Chapter V (2)

Jekyll is amusing as ever in point of wit and humour, though not of imagination. He has turned his mind so much to playing on words that he attends little to thoughts—a common error in professed wits, and one which accounts for their giving less pleasure in society than those who only hear their _bon mots_ quoted are led to expect. We read in the papers of a brewer drowned in his own beer. ‘Yes,’ says Jekyll, ‘Unwept he floats upon his watery _beer_.’ Conversation at Paulton’s hardly consists in reciprocal communication. Jekyll talks; others applaud, excite, and listen.

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, Oct. 14, 1814.

I send _Lara_. Here are all Lord Byron’s accustomed powers of language and description, his energetic seizure of our attention, his forceful manner of stamping images, so that we cannot erase them if we would, of identifying them with our thoughts, so that they pursue when we attempt to fly them; his verses have fangs. Here is also his accustomed celebration of the unnatural and unfrequent union between genius and crime. That it is an union not unfrequent, knaves endeavour to teach, and fools willingly believe. But experience denies the fact, and it suits not the higher walk of poetry, which, without giving direct lessons, should always elevate, soothe, or mend the heart.

... The sooner you tell us the day we may hope for you, the more on every account you will oblige your best friend, and perhaps the _only_ one who considers _you_ solely in all the opinions she gives. Vanity, prejudice, envy, self-interest, enter into almost all advice except from a parent. Therefore, consider what has been said as coming from a second self, but one who views your situation from the eminence of years and experience.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1814.

I do indeed congratulate you on your having regained a title so dreaded by the vain and frivolous, so desired by the affectionate. You must know in the circle which calls itself the world, the _word_ is nearly exploded, and grandchildren are taught to distinguish their parents in the first and second line as _Mamma_ This and _Mamma_ That, without using the terrific _trisyllable_.

My daughter, whose name has excited so much interest in your valuable circle, is Elizabeth Melesina. Her father affectionately wished she should bear my name, but I seduced him to suffer Elizabeth to be joined, which unites my mother’s name, that of the excellent Lady Hutchinson, and of her kind godmother. I had some objection to my own name, combined in _my_ mind with many faults and many sorrows; and I also know by experience that an appellation which is more suited to the pages of fiction than to real life ministers to vanity and romance; besides its tempting coxcombs to ‘soften stanzas with her tuneful name,’ as is well expressed in some stanzas addressed to poor me; who can now and then be wise for others, not having expended much wisdom at home. So my daughter is now Bessy, under which domestic and social name I hope to see her good and contented, and to present her in time to my dear Mrs. Leadbeater.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Dec. 23, 1814.

Yesterday we dined at Miss Short’s. Mr. —— talked to me when he was a _little_ drunk, just as Mr. —— did twenty years ago, and resembled him exactly. I barricaded myself in a seat on the sofa, putting M. on one side, Miss M. on the other, and a desk screen before me. But he talked away through all impediments; and you know my good nature never allows me to use the defensive armour Providence has given me against forwardness, unless I am more provoked than I can be by a mere determination to converse with and try to please me. He talked to me of his _capital_ house in Portland-place, his having dined with Lord Spencer, his wife being cousin to Lady —— ——, of his being a book-fancier, and having offered £200 for _Boccaccio_; in short, he collected into one focus all that was to dazzle me, and offered to lend me the most curious French romance extant, &c. &c., which you may be sure I refused.

Miss O’Neill is said to be more natural than Mrs. Siddons was, but to gain no more by it than wax-work does by being a closer representation of nature than the Apollo Belvedere. Very few discriminate sufficiently in the arts between the merit of an _exact_ representation and an _ennobled_ one; and people are not fair enough in general to allow that something must be sacrificed of fidelity in order to reach that elevated imitation which alone gives strong and repeated pleasure.

TO THE COUNT DE LA GARDIE.

Bursledon Lodge, 1814.

