NINETTE
This way--
NINON
No, this way--
NINETTE
This way, then.
(_They enter the Chalet_)
You are as changing, child,--as men.
NINON
But are they? Is it true, I mean?
Who said it?
NINETTE
Sister Séraphine.
She was so pious and so good,
With such sad eyes beneath her hood,
And such poor little feet,--all bare!
Her name was Eugénie la Fère.
She used to tell us,--moonlight nights,--
When I was at the Carmelites.
NINON
Ah, then it must be right. And yet,
Suppose for once--suppose, Ninette--
NINETTE
But what?
NINON
Suppose it were not so?
Suppose there _were_ true men, you know!
NINETTE
And then?
NINON
Why, if that _could_ occur,
What kind of men should you prefer?
NINETTE
What looks, you mean?
NINON
Looks, voice and all.
NINETTE
Well, as to that, he must be tall,
Or say, not "tall"--of middle size;
And next, he must have laughing eyes;
And a hook-nose,--with, underneath,
Oh! what a row of sparkling teeth!
NINON (_touching her cheek suspiciously_)
Has he a scar on this side?
NINETTE
Hush!
Some one is coming. No; a thrush:
I see it swinging there.
NINON
Go on.
NINETTE
Then he must fence (ah, look, 'tis gone!)
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing
"Love was a Shepherd,"--everything
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon.
NINON
Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair ...
I mean, he _should_ have; then an air
Half sad, half noble; features thin;
A little _royale_ on the chin;
And such a pale, high brow. And then,
He is a prince of gentlemen;--
He, too, can ride and fence and write
Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight
No worse for that--
NINETTE
I know your man.
NINON
And I know yours. But you'll not tell,--
Swear it!
NINETTE
I swear upon this fan,--
My grandmother's!
NINON
And I, I swear
On this old turquoise _reliquaire_,--
My great-_great_-grandmother's!--
_(After a pause)_
Ninette!
I feel _so_ sad.
NINETTE
I too. But why?
NINON
Alas, I know not!
NINETTE (_with a sigh_)
Nor do I.
BRITISH FESTIVITIES
[Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]
Niagara Falls is a most enjoyable place of resort. The hotels are
excellent, and the prices not at all exorbitant. The opportunities for
fishing are not surpassed in the country; in fact, they are not even
equalled elsewhere. Because, in other localities, certain places in the
streams are much better than others; but at Niagara one place is just as
good as another, for the reason that the fish do not bite anywhere, and
so there is no use in your walking five miles to fish, when you can
depend of being just as unsuccessful nearer home. The advantages of this
state of things have never heretofore been properly placed before the
public.
The weather is cool in summer, and the walks and drives are all
pleasant, and none of them fatiguing. When you start out to "do" the
Falls you first drive down about a mile, and pay a small sum for the
privilege of looking down from a precipice into the narrowest part of
the Niagara river. A railway "cut" through a hill would be as comely if
it had an angry river tumbling and foaming through its bottom. You can
descend a staircase here a hundred and fifty feet down, and stand at the
edge of the water. After you have done it, you will wonder why you did
it; but you will then be too late.
The guide will explain to you, in his blood-curdling way, how he saw
the little steamer, _Maid of the Mist,_ descend the fearful rapids--how
first one paddle-box was out of sight behind the raging billows, and
then the other, and at what point it was that her smoke-stack toppled
overboard, and where her planking began to break and part asunder--and
how she did finally live through the trip, after accomplishing the
incredible feat of travelling seventeen miles in six minutes, or six
miles in seventeen minutes, I have really forgotten which. But it was
very extraordinary, anyhow. It is worth the price of admission to hear
the guide tell the story nine times in succession to different parties,
and never miss a word or alter a sentence or a gesture.
Then you drive over the Suspension Bridge, and divide your misery
between the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river
below and the chances of having the railway train overhead smashing down
on to you. Either possibility is discomforting taken by itself, but,
mixed together, they amount in the aggregate to positive unhappiness.
On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of
photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an
ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your
solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the
light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime
Niagara; and a great many people _have_ the ineffable effrontery or the
native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.
Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately
pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis, or a couple of
country cousins, all smiling hideously, and all disposed in studied and
uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their
grand and awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished
presentment of that majestic presence, whose ministering spirits are the
rainbows, whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in
clouds, who was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful
of small reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in
the world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and
decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood
relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering
dust.
There is no actual harm in making Niagara a background whereon to
display one's marvellous insignificance in a good strong light, but it
requires a sort of superhuman self-complacency to enable one to do it.
When you have examined the stupendous Horseshoe Fall till you are
satisfied you cannot improve on it, you return to America by the new
Suspension Bridge, and follow up the bank to where they exhibit the Cave
of the Winds.
Here I followed instructions, and divested myself of all my clothing and
put on a waterproof jacket and overalls. This costume is picturesque,
but not beautiful. A guide, similarly dressed, led the way down a flight
of winding stairs, which wound and wound and still kept on winding long
after the thing ceased to be a novelty, and then terminated long before
it had begun to be a pleasure. We were then well down under the
precipice, but still considerably above the level of the river.
We now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our
persons shielded from perdition by a crazy wooden railing, to which I
clung with both hands--not because I was afraid, but because I wanted
to. Presently the descent became steeper, and the bridge flimsier, and
sprays from the American Fall began to rain down on us in
fast-increasing sheets that soon became blinding, and after that our
progress was mostly in the nature of groping. Now a furious wind began
to rush out from behind the waterfall, which seemed determined to sweep
us from the bridge, and scatter us on the rocks and among the torrents
below. I remarked that I wanted to go home; but it was too late. We were
almost under the monstrous wall of water thundering down from above, and
speech was in vain in the midst of such a pitiless crash of sound.
In another moment the guide disappeared behind the grand deluge, and,
bewildered by the thunder, driven helplessly by the wind, and smitten by
the arrowy tempest of rain, I followed. All was darkness. Such a mad,
storming, roaring, and bellowing of warring wind and water never crazed
my ears before. I bent my head, and seemed to receive the Atlantic on my
back. The world seemed going to destruction. I could not see anything,
the flood poured down so savagely. I raised my head, with open mouth,
and the most of the American cataract went down my throat. If I had
sprung a leak now, I had been lost. And at this moment I discovered that
the bridge had ceased, and we must trust for a foothold to the slippery
and precipitous rocks. I never was so scared before and survived it. But
we got through at last, and emerged into the open day, where we could
stand in front of the laced and frothy and seething world of descending
water, and look at it. When I saw how much of it there was, and how
fearfully in earnest it was, I was sorry I had gone behind it.
I said to the guide, "Son, did you know what kind of an infernal place
this was before you brought me down here?"
"Yes."
This was sufficient. He had known all the horror of the place, and yet
he brought me there! I regarded it as deliberate arson. I then destroyed
him.
I managed to find my way back alone to the place from whence I had
started on this foolish enterprise, and then hurried over to Canada, to
avoid having to pay for the guide.
At the principal hotel I fell in with the Major of the 42nd Fusiliers,
and a dozen other hearty and hospitable Englishmen, and they invited me
to join them in celebrating the Queen's birthday. I said I would be
delighted to do it. I said I liked all the Englishmen I had ever
happened to be acquainted with, and that I, like all my countrymen,
admired and honoured the Queen. But I said there was one insuperable
drawback--I never drank anything strong upon any occasion whatever, and
I did not see how I was going to do proper and ample justice to
anybody's birthday with the thin and ungenerous beverages I was
accustomed to.
The Major scratched his head, and thought over the matter at
considerable length; but there seemed to be no way of mastering the
difficulty, and he was too much of a gentleman to suggest even a
temporary abandonment of my principles. But by-and-by he said:
"I have it. Drink soda-water. As long as you never do drink anything
more nutritious, there isn't any impropriety in it."
And so it was settled. We met in a large parlour, handsomely decorated
with flags and evergreens, and seated ourselves at a board well laden
with creature comforts, both solid and liquid. The toasts were happy,
and the speeches were good, and we kept it up until long after midnight.
I never enjoyed myself more in my life. I drank thirty-eight bottles of
soda-water. But do you know that that is not a reliable article for a
steady drink? It is too gassy. When I got up in the morning I was full
of gas, and as tight as a balloon. I hadn't an article of clothing that
I could wear, except my umbrella.
