his usual talent for exquisite observation; and in doing so, he has
left the following beautiful picture of the style of good company,
which prevailed in the private circles of Paris, after the stirring
times of the Fronde. “_Les conversations légères, les circles, la fine
plaisanterie, les lettres enjouées et familières, où l’on étoit admis
seulement avec de l’esprit, tout a disparu._”[40] “The women of our
days,” he continues, “are either devotees, or coquettes, gamblers,
or _ambitieuses_; some of them are all these at once. The rage for
favouritism, play, gallantry, and confessors, has got possession of the
fortress, and defends it against the intellectual and the witty.” Still
there was always in France a little band of the faithful, to tend the
altar and trim the lamp of the true worship; and if, as La Bruyère says,
“Voiture and Sarrasin were born for their age, and for the Rambouillets
and the Longuevilles, parties as intellectual, and as agreeable,
were presided in after times, by D’Alembert, Diderot, De Boufflers,
and Guibert, in the drawing-rooms of Mesdames Tencin, Du Deffand,
L’Espinasse, and Montmorenci.”
While private society was thus making its progress upon the true
principles of ease, pleasure, and intelligence, the descendants of Louis
the Fourteenth, and his circle, were kept as close to the precedents
established at Versailles and Chantilly, as the age would permit; and the
fêtes given at L’Ile Adam, Chantilly, and the Palais Royal, immediately
before the revolution, were still directed by _un auteur bel esprit_,
who made as much a part of the household, as the cook or maître d’hôtel.
Collé suited his poetry _de circonstance_ to the taste of the Palais
Royal; Laujon was the Pastor Fido of the muses and graces of Chantilly;
and Pont de Vesle, the egotistical intimate of the egotistical Du
Deffand, was the _bel esprit_ of the Prince de Conti, with the title of
reader and _Sécretaire des commandemens_. The poor _bel esprit_ held a
most mortifying position between a menial and confidential friend. His
privileges were to have a room in the palace, to follow his prince to the
country, and to be allowed to come in with the dessert after dinner, and
eat ices, standing behind the chairs of his patrons, for three quarters
of an hour. These privileges, which were privations, were as mortifying
as they were _bien constatés_!
In England, from Mrs. Masham’s dull political assemblies, to the good
routes of modern times, nothing resembling the French _soirée_ existed,
if the blue-stocking parties of Mrs. Montague, and the brilliant and
refined _réunions_ of Devonshire House are excepted. Bonaparte, who
feared the _salons_ of Paris more than the Aulic Council, or the cabinet
of St. James’s, discouraged private parties; and taking exception to
those of Madame de Staël, sent her to give her little senate laws at
Copet. On the return of the Bourbons, the exigencies of the times
congregated into small and intimate parties the followers of the
different factions: and all Paris was broken up into coteries. In 1818,
when things were more firmly established, _on avoit changé cela_, the
English magnates had set the fashion of English routes, and French ladies
went about saying, “Only imagine, ten cooks and thirty-two decorators are
employed for the rout of my Lady H——.” Great assemblies were affected
by all the English, which, generally speaking, consisted of just such
English and Irish as nobody in London and Dublin cares to have, with the
addition of some of the old emigrant noblesse, provided by certain female
purveyors, whose early residence in Paris had exchanged their English
obscurity for foreign importance.
As I was perfectly independent of these officious _fournisseurs_, and
knew all that was best worth knowing in France, living, as I should wish
to do everywhere, with the fifth part of the world, instead of going to
an English rout, I determined on giving French _soirées_ myself.
“Take a day,” said Denon, “and your rooms will never be empty;” and
in the confidence of this prophecy, I took my day; nor would I have
exchanged some of my Wednesday evenings for all the evenings that
dignified the _Mercuriali_ of Menage. With such men, as Denon, Humboldt,
La Fayette, Langlés, Ségur, B. Constant, Manuel, De la Rochefoucauld, De
Staël, Jay, Jouy, Dupaty, Talma, with half the _côté gauche_ to boot,
at my parties, it is little to be wondered at if admissions to them
were canvassed as a distinction, particularly by strangers: and many
even of the ribboned members of the ultra noblesse, wedged in between a
_doctrinaire_ and a _modéré_, like an anchovy in a sandwich, ventured
now and then to peep in, for the purpose of seeing, once in a way, _les
hommes marquans du siècle_—to hear Talma recite, and Jouy read.