J’ai appris avec plaisir, Monsieur le Comte, que le choix de votre Excellence pour être ambassadeur de sa M. le Roi de Suède auprès de la Cour de Naples vous a conduit dans ce pays. Le souvenir des heures, à la fois, animées, douces, et tranquilles, que j’ai passées dans votre hôtel à Vienne, et qui m’ont rendu cette ville si agréable, ne s’effacera jamais. J’ai vivement regretté que mon séjour forçé en France après mon mariage, mon mari ayant été fait prisonnier de guerre, quoiqu’il n’avoit jamais embrassé l’état militaire, a interrompu la correspondance dont j’ai joui pendant quelque temps. J’ai tâché de la renouer par l’entremise du Chevalier l’Amiral Bertie. Je ne vous exprimerai pas ce que j’ai senti quand il m’a rapporté, sans être décachetée, ma lettre, destinée pour la plus douce, la plus cherie des mortelles, mais écrite à un ange du ciel. Je ne me permets de suivre les idées que cet evenement m’inspire. Agréez, M. le Comte, l’expression du désir que je ressens de vous remercier ——[54]

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.

Bath, April, 1815.

Have you seen the late Maréchal Lacy’s country house? I thought the grounds extremely beautiful. He was one of the many who were kind to me, that have been removed to another existence since I left Vienna. Fifteen years’ absence from any place gives one a terrible lesson on the instability of life, when one seeks for the friends or even acquaintances one has left. Those I have lost there exceed in number those I have preserved, and were among my chief intimates, for I now know none there so well as I knew Mad. de Thun, Lady Guilford, Maréchal Lacy, and Mad. Colloredo. Are the great dinners still at two o’clock? We were very much interested by Lord Clancarty’s last despatch, describing the reception of Buonaparte’s propositions, which is certainly an admirable State paper, and written with a strength and terseness too often neglected in diplomatic composition. Its openness and manly directness are also to be admired; there is a stamp of truth and firmness about it, and no opening appears to be left for wavering or indecision.

Adieu. It is a rare thing for me not to fill a sheet, but I am not full of ideas, and am so conversant with trees and shrubs that, like one of Ovid’s heroines, I think my feet will soon take root, and my fingers germinate, only, however, with leaves and buds. Have you heard that both Mad. de Staël and her daughter have married since they left England? I suppose this country gave them a taste for domestic life, as it is certainly the spot on the globe where it is best understood.

The ——s are in London. He is exerting all his energies—to get into _The Alfred_. Pitiable that with so good abilities he should be reduced at sixty to anxiety for an object so frivolous. How wise are they who take advantage of the opening given by English laws and customs to rise above the every-day detail of mere society, and take their share in politics, literature, or great works of benevolence, which, if we add to them the learned professions, take in all the objects really worth attention.

Have you happened to see Alison’s _Sermons_? If not, bulky as they are, I must try to send them. One upon the fiftieth anniversary of our King’s reign is exquisite in feeling, taste, and style.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bath, April 16, 1815.

You have no notion how much I enjoy my escape from the jaws of the hill—opening, just as if they designed to close on us again. I must never put myself _dans la gorge des montagnes_. With a thousand reasons for being in worse, I am in better spirits, and enjoy my loftiness and my airiness. In short, I hate to _look up_, except to people, and that is a pleasure I am used to, and have been _particularly_ so during the last twelve years.

I was at Mr. Lemon’s last night, and was mistaken and talked to for Mrs. J. Hayes, which, as she is but four-and-twenty, I accepted for a great compliment. I personated her as long as I could, not to distress the speaker; but when, after inquiring for all Mrs. Hayes’ near friends and relations, she came to solicitude for _our friend Mrs. Wiggins_, I could not hold out or do the honours of four-and-twenty any longer. I returned Mrs. ——’s visit at her cottage on Saturday. It is one of those cottages described in a novel, where one finds a pair of runaway lovers or a fair unknown. The flame of friendship on her part burned and crackled immediately. It would have done so equally on mine (for I am not ungrateful, and her manners are charming), if my friendship did not flow with my love in so broad and deep a channel that I do not find it easy to divert it into any smaller streams. Formerly my heart could sincerely feed innumerable little streamlets of female friendships, platonic friendships, literary partnerships, serviceable warm good wills, and cheerful self-sacrificing intimacies; and though I have been sometimes blamed for this apparent diffusion, I had affection enough in my composition to answer all these demands; but ‘the seven heads of the Nile’ have now each their appropriate destination; even the little pleasure I had last year in the variety of mixed society is now quite absorbed in my superior happiness at home.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

May 4, 1815.

