italy.
His dwelling is a box, with suitable internal decorations, set on four
poles,--a theatre which can be erected in a few seconds in any place; a
drapery falling over the poles, or legs, conceals Punch's soul, which
animates the puppets and lends them the needful words. The drama in
which he daily appears in the streets, varies, therefore, with the
talents of the person who acts as interpreter between Punch and the
public. The course of the incidents is however always essentially the
same, and pretty nearly as follows:
As the curtain rises, Punch is heard behind the scenes trolling the
French ballad 'Malbrooke s'en va-t-en guerre,' and presently appears
dancing, and in high good humour, and in droll verses tells the
spectators what manner of humour he is of. He calls himself a gay merry
fellow, who loves to give a joke, but is not very ready to take one; and
if he is ever gentle, it is only towards the fair sex. With his money he
is frank and free; and his grand object is to laugh his whole life long,
and to grow as fat as he can. He declares himself a great admirer and
seducer of the girls, and, as long as he can get it, a friend of good
cheer; when he cannot, however, he can live on cheese-parings, and if he
die--why then there's no more to be said, than that's all over, and
there's an end of Punch and the play. (This latter avowal unquestionably
smells a little of atheism.)
After this monologue, he calls behind the scene for Judy, his young
wife, who will not come, but at last sends her dog instead. Punch
strokes and caresses him, but the spiteful cur seizes him by the nose,
and holds him fast, till after a laughable fight, and various rough
jokes of the not too discreet Punch, he at last beats off the dog and
gives him a sound drubbing.
His neighbour Scaramouch, hearing the noise, here enters with a large
stick, and calls Punch to account why he beat Judy's favourite dog,
"that _never_ bit anybody." "And I _never_ beat a dog," replied Punch;
"but," continues he, "what have you there in your hand, my dear
Scaramouch?" "Oh, nothing but a fiddle; will you hear the tone of it? Do
but come and hear what a fine instrument it is." "Thank ye, thank ye, my
good Scaramouch," replies Punch modestly, "I can distinguish the tone of
it very well here." Scaramouch, however, is not to be so put off, and
while he dances about to the sound of his own singing, and flourishes
his stick, he gives Punch, as if by accident, a great knock on the head.
Punch affects not to heed it, but begins to dance too, and watching his
opportunity suddenly snatches the stick out of Scaramouch's hand, and in
a trice gives him such a blow with it that poor Scaramouch's head rolls
down at his feet,--for where Punch lays about him the grass does not
grow. "Ha! ha!" cries he, laughing, "did you hear the fiddle, my good
Scaramouch? What a fine tone it has! As long as you live, my lad, you'll
never hear a finer. But where is my Judy? My sweet Judy, why don't you
come."
Meanwhile Punch has hidden the body of Scaramouch behind the curtain,
and Judy, the 'feminine' pendant of her husband, with the same monstrous
nose, enters. A comically tender scene ensues, after which Punch asks
for his child; Judy goes to fetch it, and Punch breaks forth into an
ecstatic monologue on his happiness as a husband and father. The little
monster arrives, and now the parents can hardly contain themselves for
joy, and lavish upon it the tenderest names and caresses. Judy, however,
called away by her household duties, soon departs, and leaves the infant
in its father's arms, who somewhat awkwardly tries to play the nurse and
to dandle the child, which begins to cry piteously, and to behave very
naughtily. Punch at first tries to soothe it, but soon grows impatient,
beats it, and, as it screams all the more violently, he flies into a
rage, and throws it out of the window, with curses, plump into the
street, where it falls among the spectators and breaks its neck. Punch
leans over the edge of the stage and looks after it, makes a few
grimaces, shakes his head, and begins to laugh, and then dances about,
singing merrily.
Meantime Judy returns, and asks with alarm for her darling. "The child
is gone to sleep," replies Punch carelessly; however, after a long
investigation he is forced to confess that while he was playing with
him, he let him fall out of the window. Judy is out of herself, tears
her hair, and overwhelms her cruel tyrant with the most dreadful
reproaches. In vain does he try to soothe her; she will not hear him,
and runs away uttering vehement threats. Punch holds his belly for
laughter, dances about, and for very wantonness, beats time with his own
head upon the walls. But Judy now comes behind him with a broomstick and
belabours him with all her might.