On these occasions, one of the great attractions was La Fayette. The
moment he appeared (and his erect and noble figure, and lofty air,
distinguished him above the rest), a crowd of young men, who had watched
for his arrival, followed and surrounded him, and their ardent, upturned
faces, and sparkling eyes, formed a striking contrast to the benign
serenity of his calm and venerable countenance; while their rapid and
eager questions were equally opposed to the measured and emphatic
enunciation with which he replied.
It was extremely pleasant on these occasions to see the “_avant,
pendant, et après_” of the revolution united, and forming one piquant
and instructive _tableau_. The presence also of the Marquise de Vilette,
with some few of her cotemporaries who still lingered on the surface of
society, was always a striking circumstance in the picture: and some
little traces of the _toilette_ of 1776 (the epoch when she was by the
side of Voltaire, to replace the crown he declined, or to assist him to
the _fauteuil_, the throne of his triumph) were still visible in her
dress, along with the miniature of her adopted father, which she always
wore, as her order of merit.
In looking over the early pages of my “log-book,” I find the following
entry, dated Rue de Helder, Jan. 1819. It is just legible to myself, so I
will clear it out, and enter it here as an _à propos_.
A charming and crowded _soirée_, not however “_pour les beaux yeux de
mon mérite_,” but because it was known that Talma was to give a scene
from Macbeth, and Madame Duchenois to read an act of Jouy’s new tragedy,
suppressed by the minister of police. What a congress of talent! The
Count de Ségur, Denon, B. Constant, and Langlés in one group; General La
Fayette, with the Duc de Broglie, Auguste de Staël, the Marquis Capponi,
and the brave Colonel Favier in another; General Berthier in the centre
of a circle of pretty women, among whom was the Princesse Jablonowska,
whom Napoleon pronounced to be one of the most charming persons of her
country, where all the women are charming; and the Comtesse de la
Rochefoucauld, with her “_grâce, plus belle que la beauté même_,” and the
Beauveaux, that splendid family which would have been the inspiration
of a Titian, and given him brighter models of loveliness than the
Famiglia of Cornaro. There was my dear friend the Laird of Bara, in full
regimentals, from the _réception_ of the Duc d’Orleans, and a knot of
young Americans, with the agreeable members of their embassy. And then,
for my Irish quota, there was he of whom it may be said, that he was “_né
pour tous les siècles et avec tous les talens_,”—the last best specimen
of Irish wit, and Irish humour, who, whether he talks Greek with Porson,
Irish with O’Leary, or French with B. Constant, leaves it in doubt to
what age or country he belongs—the delightful P. L——. Then there were my
two most distinguished countrywomen, Ladies——, chatting with Lydia White,
who always says the best thing that is said in whatever language she
speaks; and the Duchess of D——; with her sibyl look drawing off Denon,
to talk of those arts she loved so sincerely and protected so liberally.
Dupaty also was there, who promised to read us some of his _délateurs_,
and would not; and Jay, and Etienne, and the heart and soul of the
Minerve and the Constitutionnel, and Charles Pougens, (as I was told,)
for I could not make my way to the anti-room, where, among La Fayette’s
_belle jeunesse de France_, stood the friend of D’Alembert and Diderot,
the most agreeable blind man of this or any other country.
Just as Mademoiselle Duchenois and Talma had sat down to the reading
table, and began the tragedy which was a censure on its censurers, the
Kaimachan of Wallachia came in, all cachemires and turban, embroidery and
brilliants. What a sensation among the Parisian _petites maîtresses_!
Here were shawls that might have purchased the whole extreme _droit_,
and sold France back to its old master. What added to the sensation was,
that my servant Le Clair announced him as the Persian ambassador,—‘_mon
illustre confrère_,’ in the Freemasons’ Lodge of _Belle et Bonne_, who
had been expected. So it was some minutes before we could get back from
the Arabian Nights to our own, which terminated splendidly with Talma’s
acting the scene of Macbeth and the witches, thrown into a dream (by
Ducis) which Macbeth relates to his wife—a most cold conception, but
most wonderfully represented. How much of Talma’s genius was lost,
by his being only seen and heard in the immensity of the _François_!
What struck me most was the graphic splendour of Shakspeare’s genius,
piercing through the still medium of French declamation—the picturesque
vitality of his fine dramatic action, coming out through the tameness of
narrative, which, however freely given, (and it was given with a force
inconceivable to those who have not seen Talma act in private), is always
a tame vehicle when compared with dialogue.