So I said in February last that I had not leisure for many works of fiction. Alas, poor human nature! since that time I have read _Waverley_, _The Queen’s Wake_, _The Curse of Kehama_, _The Lord of the Isles_, and skimmed over _Guy Mannering_, _Discipline_, and _Charlemagne_. _The Lord of the Isles_ is a charming poem, as a full-length portrait of Bruce, whose dignity and sweetness are admirably portrayed; but the misses and masters of this work are _too_ uninteresting. _The Curse of Kehama_ is full of exquisite beauties, and I know nothing in the whole range of imaginative descriptive poetry that impresses me so much as the City under water. I was also charmed to meet my dear nursery friends, the Glumms and Gawries, who had so delighted me in _Peter Wilkins_.

_May 11._—I wish I could tell you anything of the Queen of Prussia; but there are characters which defy description, and, if one attempts to give them _colour_, one falls into invention. She was beautiful; and well conducted in those points peculiarly exacted from women; in nothing distinguished. Dress and dancing she was fonder of than even the majority of her sex, and devoted to them to a later period. She was so uncommonly obliging to me that I feel as if I was ungrateful in mentioning these trifles; but I cannot resist your inquiry. Her beauty was not of a distinguished kind as to face, but her figure was fine and commanding.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.

May, 1815.

I am not surprised you admire the Prater. It is, I believe, the most beautiful public place in the world; and its first burst of spring, so prompt, so rapid, so rich, though not so delightful to a resident as a more gradual approach, is more splendid and striking. One would not wish it so always; but for once it is a beautiful _coup de théâtre_. And the great enjoyments of the labourer and artizan in their holiday summer evenings on this spot give a spectacle probably unique. The populace at Vienna seem the best and happiest I have seen. They are incomparably the best fed; and this forms no small praise of their superiors. Have you been presented to the Emperor? You ought; and there is no place where it is so little troublesome. It is a _duperie_ not to be introduced to the most remarkable people, and particularly to those whose actions influence the destiny of thousands both existing and unborn. Never ‘lay the flattering unction to your soul’ of being _presented_, &c. &c., when you come back; for one hardly ever retraces one’s own path. Friends often say, ‘It is not worth the trouble—I am sure you would not like it;’ but one must cut this short, or may lose half what one travels for.

_June 14, 1815._—One should be very cautious to prevent habitual politeness from degenerating into involuntary, or at least unintentional, dissimulation. The daughter of the landlady of the inn where I slept last night at Bagshot, at two years old, gave her sister of seven, without any provocation, so vigorous and well applied a slap, so perfectly _aplomb_, as proved the exercise habitual. The mother seemed delighted at this display of spirit before me; and instead of a timely word or hint of disapprobation, the vile habit of involuntary politeness led me to sanction it rather by a civil and approving smile.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

London, June 23, 1815.

We are in all the triumph and tears of a dear-bought victory. The Prince was at dinner at Mrs. Boehm’s when the news was brought to him. Ministers and all wept in triumph among the bottles and glasses. The Regent fell into a sort of womanish hysteric. Water was flung in his face. No, that would never do. Wine was tried with better success, and he drowned his feelings in an ocean of claret. They seem to have been a little disturbed in their natural course, for he called Jekyll, and said, ‘Lady Gertrude Sloane’s brother is killed. Take my carriage and tell her so.’ Jekyll expostulated that Lady Gertrude was gone to bed—just ready to be confined, and the surprise might be fatal, if the news was announced in that way at that hour. The Regent persisted, and at last said, ‘Well, go to Lord Carlisle’s; for some of them _must_ know it,’ which Jekyll also resisted.