At first he gives her good words, promises never to throw another child
out of the window; begs her, however, not to take the joke so
seriously;--but finding that nothing will avail, he loses his patience
at last, and concludes the affair as with Scaramouch;--he beats poor
Judy to death. "Now," says he drily, "our quarrel is over, dear Judy,
and if you are satisfied, so am I. Come, stand up again, Judy. Oh, don't
sham, this is only one of your tricks. What, you won't get up? Well,
then, off with you!" So saying, he flings her after her child into the
street.
He does not even trouble himself to look after her, but bursting into
one of his usual fits of loud laughter, cries out, "'Tis a fine piece of
luck to lose a wife!"
In the second act we find Punch at a rendezvous with his mistress Polly,
to whom he pays his court, not in the most refined manner, and assures
her that she alone can drive away all his cares, and that if he had as
many wives as Solomon, he could kill them all for her sake. A courtier
and friend of Polly's then pays him a visit; this time he does not kill
his man, but only thrashes him well: he is then 'ennuyé,' and declares
that the weather being fine he will take a ride. A wild horse is
brought, upon which he capers about for some time in a ludicrous
fashion; but at last, from the dreadful plunging of the untameable
animal, is thrown. He calls out for help, and happily his friend the
doctor happens to be passing, and comes immediately. Punch lies like
dead, and groans piteously. The doctor tries to tranquillize him, and
feels his pulse: Punch, to be short, makes so uncivil a return for the
doctor's attentions, that the latter exclaims, "Here, Master Punch, I
bring you a wholesome medicine, the only one fit for you," and begins to
thump him soundly with his gold-headed cane.
"Oh dear!" cries Punch, "many thanks to you; I want none of your physic,
it gives me the headache." "Ah, that's only because you have taken it in
too small doses," says the doctor; "take a little more, and it will cure
you."
Punch at last feigns himself conquered, falls down exhausted, and begs
for mercy; but when the credulous doctor bends down over him, Punch
darts upon him like lightning, wrests the stick out of his hand and lays
about him as usual.
"Now," cries he, "you must take a little of your charming physic,--only
a little, respected friend;--there--there!"
"Oh Lord, you will kill me!" cries the doctor.
"Not worth talking of--only what's usual--doctors always die when they
take their own physic. Come, only one last pill:" and so saying, the
ruthless Punch runs him through the body with the point of his stick.
The doctor dies. Punch, laughing, exclaims, "Now, my good friend, cure
yourself if you can."
[_Exit, singing and dancing._
After other adventures, which have almost all the same tragical end,
justice is at length awake, and the constable is sent to arrest Punch.
He finds him, as usual, in the highest glee, and just busied, as he
says, in making music with the help of a dustman's bell (a very 'naïf'
confession of the musical capacity of the nation.)
The dialogue is brief and important.[27] It ends with the constable
showing Punch the warrant for his arrest: "And," says Punch, "I have a
warrant for you, which I will soon execute." Hereupon he seizes the
bell, which he has held concealed behind him, and gives the constable
such a blow on the occiput, that, like his predecessors, he falls
lifeless; whereupon Punch springs off with a 'capriole,' and is heard
singing behind the scenes.
The magistrate, who comes after the death of the constable, has no
better fate. At length the hangman, in proper person, lies in wait for
Punch, who in his joyous recklessness runs upon him without seeing him.
For the first time he seems somewhat embarrassed by this rencontre, is
very slightly cast down, and does his best to flatter Mr. Ketch; calls
him his old friend, and inquires very particularly after the health of
Mistress Ketch. The hangman, however, soon makes him understand that all
friendship must now have an end; and sets before him what a bad man he
is to have killed so many men, and his wife and child.
"As to them," says he, "they were my own property, and 'tis hard if a
man may not do what he likes with his own." "And why did you kill the
poor doctor, who came to help you?" "Only in self-defence, good Mr.
Ketch; he wanted me to take his medicine."
But all excuses and evasions are useless. Three or four men spring
forward and bind Punch, whom Ketch leads to prison.