A ball at a banker’s carried off the _bel air_ of my party before
midnight: and so Denon, Talma, Langlés, and Madame La Vilette, with some
half a dozen others, remained round the fire, to chat. Talma took down
from the mantel-piece a book, which had just come in. It was Madame de
Genlis’ “Extraits du Dangeau.” “This, at least,” I said, “will bring her
into fashion with the Bourbons.” “Not a bit,” said Denon: “they know each
other too well.” Talma fell upon the anecdote of the two actors, who
were dismissed from the theatre and ruined, because they had displeased
the Dauphine _par deux sots placets_. At this act of littleness, Madame
de Genlis cannot restrain her admiration. “If,” she said, “Louis the
Eighteenth should dismiss two great actors for want of respect, there
would be a general insurrection in society. Yet this event made no
sensation in Louis the Fourteenth’s time.”
“_Il est passé le bons vieux temps_,” sung Talma, from a vaudeville,
which Carbonel had been singing. “I remember,” said Madame de Vilette,
“when young Vestris sprained his ancle, and could not move, the queen,
who had her brother, the Emperor Joseph, in her box, sent behind the
scenes to insist on his dancing: ‘_Ne fut ce qu’un entré_.’ The thing
was impossible, and the minister Breteuil immediately signed an order to
arrest Vestris, who was sent to La Force.”
Talma shuddered; and Denon told the anecdote of the old _Dieu de la
Danse_ on this occasion, “_C’est la première brouillerie de notre maison
avec la famille des Bourbons_.”
I think it was Langlés who said, that the nick-name of _La Mère de
l’Eglise_, by which Madame de Genlis is distinguished among the wicked
wits of Paris, is not a modern malice. It was given her on occasion of
her publishing “_La Religion Considérée_,” &c., a deep theological work,
written when she was the platonic friend of Egalité. This Christian work
was a most unchristian attack on the philosophers, whom she hated, as
mothers of the church alone know how to hate.
“The actor’s privilege, however,” said Talma, “of being insolent, did not
compensate the degradation of the caste, whose liberty and life were at
the mercy of every court favorite, from the prince of the blood to his
_valet de chambre_.”
“Still,” I said, “the actors had a fine time of it under Louis the
Fourteenth. It was an allusion to the wealth and consequence of La
Dancour, that La Bruyère has said, that the actor, lolling in his
carriage, casts its mud in the face of Corneille, who goes on foot.”
“Yes,” said Talma, “but La Bruyère has also said, that we in France think
of the actors like the Romans, and live with them like the Greeks.”
“The favour of the great,” said M., “unaccompanied by their esteem, is
not a distinction, but a disgrace.”
The conversation reverted to Dangeau, Madame de Genlis, and Demontey’s
amusing extracts from the same work, which form the most humorous comment
that could be given on Madame de Genlis. Madame de Sévigné had long
since made hers, when describing a day at Versailles, “_On parle sans
cesse, et rien ne demeure sur le cœur; et Dangeau est ravit de tout ce
caquet_.”[41] What a motto for his book!
DOCTRINE OF CAUSATION.
Only think of my giving myself the air of talking metaphysics this
morning, and throwing in a word on the _Doctrine of Causation_, merely
to shew off before the Prince C——li, Count del P——o, and L—— B——, who
were breakfasting with us. A look from “my master” convinced me, that
like _Cathon_, “I had got _furieusement dans l’énigme_;” and with the
distressed Irish gentlewoman, whose necessities obliged her to cry “hot
mutton pies,” and who always added, “_I hope nobody hears me_,” I too
hoped my observation had escaped the ears for which it was intended;
and so I began to recommend the beauties of the county of Wicklow to
my guests, and made “pure description hold the place of sense,” or
_non_-sense. When they were gone, we fell to talk upon the subject, and
here was the result.
The idea of cause is a consequence of our consciousness of the force we
exert in subjecting externals to the changes dictated by our volition.
From this we deduce the presence of a force, which is the _sine qua non_
of those other changes in matter, in which we have no part. It is this
association of ideas which predisposes the savage to impute intelligence
and volition to the unknown causes of natural phenomena. Experience,
shewing the constant concurrence of certain antecedents with certain
consequences, while it dispels the error of the savage concerning
voluntary agents, strengthens the notion of natural causes into a
principle. The human mind cannot conceive a cause which is not necessary;
because the same experience, which proves that it is a cause, proves the
universality of its antecedence to the effect, with which it stands in
relation.
THE COUNTESS D’ALBANY.