He is made one of the Masters (in Chancery, I suppose), and gets between two and three thousand a-year. I wish his dear wife was living;—but I hope I wrong her much by so mean a wish.

Do not quote Jekyll in this account of the Regent. One of my Hanoverian friends is killed, a worthy man as ever fought—Omptéda his name; and one of my acquaintances in that quarter, Büssche, the fine-looking son of my beautiful friend, has lost an arm.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.

Cheltenham, July 3, 1815.

Mrs. —— was at Cheltenham six weeks, and went to an hotel, where she lived at the _table-d’hôte_. This was not the choice of very good taste; _mais n’importe_; it amused her, and no one ever thought of criticizing but those who had not kindliness of heart to take pleasure in her being amused. Among these critics were the Ladies B——, who told Mrs. —— their _propriety_ would not allow them to visit her at a place where they _might_, _would_ or _could_ meet _so many men_ on the stairs, &c. Did any one ever hear such _trash_? What strange points people choose for their propriety; and how few are there who may not go up and down stairs with perfect security.

There is a great influx of Petticoats, and Irish petticoats, in the place; but man is a rare bird, and, when he does come, _very shy_, to use a sportsman’s phrase.

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 2, 1815.

You ask me how I like _The Pilgrims of the Sun_. It abuses the privilege assumed by modern poets of setting aside all respect for _le vrai_ or _le vraisemblable_. It is a reverie, a rhapsody, a long tour in an air-balloon—what you will; yet it has pretty lines, and shows some imagination; but these one finds everywhere. It is one of the distinctions of this age, that so many attempt to write verses, and so few fail of producing something which may be read, _once_ at least, with pleasure. But I have read _Roderick the Goth_ with reverence and admiration—a stately Gothic temple, in ornament rich and elaborate, yet losing nothing of its general effect from the beauty and high finish of its details; exciting in the mind a religious awe which composes and invigorates, at the same time awakening the tenderest affections. The application of the words of our Liturgy and Scripture is often very beautiful; and I am not so scrupulous on this head as the Edinburgh Reviewer, who (pious man) is shocked at the introduction of Catholic ceremonies, as indecorous and irreverent. They are highly picturesque, and suited to poetry; and I do not think Mr. Southey’s description of auricular confession will either make one convert to Popery, or excite the smallest sentiment of irreverence for Christianity. But these Reviewers seem to praise him with great regret, and, I believe, are a little angry that any one on this side the Tweed should have written so fine a poem. However, I grant that it is too universally sombre; the mixture of justified and avowed revenge with Christian feelings on other matters is incongruous; while the hinge on which the story turns is a crime which by no skill whatever can be divested of meanness and ferocity.

How could Lord Carysfort think I had _forgot_ his reading? On the contrary, his reading not merely fixed in my memory what was good, but has also left an indelible impression of some of Lewis’s _diableries_, and Wordsworth’s inanity, which I wish to forget, and cannot, though I have in general a happy facility in that way; and I sometimes find myself involuntarily repeating—

‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter,
What is it ails young Harry Gill?’

and so on for three or four stanzas. The whole is in an _Annual Register_ which was sent to Berlin, and I heard it but once read in the corner where Lady Carysfort’s sofa was placed, and where she sat with feminine work in her hands, and more than feminine eloquence on her lips; now discussing with prophetic spirit (as events have proved) the fate of Europe, and now consulting on the form of some simple ornament for her daughters. How much has been erased from memory of what has happened before and since; yet how well do I recollect those _sweet_ evenings. Forgive me the Irish epithet; I cannot always do without it.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., DRESDEN.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 11, 1815.