In the next scene we behold him at the back of the stage, trying to look
out from behind an iron grating, and rubbing his long nose against the
bars. He is very wroth and miserable, yet, according to his use and
wont, sings a song to drive away time. Mr. Ketch enters, and with the
assistance of his helpers erects a gallows before the prison-door. Punch
becomes sorrowful, but, instead of feeling repentance, has only a fit of
greater fondness and longing for his Polly. He however mans himself
again, and makes various 'bon mots' on the handsome gallows, which he
compares to a tree planted, as it seems, for the adornment of his
prospect. "How beautiful it will be when it bears fruit!" cries he.
Some men now bring the coffin, and place it at the foot of the gallows.
"What have you there?" says Punch. "Ah ha! that is no doubt the basket
to put the fruit in."
Meanwhile Ketch returns, and greeting Punch, and opening the door
politely, tells him that all is ready,--he may come when he likes. You
may think that Punch is not very eager to accept the invitation. After a
good deal of discussion Ketch calls out, "It's of no use, Master Punch,
you must come out and be hanged."
"You won't be so cruel."
"Why were you so cruel as to kill your wife and child?"
"Is that any reason for your being cruel too?"--(argument against
capital punishment.)
Ketch appeals to no better principle than that of the strongest, and
drags out Punch by his hair, begging for mercy and promising amendment.
"Now, my good Punch," says Ketch, coolly, "do but have the goodness to
put your head into this noose, and all will soon be over." Punch affects
awkwardness, and can't get his head right into the noose.
"Good God! how awkward you are!" exclaims Ketch; "you must put your head
in so"--showing him. "Ay so, and then draw it tight," cries Punch,
drawing up the unwary hangman in a moment, and hanging him on the
gallows; after which he hides himself behind the wall. Two men come to
take away the body, lay it in the coffin, believing it to be that of the
criminal, and carry it out, while Punch laughs in his sleeve, and dances
away as usual.
But the shrewdest battle is yet to come, for the devil himself 'in
propriâ personâ,' now comes to fetch him. Vainly does Punch lay before
him the most acute observations; that he is a very stupid devil to wish
to carry off the best friend he has on earth, and the like. The devil
will not hear reason, and stretches out his long claws horribly at him.
He appears just about to fly away with him, as erst with Faust, but
Punch is not so easily to be dealt with; manfully he grasps his
murderous staff, and defends himself even against the devil. A fearful
fight ensues, and--who would have thought it possible?--Punch, so often
in uttermost danger, at length remains universal conqueror, spits the
black fiend on his stick, holds him up aloft, and whirling about with
him with shouts of triumph, sings, while he laughs more heartily than
ever.
I leave it to you to make all the philosophical reflections; of which
Punch's career is fitted to excite not a few. Above all interesting
would be the inquiry, how far the daily repetition of this favourite
popular drama for so many years has influenced the morality of the lower
classes.
To conclude,--for the sake of tragic justice, I sketch on the margin of
my sheet a second portrait of Punch, as he appears sitting in prison,
when the gallows is just brought before him.
In my next letter you will have all the details you desire concerning
B----, which pious personage I have to-day forgotten for the more
interesting sinner Punch.--Adieu for to day!
_December 1st._
You remember what I told you of the mode of letting land in this
country. As the builders of houses have only ninety-nine years to reckon
on, they build as slightly as possible; the consequence of which is that
one is not very sure of one's life in some of the London houses. A
house, by no means old, fell last night in St. James's street, close by
me, just like a house of cards, carrying the half of another with it.
Several persons were severely hurt, but the greater number had time to
escape, as there were threatening warnings. Such is the rapidity with
which they build here, that in a month the whole will doubtless be
standing again, though perhaps not much safer than before.
A few days ago I attended the interesting ceremony of the opening of
Parliament by the King in person; a ceremony which has not taken place
for several years.
In the centre of the House of Lords were assembled the Peers, their
scarlet mantles negligently thrown over their ordinary morning dress.
Near the wall opposite to the entrance stood the King's throne; on
benches on the left sat a number of ladies in full dress; on the right
the diplomatic corps and foreigners. In front of the throne was a bar,
and behind it the members of the Lower House, in the common dress of our
day. The house without, and the staircase, were filled with servants and
heralds in the costume of the fourteenth century.