After breakfast I found the Major making grand preparations again. I
asked what it was for, and he said this was the Prince of Wales's
birthday. It had to be celebrated that evening. We celebrated it. Much
against my expectations, we had another splendid time. We kept it up
till some time after midnight again. I was tired of soda, and so I
changed off for lemonade. I drank several quarts. You may consider
lemonade better for a steady drink than soda-water; but it isn't so. In
the morning it had soured on my stomach. Biting anything was out of the
question--it was equivalent to lockjaw. I was beginning to feel worn and
sad too.
Shortly after luncheon, I found the Major in the midst of some more
preparations. He said this was the Princess Alice's birthday. I
concealed my grief.
"Who is the Princess Alice?" I asked.
"Daughter of her Majesty the Queen," the Major said.
I succumbed. That night we celebrated the Princess Alice's birthday. We
kept it up as late as usual, and really I enjoyed it a good deal. But I
could not stand lemonade. I drank a couple of kegs of ice-water.
In the morning I had toothache, and cramps, and chilblains, and my teeth
were on edge from the lemonade, and I was still pretty gassy, I found
the inexorable Major at it again.
"Who is this for?" I asked.
"His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh," he said.
"Son of the Queen?"
"Yes."
"And this is his birthday--you haven't made any mistake?"
"No; the celebration comes off to-night."
I bowed before the new calamity. We celebrated the day. I drank part of
a barrel of cider. Among the first objects that met my weary and
jaundiced eye the next day was the Major at his interminable
preparations again. My heart was broken, and I wept.
"Whom do we mourn this time?" I said.
"The Princess Beatrice, daughter of the Queen."
"Here, now," I said; "it is time to inquire into this thing. How long is
the Queen's family likely to hold out? Who comes next on the list?"
"Their Royal Highnesses the Duke of Cambridge, the Princess Royal,
Prince Arthur, Princess Mary of Teck, Prince Leopold, the Grand-duke of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz, the Grand-duchess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Prince
..."
"Hold! There's a limit to human endurance. I am only mortal. What man
dare do, I dare; but he who can celebrate this family in detail, and
live to tell it, is less or more than man. If you have to go through
this every year, it is a mercy I was born in America, for I haven't
constitution enough to be an Englishman. I shall have to withdraw from
this enterprise. I am out of drinks. Out of drinks, and so many more to
celebrate! Out of drinks, and only just on the outskirts of the family
yet, as you may say! I am sorry enough to have to withdraw, but it is
plain enough that it has to be done. I am full of gas, and my teeth are
loose, and I am wrenched with cramps, and afflicted with scurvy, and
toothache, measles, mumps, and lockjaw, and the cider last night has
given me the cholera. Gentlemen, I mean well; but really I am not in a
condition to celebrate the other birthdays. Give us a rest."
SIR JOHN WATERS
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]
Amongst the distinguished men in the Peninsular War whom my memory
brings occasionally before me, is the well-known and highly popular
Quartermaster-General Sir John Waters, who was born at Margam, a Welsh
village in Glamorganshire. He was one of those extraordinary persons
that seem created by kind nature for particular purposes; and, without
using the word in an offensive sense, he was the most admirable spy that
was ever attached to an army. One would almost have thought that the
Spanish War was entered upon and carried on in order to display his
remarkable qualities. He could assume the character of Spaniards of
every degree and station, so as to deceive the most acute of those whom
he delighted to imitate. In the posada of the village he was hailed by
the contrabandist or the muleteer as one of their own race; in the gay
assemblies he was an accomplished hidalgo; at the bullfight the toreador
received his congratulations as from one who had encountered the toro in
the arena; in the church he would converse with the friar upon the
number of Ave Marias and Paternosters which could lay a ghost, or tell
him the history of every one who had perished by the flame of the
Inquisition, relating his crime, whether carnal or anti-Catholic; and
he could join in the _seguadilla_ or in the _guaracha_.
But what rendered him more efficient than all was his wonderful power of
observation and acute description, which made the information he gave so
reliable and valuable to the Duke of Wellington. Nothing escaped him.
