London.
I could copy a new leaf from my memory that would be very interesting to
you, for I dined yesterday in a party of admirable talkers, and heard
much that I shall remember. But, though the brilliant people
_themselves_, whose conversation we thus record, are far from being
offended at the record—the critics (who were not so fortunate _as to be
there too_) are offended _for them_. The giving the talk without naming
the talkers would make common-place of it, I am afraid, just as taking
the wooden labels from the large trees, in the botanical park at Kew,
would make the exotic groves look indigenous—but we must submit to this
noisy demand of the critics notwithstanding. In a world where one
_might_, possibly, have a _real_ fault to be defended for by his
friends, it is a pity to put them to the trouble of defending them _for
nothing_!
I hear much said of two of our countrymen who seem to have made a strong
impression on society in England. Mr. Colman, the agriculturist, is one
of them, and his strong good sense, and fresh originality of mind were
well suited to be relished in this country. The other is a gentleman
whose peculiar talent was never before brought to its best market,
popular as it is in New York—“Major Jack Downing;” and of his power as
a _raconteur_, I hear frequent and strong expressions of admiration.
This, by the way, and similar talents, which are only used for the
enlivening of private society, are, in our country, like gold ingots at
the mine—scarce recognised as value till brought over the water and
stamped. I know more than one man in America who has gifts from nature
that would be most valuable to him in English society, and are of no
value to him in ours.
To-night is Taglioni’s farewell performance, before quitting the stage,
and I had made up my mind to go and see her, “on her last legs,” but a
more tempting engagement draws me another way. I saw her a few nights
since, when she was doing her best in honor of the approbation of the
King of the Netherlands. It was in the new ballet of “Diana,” but though
there were certainly some beautiful overcomings of “obedience to the
centre of gravity,” it was dull’d in the memory by the dancing of Cerito
who followed her. May this latter dancer live and stay pretty, till you
see her, my dear General!
The presence of the King of the Netherlands was quite an event at the
opera, accustomed as are stall and pit to royal company. You know, that,
besides being a king, he is a distinguished _man_—(better known as the
Prince of Orange who fought in the English army at Waterloo.) He looks
like a person of superior talent. His face is cleanly chiselled, and his
eye is keen. He was dressed in plain clothes, and wore a white cravat,
and had the air of a high-bred barrister, or of one whose constant
exercise of his intellect had made its mark on his physiognomy. He was
received first in the box of the Duke of Cambridge, all the ladies in
the box standing till he was seated. The Duke, who talks very loud, and
who makes the audience smile several times every evening, with some
remark audible all over the house, kept up a conversation with him, for
a while, and His Majesty then made a visit to the adjoining box, where
sat the superb and influential Lady Jersey, and her very beautiful
daughter, Lady Clementina Villiers. (You have seen portraits of these
ladies in the annuals.) I did not envy him his reception in the first
box very particularly, though one would like very well to “see how it
feels” to be a king—but his reception in the second box seemed a heaven
that would reward one for a great deal of virtue.
Lady Morgan was present in widows’ weeds, and thereby very much improved
in appearance—(as many women are!) I had not seen her ladyship for five
or six years, but time seems to have been content with taking away Sir
Charles. She looks well as in 1840—a long _statu quo_! She had with her
a very fascinating niece, and a very large bouquet.
I write my letters so hastily that I digress as one does in
conversation. I began with the intention of telling a curious story that
I had from no less than second hand touching the King of the Netherlands
and the Princess Charlotte. It was told me, a few days since by my
neighbor at dinner, a distinguished person, a great admirer of his
Majesty, and who prefaced it with a wonder at the caprice of taste. The
Prince of Orange, as is well known, was originally chalked off, by the
“high contracting powers,” to be the husband of the lovely English
princess. It was of the first moment to him, then, that he should second
Destiny in its kind endeavors, and succeed in winning her royal
affections. He was, however, a prince, and princes in those days, drank
hard. He had the misfortune to come in tipsy from the dinner-table, when
rejoining the ladies after a party at which he met his designated
future. The Princess took an invincible dislike to him on that occasion.
The lady who told the anecdote (to her who told it to me) was in
attendance on the princess when the prince called upon his return from a
campaign in which he had distinguished himself. He was received very
coldly. His uniform was a red coat with green feathers in his cap, and
when he took his leave, the princess walked to the window to see him go
down the avenue. “Aha!” thought the lady in waiting; “if she goes to
look after him, the case is not so desperate, after all!” But the remark
of the princess, as she looked at his red coat and green feathers, undid
the momentary illusion—“How like a radish he looks!” said the royal
Charlotte. A lady often hates the man she loves, but she seldom
ridicules him. The princess was resolute in her aversion, and the
“forked radish” (which we all resemble according to Shakspeare) was
superseded by Prince Leopold.
This being the ‘town-talk’ (as is the Dutch king at present) revives all
the defunct anecdotes, of course, and greatness has to take into account
what it awakes, besides homage, when it makes the world take notice of
its existence! (Alas, for drawbacks!)