At two o'clock discharges of cannon announced the arrival of the King in
state. A number of magnificent carriages and horses composed the
procession, a sketch of which I have taken in my book of
reminiscences,[28] and have placed it in contrast with a drawing of one
of Cæsar's triumphs. At the sight of these pictures one involuntarily
asks oneself, whether mankind have really made any progress. Scarcely,
as it seems, in as far as art is concerned; especially when we look at
the two prominent personages,--those who occupy the highest seats at the
respective ceremonies,--the King's body-coachman, and Cæsar.
At about half-past three the King made his appearance, he alone being in
full dress, and truly covered from top to toe with the ancient kingly
decorations; with the crown on his head and the sceptre in his hand. He
looked pale and bloated, and was obliged to sit on the throne for a
considerable time before he could get breath enough to read his speech.
During this time he turned friendly glances and considerable bows
towards some favoured ladies. On his right stood Lord Liverpool, with
the sword of state and the speech in his hand; and the Duke of
Wellington on his left. All three looked so miserable, so ashy-gray and
worn out, that never did human greatness appear to me so little worth;
indeed the tragic side of all the comedies we play here below, fell
almost heavily on my heart; and yet it excited in me a strong feeling of
the comic, to see how the most powerful monarch of the earth was obliged
to present himself, as chief actor in a pantomime, before an audience
whom he deems so infinitely beneath him. In fact, the whole pageant,
including the King's costume, reminded me strikingly of one of those
historical plays which are here got up so well; nothing was wanting but
the 'flourish of trumpets' which accompanies the entrance and exit of
one of Shakspeare's kings, to make the illusion complete.
In spite of his feebleness, George the Fourth read the 'banale' speech
with great dignity and a fine voice; but with that royal 'nonchalance'
which does not much concern itself what His Majesty promises, or whether
or not he is sometimes unable to decipher a word. It was very evident
that the monarch was heartily glad when the 'corvée' was over, so that
the conclusion went off somewhat more rapidly than the beginning.
Since my last letter I have been twice to the theatre, which the late
hours of dining render it impossible to do when one has any engagement.
I saw Mozart's Figaro announced at Drury-lane, and delighted myself with
the idea of hearing once more the sweet tones of my fatherland:--what
then was my astonishment at the unheard-of treatment which the
master-work of the immortal composer has received at English hands! You
will hardly believe me when I tell you that neither the Count, the
Countess, nor Figaro sang; these parts were given to mere actors, and
their principal songs, with some little alteration in the words, were
sung by the other singers; to add to this, the gardener roared out some
interpolated popular English songs, which suited Mozart's music just as
a pitch-plaster would suit the face of the Venus de' Medici. The whole
opera was moreover 'arranged' by a certain Mr. Bishop (a circumstance
which I had seen noticed in the bill, but did not understand till
now),--that is, adapted to English ears by means of the most tasteless
and shocking alterations.
The English national music, the coarse heavy melodies of which can never
be mistaken for an instant, has, to me at least, something singularly
offensive; an expression of brutal feeling both in pain and pleasure,
which smacks of 'roast-beef, plum-pudding, and porter.' You may imagine,
therefore, what an agreeable effect these incorporations with the lovely
and refined conceptions of Mozart must produce.
'Je n'y pouvais tenir'--poor Mozart appeared to me like a martyr on the
cross, and I suffered no less by sympathy.
This abominable practice is the more inexcusable, since here is really
no want of meritorious singers, male and female; and, with better
arrangement, very good performances might be given. It is true, even if
the stage were in good order, a second Orpheus would still be required
to tame English audiences.
Far better was the performance in Covent Garden, where Charles Kemble,
one of the best English actors, gave an admirable representation of the
part of Charles the Second. Kemble is a man of the best education, and
has always lived in good society; he is therefore qualified to represent
a king royally;--with the 'aisance,' that is proper to all exalted
persons. He very skilfully gave an amiable colouring to the levity of
Charles the Second; without ever, even in moments of the greatest
'abandon,' losing the type of that inborn conscious dignity, so
difficult to imitate. The costume, too, was as if cut out of the frame
of an old picture, down to the veriest trifle; and this was observed by
all the other actors, for which Kemble, who is also manager, deserves
great praise.