When amidst a group of persons, he would minutely watch the movement,
attitude, and expression of every individual that composed it; in the
scenery by which he was surrounded he would carefully mark every object:
not a tree, not a bush, not a large stone, escaped his observation; and
it was said that in a cottage he noted every piece of crockery on the
shelf, every domestic utensil, and even the number of knives and forks
that were got ready for use at dinner.
His acquaintance with the Spanish language was marvellous; from the
finest works of Calderon to the ballads in the patois of every province,
he could quote, to the infinite delight of those with whom he
associated. He could assume any character that he pleased: he could be
the Castilian, haughty and reserved; the Asturian, stupid and plodding;
the Catalonian, intriguing and cunning; the Andalusian, laughing and
merry,--in short, he was all things to all men. Nor was he incapable of
passing off, when occasion required, for a Frenchman; but, as he spoke
the language with a strong German accent, he called himself an Alsatian.
He maintained that character with the utmost nicety; and as there is a
strong feeling of friendship, almost equal to that which exists in
Scotland, amongst all those who are born in the departments of France
bordering on the Rhine, and who maintain their Teutonic originality, he
always found friends and supporters in every regiment in the French
service.
He was on one occasion entrusted with a very difficult mission by the
Duke of Wellington, which he undertook effectually to perform, and to
return on a particular day with the information that was required.
Great was the disappointment when it was ascertained beyond a doubt
that, just after leaving the camp, he had been taken prisoner before he
had time to exchange his uniform. Such, however, was the case; a troop
of dragoons had intercepted him, and carried him off; and the commanding
officer desired two soldiers to keep a strict watch over him and carry
him to headquarters. He was, of course, disarmed, and, being placed on a
horse, was, after a short time, galloped off by his guards. He slept one
night under durance vile at a small inn, where he was allowed to remain
in the kitchen; conversation flowed on very glibly, and, as he appeared
a stupid Englishman, who could not understand a word of French or
Spanish, he was allowed to listen, and thus obtained precisely the
intelligence that he was in search of. The following morning, being
again mounted, he overheard a conversation between his guards, who
deliberately agreed to rob him, and to shoot him at a mill where they
were to stop, and to report to their officer that they had been
compelled to fire at him in consequence of his attempt to escape.
Shortly before they arrived at the mill, for fear that they might meet
with some one who would insist on having a portion of the spoil, the
dragoons took from their prisoner his watch and his purse, which he
surrendered with a good grace. On their arrival at the mill they
dismounted, and, in order to give some appearance of truth to their
story, they went into the house, leaving their prisoner outside, in the
hope that he would make some attempt to escape. In an instant Waters
threw his cloak upon a neighbouring olive-bush, and mounted his cocked
hat on the top. Some empty flour-sacks lay upon the ground, and a horse
laden with well-filled flour-sacks stood at the door. Sir John contrived
to enter one of the empty sacks and throw himself across the horse. When
the soldiers came out of the house they fired their carbines at the
supposed prisoner, and galloped off at the utmost speed.
A short time after the miller came out and mounted his steed; the
general contrived to rid himself of the encumbrance of the sack, and sat
up, riding behind the man, who, suddenly turning round, saw a ghost, as
he believed, for the flour that still remained in the sack had
completely whitened his fellow-traveller and given him a most unearthly
appearance. The frightened miller was "putrified," as Mrs. Malaprop
would say, at the sight, and a push from the white spectre brought the
unfortunate man to the ground, when away rode the gallant quartermaster
with his sacks of flour, which, at length bursting, made a ludicrous
spectacle of man and horse.
On reaching the English camp, where Lord Wellington was anxiously
deploring his fate, a sudden shout from the soldiers made his lordship
turn round, when a figure, resembling the statue in "Don Juan," galloped
up to him. The duke, affectionately shaking him by the hand, said:
"Waters, you never yet deceived me; and, though you have come in a most
questionable shape, I must congratulate you and myself."
When this story was told at the Club, one of those listeners who always
want something more called out, "Well, and what did Waters say?" to
which Alvanley replied:
"Oh, Waters made a very _flowery_ speech, like a well-bred man."