Talking of the accidents, incidents, and odd conjunctions of travelling,
it happened, one fine autumnal morning, at Florence—(and oh, for the
Tuscan autumn! with its “Tuscan grapes,” fresh olives, and autumnal
flowers, which give the Tuscan capital its pretty name)—it happened
that my illustrious countryman, Mr. Moore, my husband, and myself, were
seated on a sofa in our old palace in the _Borgo Santa Croce_, looking
at the cloud-capt Apennines, which seemed walking in at the windows,—and
talking of Lord Byron, (from whose villa on the Brenta, Mr. Moore
had just arrived,) when our Italian servant, Pasquali, announced “The
Countess D’Albany.” Here was an honour which none but a Florentine could
appreciate! (for all personal consequence is so local!) Madame D’Albany
never paid visits to private individuals, never left her palace on
the Arno, except for the English ambassador’s, or the Grand Duke’s. I
had just time to whisper Mr. Moore, “The widow of the Pretender! your
legitimate queen!—and the love of your brother poet, Alfieri;” and then
came my turn to present my celebrated compatriot, with all his much
more durable titles of illustration: so down we all sat, and “_fell to
discourse_.”
I observe that great people, who have been long before the public, and
feel, or fancy, they belong to posterity, generally make themselves
agreeable to popular writers; and they are right; for what are the
suffrages of a titled _coterie_, which can “bear but the breath and
suppliance of an hour,” to the good opinion of those, whose privilege
it is to confer a distinction, to awaken an interest that vibrates
to the remotest corner of the known world. Kings may give patents of
nobility—genius only confers patents of celebrity. One line from an
eminent writer will confer a more lasting dignity, than all the grand and
arch dukes, that ever reigned from Russia to Florence, can bestow.
Madame D’Albany, already forgotten as the wife of the last of the royal
Stuarts, will live as long as the language of Dante lasts, in the lines
of Alfieri.
The Countess D’Albany could be the most agreeable woman in the world; and
upon the occasion of this flattering visit, she was so. She could also
be the most disagreeable; for, like most great ladies, her temper was
uncertain; and her natural hauteur, when not subdued by her brilliant
bursts of good humour, was occasionally extremely revolting. Still she
loved what is vulgarly called fun; and no wit, or sally of humour, could
offend her.
We had received very early letters from London, with the account of the
king’s death, (George the Third:) I was stepping into the carriage, to
pay Madame D’Albany a morning visit, when they arrived—and I had them
still in my hand, on entering her library on the _rez-de-chaussée_, where
I found her alone, and writing, when I suddenly exclaimed, with a French
theatrical air,
“Grande Princesse, dont les torts tout un peuple déplore,
Je viens vous l’annoncer, l’_Usurpateur_ est mort.”
“What usurper!” asked Madame D’Albany, a little surprised, and not a
little amused.
“Madame, _l’Electeur d’Hanovre cesse de vivre_!” The _mauvaise
plaisanterie_ was taken in good part; for, truth to tell, though the
Countess D’Albany always spoke in terms of respect and gratitude of the
royal family, and felt (or affected) an absolute passion for his present
Majesty, whose picture she had, she was always well pleased that others
should consider her claims to the rank of queen as legitimate, of which
she herself entertained no doubts. She, however, affected no respect for
a husband, whom, living, she had despised for his vices, and hated for
his cruelty.
IRISH RELIQUARIES.
One of the most curious Irish reliquaries extant is the Caah of the
O’Donnels, still in the possession of that ancient family. I gave a
description of it in my novel of ‘O’Donnel,’ which brought me, for the
first and only time in my life, within the walls of a court of justice.
The circumstance is illustrative of Irish manners and opinions, and
is therefore worth relating. It should seem that a tradition had been
handed down from the old times, forbidding, under some terrible ‘Blue
Beard’ penalty, the indulgence of an unhallowed curiosity respecting the
contents of the Caah; and that, in the memory of man, it had never been
opened. When it was placed, with other family documents, in the custody
of the Ulster king at arms, that gentleman, it was alleged, had, with the
natural curiosity, the birth-right of the children of Eve, (who are all
more or less Prys or Pandoras,) indulged himself with a peep into the
Caah; for, else, how could Lady Morgan describe it? It so happened that,
though the lineal descendants of the O’Donnels have for some generations
been Protestants, the eldest of its female members, and the immediate
proprietress of the relic, still retained a fanciful and sentimental,
if not a religious superstition on the subject; and if the king at arms
really looked into the box, he found at the bottom, not hope, but its
antipodes—a law-suit! The lady brought her action for the lost services
of the mystery; and I, who had received my information from the kindness
(and general knowledge of such antiquities) of the defendant, was
subpœnaed to prove that he was better acquainted with “such secrets in
this farthel and box, which none must know,” than he could be, from a
mere external inspection.[42] Fortunately for all the parties concerned,
just as the cause was about to be called on, the good taste and timely
intervention of the other and younger members of this most respectable
and excellent family, prevailed with the plaintiff to abate something
of her resentment, and the dispute was settled _l’aimable_. The Caah
contained only a mouldering piece of vellum, in all probability a copy of
one of the gospels.