I must, however, confess that in the next piece, in which Frederick the
Great plays the principal part, there was not the same intimate
knowledge and perfect imitation of foreign costume; both the king and
his suite seemed to have borrowed their wardrobe from that of a
pantomime. Zieten presented himself in a high grenadier's cap, and
Seydlitz appeared in locks 'a là Murat,' and with as many orders as that
royal actor used to wear; a profusion of which were by no means the
fashion in Frederick's day, nor were they then worn as mere appendages
of the toilet.
_December 2nd._
I often dine at Prince E----'s, who exhibits a perfect model to
'diplomates' how dignified 'représentation' may be combined with
agreeable facile manners; and how a man may please every body if he
understands the art of placing himself 'à sa portée,' yet without
suffering his own dignity to be forgotten for an instant:--'un vrai
Seigneur,'--such as are every day becoming rarer. Never too did a
foreigner _succeed_ so perfectly in England; and yet, most assuredly,
without the slightest concession to English arrogance. This implies
infinite tact; the lighter, more vivacious character of a South German;
and the most astute intellect concealed beneath the most unpretending
'bonhommie;' the whole backed and set off by a great name and a splendid
fortune.
The other members of the diplomatic corps, with few exceptions, are left
by him quite in the back-ground, and most of the plenipotentiaries here
disappear completely in the crowd. Among the ambassadors there is,
however, one of the female sex who plays a great part * * * But more of
this another time. I entered upon the subject of Diplomates, only for
the sake of repeating to you a very pretty 'bon mot' of one of them
whom you know. I heard it to-day at dinner. Count H---- was ambassador
at a German court renowned for its economy ('pour ne pas dire
mesquinerie,') and on some solemn occasion received a snuff-box with the
portrait of the sovereign; which, however, was set round with very
small, paltry diamonds. Shortly afterwards, one of his colleagues asked
him to show him his present. "Vous ne trouverez pas le portrait
ressemblant," said the Count, giving him the snuff-box,--"mais les
diamants."
I occasionally see, with great satisfaction, the venerable Elliot, who,
together with the dry but very interesting Lord St. Helens, whom Ségur
so often mentions in his Memoirs, belongs to the 'Doyens' of English
diplomacy, and still dwells with extraordinary pleasure on the
recollection of his residence at Dresden. He has several very charming
daughters, and finds it difficult to live in a style befitting his rank,
for his long services have not been rewarded with English
liberality.[29]
Another very interesting person is Sir L---- M----, who was formerly in
high favour with the king, then Prince of Wales, and deserves mention,
first, because he is a most agreeable Amphitryon and entertains his
friends admirably, and secondly, because he is one of the most original
of men, and one of the few _truly practical_ philosophers I have ever
met with. The prejudices of the many seem for him to have no existence;
and nobody could be more difficult to impose on by mere authority,
whether on matters of heaven or earth. Although sixty years old, and a
martyr to the most unheard-of tortures with which gout and stone can
rack an unhappy mortal, no one ever heard a complaint from him; nor is
his cheerful, nay merry humour ever saddened by it for a moment. It must
be confessed that there are dispositions and temperaments which are
worth a hundred thousand a year.
When I was first introduced to him, a short time since, he had just
undergone the terrible operation for the stone. The surgeon refused to
undertake it, on the ground that the weakness of the patient rendered it
too hazardous, but was at length almost compelled by him to perform it.
At that time he kept his bed, and looked like a corpse, and at going in
I involuntarily made 'une mine de doléance,' upon which he instantly
interrupted me, and told me to lay aside all grimaces. "What cannot be
cured," said he, "must be endured; and better gaily, that sadly:" for
himself, he said, he had certainly abundant cause to laugh at his
physicians, who had given him his passport with the utmost certainty at
least ten times, but had almost all gone to the d--l before him.
"Besides," said he, "I have enjoyed life as few have, and must now learn
the dark side." In spite of all his pleasures, and all his pains, the
gay-hearted man is still in such good preservation, that, since he is
about again, with his artist-like peruque, he does not look much above
forty, and exhibits a spirited and 'rayonnante' physiognomy, whose
features must once have been handsome.