LORD WESTMORELAND
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]
When I was presented at the Court of Louis XVIII. Lord Westmoreland, the
grandfather of the present lord, accompanied Sir Charles Stewart to the
Tuileries. On our arrival in the room where the King was we formed
ourselves into a circle, when the King good-naturedly inquired after
Lady Westmoreland, from whom his lordship was divorced, and whether she
was in Paris. Upon this the noble lord looked sullen, and refused to
reply to the question put by the King. His Majesty, however, repeated
it, when Lord Westmoreland hallooed out, in bad French, "Je ne sais pas,
je ne sais pas, je ne sais pas." Louis, rising, said, "Assez, milord;
assez, milord."
On one occasion, Lord Westmoreland, who was Lord Privy Seal, being asked
what office he held, replied, "Le Chancellier est le grand sceau (sot);
moi je suis le petit sceau d'Angle-terre." On another occasion, he
wished to say "I would if I could, but I can't," and rendered it, "Je
voudrais si je coudrais, mais je ne cannais pas."
COLONEL KELLY AND HIS BLACKING
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]
Among the odd characters I have met with, I do not recollect any one
more eccentric than the late Lieutenant-Colonel Kelly, of the First Foot
Guards, who was the vainest man I ever encountered. He was a thin,
emaciated-looking dandy, but had all the bearing of a gentleman. He was
haughty in the extreme, and very fond of dress; his boots were so well
varnished that the polish now in use could not surpass Kelly's blacking
in brilliancy; his pantaloons were made of the finest leather, and his
coats were inimitable; in short, his dress was considered perfect.
His sister held the place of housekeeper to the Custom-house, and when
it was burnt down, Kelly was burnt with it, in endeavouring to save his
favourite boots. When the news of his horrible death became known, all
the dandies were anxious to secure the service of his valet, who
possessed the mystery of the inimitable blacking. Brummell lost no time
in discovering his place of residence, and asked what wages he required;
the servant answered, his late master gave him £150 a year, but it was
not enough for his talents, and he should require £200; upon which
Brummell said, "Well, if you will make it guineas, _I_ shall be happy to
attend upon _you_." The late Lord Plymouth eventually secured this
phoenix of valets at £200 a year, and bore away the sovereignty of
boots.
JOHN KEMBLE
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]
John Kemble had the honour of giving the Prince of Wales some lessons in
elocution. According to the vitiated pronunciation of the day, the
Prince, instead of saying "oblige," would say "obleege," upon which
Kemble, with much disgust depicted upon his countenance, said:
"Sir, may I beseech your Royal Highness to open your royal jaws, and say
'oblige'?"
ROGERS AND LUTTRELL
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]
I saw a good deal of the poet Rogers during his frequent visits to
Paris; and often visited him in his apartments, which were always on the
fourth or fifth story of the hotel or private house in which he lived.
He was rich, and by no means avaricious, and chose those lofty chambers
partly from a poetic wish to see the sun rise with greater brilliancy,
and partly from a fancy that the exercise he was obliged to take in
going up and down stairs would prove beneficial to his liver.
I could relate many unpublished anecdotes of Rogers, but they lose their
piquancy when one attempts to narrate them. There was so much in his
appearance, in that cadaverous, unchanging countenance, in the peculiar
low, drawling voice, and rather tremulous accents in which he spoke. His
intonations were very much those one fancies a ghost would use if forced
by some magic spell to give utterance to sounds. The mild venom of every
word was a remarkable trait in his conversation. One might have compared
the old poet to one of those velvety caterpillars that crawl gently and
quietly over the skin, but leave an irritating blister behind. To those,
like myself, who were _sans_ consequence, and with whom he feared no
rivalry, he was very good-natured and amiable, and a most pleasant
companion, with a fund of curious anecdote about everything and
everybody. But woe betide those in great prosperity and renown; they
had, like the Roman emperor, in Rogers the personification of the slave
who bade them "remember they were mortal."
At an evening party many years since at Lady Jersey's every one was
praising the Duke of B----, who had just come in, and who had lately
attained his majority. There was a perfect chorus of admiration to this
effect: "Everything is in his favour--he has good looks, considerable
abilities, and a hundred thousand a year." Rogers, who had been
carefully examining the "young ruler," listened to these encomiums for
some time in silence, and at last remarked, with an air of great
exultation, and in his most venomous manner, "Thank God, he has got bad
teeth!"