Another celebrated relic was the Caah or Corpnua of the O’Briens. These
portable shrines were devoted to the preservation of the holy volume,
copies of which were formerly so precious and so rare in Ireland,
that none but religious societies, or wealthy and noble families,
could obtain them. Not only the gospels were difficult to be had,
but persons sufficiently skilful in penmanship to copy them, could
scarcely be found for any recompense. A learned clerk (Fra Dominick)
engaged for this purpose by St. Cronan, refused to write longer than
one day, from sun-rise to sun-set. In all times “_les grands talens se
font prier_.”[43] St. Cronan, who “was Yorkshire too,” closed with the
agreement, having previously made a clandestine arrangement with the sun
to shine uninterruptedly for forty days; and the copyist, out-witted by
the saint, was obliged to hold by his bargain. This, I believe, is the
identical missal sent, in the superb Caah, as a donation to the Irish
monastery at Ratisbon, by Tirdellagh O’Brien, King of Munster.
The gospel, thus sumptuously enshrined, was first inclosed in a case of
the most durable wood, generally of yew or oak, which, in time, became
as sacred as the holy deposit. It was then placed in a box of copper
(the Caah) plated with silver or gold, embossed with precious stones and
crystals, and covered with effigies of saints, angels, and scriptural
devices. They were also marked with some inscription, such as that on
the Caah of the O’Briens, which, as well as I remember, ran thus:—“Thady
O’Brien caused me to be gilt; the Prince of Hy——, coadjutor of the
Bishop, lately restored me; and Shaneen, the artist, decorated me.”
The relics of antique times are always precious. They are the monuments
of the barbarity, ignorance, and dupery, from which knowledge, by its
powerful agent, the printing-press, is slowly redeeming us. Philosophy,
no less than antiquarian research, is deeply interested in their
conservation.
THE CADENAS.
As a set-off against my barbarous Irish reliquary, the French _cadenas_,
used at the royal table, in the Tuileries, upon occasions of grand
ceremony, is worth quoting. It is the _couvert_ reserved expressly for
the king, containing his salt-seller, cruets, plates, glasses, &c. &c.,
locked up under a _cadenas_, or padlock. Having had the honour to be
present at the wedding-dinner (or supper) of the Duke de Berri, I made
some inquiries, of an ultra friend who sat near me, as to this coffer,
which was carried to the head of the table. “’Tis an old custom,” she
said, “and, in its origin, a precaution against poison.” “What, in the
good old times?” I said. She shrugged, and replied by the unanswerable
“_Que voulez-vous? les méchans sont de tous les tems!_”[44]
TOFINO.
I was one day walking on the Piazza del Duomo, at Milan, with the Abbate
Breme,[45] when, passing near one of the lateral gates of the vice-regal
palace, on our way to the post-office, he stopped, and patted a little
dog on the head, which lay basking in the sun beside the sentry-box of
the guard. He said, “You must know Tofino—his story is a romance—
“_Credo che il senta ogni gentil persona._”
While the Abbate was speaking and caressing Tofino, who seemed to know
him, and returned his caresses, several passengers, as they hurried on,
either gave their _buon giorno_ to the dog, or added a sympathizing
_buona bestia!—povera bestia!_ and some flung him a biscuit or other
eatable. All noticed him.
“Tofino,” said Signor Breme, “is the most popular personage in all
Lombardy. His merit is the only point upon which we all agree.
Classicists and romanticists, liberals and illiberals, alike accord their
suffrages, and contribute their quota to the comforts of this _ancien
militaire_. Tofino has made the terrible campaign of Russia, with equal
honour to himself and fidelity to his master. He is a miracle of canine
affection and intelligence!
“A dragoon in the Italian army, having reared him from a puppy, and
taught him many ingenious tricks, was called off with his regiment to
Spain. The dragoon had a dear friend, a sergeant in the _guardia reale_;
and, in the _pressentiment_ that he should never return, he bequeathed
Tofino, with the old proverb, which is to be found in all languages—‘As
you love me, love my dog!’