_December 3rd._
Kemble gave me a high treat this evening as Falstaff. It is certain that
even the greatest dramatic poets stand in need of the actor's aid to
bring out their work. I never so fully understood the character of the
mad knight; never was it so manifest to me what his outward deportment
must have been, as since I saw him new-born in the person of Charles
Kemble. His dress and mask were striking indeed, but by no means such a
caricature as on our stages. Still less had he the air of a man of low
rank and breeding, visibly a mere 'farceur,' as Devrient, for instance,
represented him in Berlin. Falstaff, although a man of vulgar _soul_, is
still by habit and inclination a practised courtier; and the coarseness
which he often assumes in the prince's company is at least as much
intentional acting, employed by him to amuse the Prince (for princes
often love vulgarity from its very contrast with the gloomy elevation of
their own station,) as to gratify his own humour. Mr. Kemble caught the
finest shades of the character; for, although he never lost sight of the
natural, invincible humour, the witty presence of mind, and the
diverting drollery which made Falstaff such an agreeable
companion,--nay, which rendered him almost a necessary of life to those
who had once associated with him,--he is quite another man when he
appears at Court in the presence of the king and other dignified
persons; or when he plays antics with the Prince and his companions; or,
lastly, when he is alone with the latter. In the first case, you see a
facetious man, somewhat like the Maréchal de Bassompierre, ludicrously
fat, but a man of dignified and gentleman-like air; always a joker, it
is true, but in a good 'ton,' never forgetting the respect due to the
place and the presence in which he is. In the second stage, he allows
himself to go much further; takes all sorts of coarse freedoms; but ever
with observable care to exalt the Prince, and to assume only the
privilege of a Court fool, who, _apparently_, may say all that comes
into his head. In the last stage, we see Falstaff in complete 'negligé,'
after he has thrown off all regard to appearances. Here he wallows
delightfully in the mire, like a swine in a ditch; and yet even here he
still remains original, and excites more laughter than disgust. This is
the supreme art, the last triumph of the poet: he alone can give, even
to the most horrid monsters of sin and shame, something like a divine
impress; something which awakens our interest and attracts us, even to
our own astonishment. This is the high dramatic truth, the creative
power of genius, speaking of which Walter Scott so prettily says, "I can
only compare Shakspeare with that man in the Arabian Nights, who has the
power of passing into any body at pleasure, and imitating its feelings
and actions."
I must here remark, that there is but one character in this immortal
poet's works which always appeared to me ill-drawn and unnatural, nor
does any excite less interest in general. This is the king in Hamlet. To
mention only one trait, it appears to me quite psycologically false,
when the author makes the king kneel down, and then exclaim, "I cannot
pray." The king is never represented as an irreligious man, a subtle
sceptic, but merely as a coarse sensual sinner; now we daily see that a
man of this cast cannot only pray regularly and zealously, but even pray
that his crimes may prosper: like that woman who was found alone in a
robber's cave, after the capture of the gang, on her knees, praying
earnestly to heaven that the expedition in which she believed them then
engaged might be successful, and that they might return laden with
booty.
Nay even public pre-appointed prayers have often no better aim. What
examples of this kind does not history afford! No, the sinful king _can_
pray,--the person in this tragedy who _cannot_, is Hamlet. For it is
only the unbelieving; the man who wants to fathom everything; the
spiritual chemist who sees one apparently firm substance after another
melt away; this man--till he is enabled by the divine influence to
construct one,[30] inward and indestructible, (and this point Hamlet
has manifestly not reached) this man alone, I say, _cannot pray_, for
the Object fails him. He cannot deny it to himself,--when he prays, he
is only acting a part with himself. This is a melancholy process to pass
through, and is imputed to unhappy mortals as a crime by those who first
place the poor child on the bed of Procrustes, and by that means often
render it impossible for the cramped and shortened limbs ever to extend
themselves again to their natural length.
But back to the play. It concluded with a melo-drama, in which a large
Newfoundland dog really acted admirably; he defended a banner for a long
time, pursued the enemy, and afterwards came on the stage wounded, lame,
and bleeding, and died in the most masterly manner, with a last wag of
the tail that was really full of genius. You would have sworn that the
good beast knew at least as well as any of his human companions what he
was about.
I left the theatre in such good humour that I won eight rubbers at whist
after it at the Club, for luck at play goes with good spirits and
confidence.--But good night.
_December 4th._
In consequence of the opening of Parliament, society begins to be more
lively, though London 'en gros' is still empty.
The most elegant ladies of the first circles now give small parties,
access to which is far more difficult to most Englishmen than to
foreigners of rank; for the despotism of fashion, as I have already told
you, rules in this land of freedom with iron sceptre, and extends
through all classes in a manner we on the Continent have no conception
of.
But without indulging too early in general observations, I will describe
to you my own way of life in London.
I rise late; read, like a half-nationalized foreigner, three or four
newspapers at breakfast; look in my 'visiting-book' what visits I have
to pay, and either drive to pay them in my cabriolet or ride. In the
course of these excursions, I sometimes catch the enjoyment of the
picturesque; the struggle of the blood-red sun with the winter fogs
often produces wild and singular effects of light. After my visits are
paid, I ride for several hours about the beautiful environs of London,
return when it grows dark, work a little, dress for dinner, which is at
seven or eight, and spend the evening either in the theatre or at some
small party. The ludicrous 'routs,'--at which one hardly finds
standing-room on the staircase,--where one pushes and is pushed, and is
kept for hours in a hot-house temperature,--have not yet commenced. In
England however, except in a few diplomatic houses, you can go nowhere
in an evening except on special invitation. In these small parties there
is not much 'géne,' but general conversation has no place: each
gentleman usually singles out a lady who peculiarly interests him, and
does not quit her for the whole evening. Many fair ones are thus
frequently left sitting alone, without an opportunity of speaking a
word; they however do not betray any dissatisfaction, even by a look or
gesture, for they are of a very passive nature. Every body of course
speaks French, as with us, 'tant bien que mal,' but this continued
'géne' annoys the ladies so much after a time, that a man has no little
advantage who can speak English tolerably.
You see this life is pretty much a 'far niente,' though not a very sweet
one to my taste, for I love society only in intimate circles, and attach
myself with difficulty,--indeed now scarcely at all,--to new
acquaintances. The ennui, which seizes me in such an indifferent state
of mind, is too clearly written on my undiplomatic face not to extend to
others as contagiously as yawning. Here and there I find an
exception:--to-day for instance I made the acquaintance of Mr. Morier,
the clever and very agreeable author of Hadji Baba; and of Mr. Hope, the
imputed author of Anastasius, a work of far higher genius. This book is
worthy of Byron: many maintain that Mr. Hope, who is rather remarkable
for his reserve than for anything poetical in his appearance, cannot
possibly have written it. This doubt derives considerable force from a
work which Mr. Hope formerly published on furniture, the style and
contents of which certainly contrast strangely with the glowing
impassioned Anastasius, overflowing with thought and feeling. An
acquaintance of mine said to me, "One thing or the other: either
Anastasius is not by him, or the work on furniture." But matter so
different brings with it as different a style; and as I observed Mr.
Hope, perhaps with involuntary prepossession, he appeared to me no
ordinary man. He is very rich, and his house full of treasures of art,
and of luxuries which I shall describe hereafter. His furniture theory,
which is fashioned on the antique, I cannot praise in practice:--the
chairs are ungovernable; other trophy-like structures look ridiculous,
and the sofas have such sharp salient points in all directions, that an
incautious sitter might hurt himself seriously.
On my return home at night I found your letter, which, like everything
from you, gave me more pleasure than aught else can. Say not, however,
that the pain of parting occasions you such deep depression,--let it not
be deeper than a joyful meeting can at once remove; and that is probably
not very distant.
That you point to another life, as soon as things do not go precisely
according to our wishes in this, seems to me, dearest, to show a want of
Christian patience and confidence. No, I confess it, spite of transient
fits of melancholy, I still feel the attraction of earth; and this 'span
of life,' as you call it, has strong hold on my heart. If indeed you, my
affectionate tutelary goddess, were also Fortuna, I should fare better
than any mortal living: 'et toutes les étoiles pâliraient devant la
mienne;'--but since you love me, you are my Fortuna, and I desire no
better.
Do not suffer your own melancholy, or mine, to deceive you. As for me,
you know that a nothing raises the barometer of my spirits, and a
nothing often depresses it. This is certainly too delicate a nervous
organization, and little fitted for every-day, home-baked
(_hausbacknen_) happiness,--which requires strong nerves.
_December 5th._
Oberon, Weber's song of the swan, has occupied my evening.--The
execution of both the instrumental and vocal parts left much to desire;
but on the whole, the opera was extremely well performed, for London.
The best part was the decorations, especially at the conjuration of the
spirits. They appear, not, as usual, in the standing costume,--scarlet
jackets and breeches, with snaky locks and flames on their heads,--but
in the form of huge rocky caves, which occupy the whole stage; every
mass of rock then suddenly changes into some fantastic and frightful
form or face, gleaming with many-coloured flames and lurid light, out of
which here and there a whole figure leans grinning forward, while the
fearful thrilling music re-echoes on every side from the moving chorus
of rocks.
The opera itself I regard as one of Weber's feebler productions. There
are beautiful parts, especially the introduction, which is truly
elf-like. I am less delighted with the overture, though so highly
extolled by connoisseurs.
I ought to have begun by telling you that I was presented to the King
to-day, at a great levée.--I give you as a proof of the extraordinary
voluntary seclusion of the present sovereign, that our Secretary of
Legation was presented with me _for the first time_, though he has been
here in that capacity for two years. His Majesty has a very good memory.
He immediately recollected my former visit to England, though he mistook
the date of it by several years. I took occasion to make my compliments
to him on the extraordinary embellishment of London since that time,
which indeed is to be ascribed in great measure to him. After a gracious
reply, I passed on, and placed myself in a convenient station for seeing
the whole spectacle. It was odd enough.
The king, on account of the feeble state of his health, remained
seated;--the company marched past him in a line; each made his bow, was
addressed or not, and then either placed himself in the row on the other
side of the room, or quitted it. All those who had received any
appointment kneeled down before the king and kissed his hand, at which
the American Minister, near whom I had accidentally placed myself, made
a rather satirical face. The clergymen and lawyers in their black gowns
and white powdered wigs, short and long, had a most whimsical
masquerading appearance. One of them was the object of an almost
universal ill-suppressed laugh. This personage had kneeled to be
'knighted,' as the English call it, and in this posture, with the long
fleece on his head, looked exactly like a sheep at the slaughter-block.
His Majesty signed to the great Field Marshal to give him his sword. For
the first time, perhaps, the great warrior could not draw the sword from
the scabbard; he pulled and pulled,--all in vain. The king waiting with
outstretched arm; the duke vainly pulling with all his might; the
unhappy martyr prostrate in silent resignation, as if expecting his end,
and the whole brilliant court standing around in anxious
expectation:--it was a group worthy of Gilray's pencil. At length the
state weapon started like a flash of lightning from its sheath. His
Majesty grasped it impatiently,--indeed his arm was probably weary and
benumbed with being so long extended,--so that the sword, instead of
alighting on a new knight, fell on an old wig, which for a moment
enveloped king and subject in a cloud of powder.
_December 6th._
Mr. R---- had long ago invited me to visit him at his country-house, and
I took advantage of a disengaged day to drive out with my friend L---- to
dine there. The royal banker has bought no ducal residence, but lives in
a pretty villa. We found some Directors of the East India Company, and
several members of his own family and faith, whom I liked very much. I
extremely respect this family for having the courage to remain Jews.
Only an idiot can esteem a Jew the less for his religion, but renegades
have always a presumption against their sincerity, which it is difficult
to get over.
There are three cases in which I should unconditionally allow Jews to
change their religion. First, if they really believe that only
Christians can be saved; secondly, if their daughters wish to marry
Christians, who will have them on no other terms; thirdly, if a Jew were
elected king of a Christian people,--a thing by no means impossible,
since men far below the rank of Jewish barons, and notorious for the
absence of all religion, have frequently ascended the throne in these
latter days.[31]
Mr. R---- was in high good-humour, amusing, and talkative. It was
diverting to hear him explain to us the pictures around his dining-room,
(all portraits of the sovereigns of Europe, presented through their
ministers,) and talk of the originals as his very good friends, and, in
a certain sense, his equals. "Yes," said he, "the ---- once pressed me
for a loan, and in the same week in which I received his autograph
letter, his father wrote to me also with his own hand from Rome to beg
me for Heaven's sake not to have any concern in it, for that I could not
have to do with a more dishonest man than his son." 'C'était sans doute
très Catholique;' probably, however, the letter was written by the
old ----, who hated her own son to such a degree, that she used to say of
him,--everybody knows how unjustly,--"He has the heart of a t---- with
the face of an a----."