I address this to Dresden in great hope of its missing you; as it is a pity the Gallery there, which every day will improve, should detain you from the treasures of art, _now_ collected in Paris—but which will soon be crumbled away. Every hour some star is blotted from the constellation, some borrowed plume plucked from the daw. There, too, the materials of future history are forming. The great game of power is playing on a large scale. Paris is now the _focus_ of the mind of the civilized world, and one may exist more there in a week than elsewhere in years. But all this is evanescent; while petty princes, warm baths, and waltzing misses, are always to be had.

The Polish women, whom you mention as nationally agreeable, have all the ease and adroitness acquired by living constantly in a crowd, and having no pursuit but dissipation, and very little restraint from principle. There is, however, much tinsel and frippery in their manners. The colours are gay, but roughly laid on; and in a short time those persons of good taste who have been accustomed to that beautiful union of refinement and simplicity (the perfection of female grace) which is found amongst English women, are annoyed by a certain mixture of coarseness and _finesse_. They please at first; for their gold is hammered into the most airy thinness, and all spread on the surface; and though they rarely excel in anything, they are _tolerably_ advanced in a variety of languages, and other accomplishments, which they are ever anxious to display—their morning all rehearsal, their evening all performance.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 30, 1815.

Your amusing packets always diffuse cheerfulness over my horizon, or rather increase that which, I thank Heaven, does not often forsake me. Indeed, I do consider that moment as fortunate to me which made us acquainted; you know not of how much use you have been to my mind, nor what moral benefit is derived from intercourse with you and yours, including your excellent friend Mr. ——. I am sorry I mentioned those ‘eccentricities,’ to borrow your word, which I thought I perceived in his character. I am sure, however, I was right, since you have not contradicted me. Believe me, I do not esteem him less for knowing on what side lie those shades which are the inevitable lot of humanity. On the contrary, he is more interesting to me, as I am better acquainted with his individuality; and, knowing that every virtue verges on some defect, I am not the least surprised that a mind so active and energetic, should be in some degree positive and self-opinionated. We must not expect from eagles the gentleness of doves.

The next few entries contain the record of a short visit to
Paris made at the conclusion of this year.

_Nov. 3-5, 1815._—From London to Dover you are received at all the inns with a jerking _empressement_, that shows travellers to France are considered as the spoiled children of the travelling world, who are trying to get rid of themselves, and must be flattered and humoured. Elsewhere one meets an easy, quiet civility, as if one’s object might be one’s own business, and it was not necessary to incite and indulge one’s whims to keep up the spirit of change. But on this road the whole family pour out on all occasions, not excepting the young ladies _en papillotes_; there is a double portion of alacrity, and one is treated as if carrying despatches on which hung the fate of Europe.

* * * * *

_Nov. 14, Hôtel Mont Blanc, Paris._—After an absence of eight years, I find that while the French have veered to every point of the compass as to morals, religion, and government, they have been constant to their milliners, opera-dancers, and _restaurateurs_, who are all the same I left. Madame Gardel still bears the palm for grace; _Madame_, or rather _Monsieur_, Le Roy, for millinery; and Véry and Beauvilliers are still the princes of _restaurateurs_. The gentleness, the smoothness of manners of the English, the harmony of their voices, and the repose and educated expression of their countenances, form a striking contrast to the harsh, sudden, angular, impatient appearance of the French. Sometimes these assume a veil of softness, but it is transparent, and suddenly thrown off when anything touches or even threatens their interest or their vanity in the most distant point.

I inhabit an apartment that affects to be luxurious. The suite of rooms are seven, and the walls ornamented with large looking-glasses; but my bedroom is without a carpet, and the curtains both of bed and window are of embroidered muslin, unlined, so I shiver in state. My bedroom also is without a bell, so that whenever I want my maid I must _run_ or _roar_, which disagrees extremely with the dignified of _coup-d’œil_ of my apartment.

* * * * *

_Nov. 18._—My dear little —— has begun to take lessons in dancing from Mons. Reichard, who modestly says—‘_Je suis le premier démonstrateur du monde_;’ and who tells me that _if_ —— attends to his dancing he will be a very handsome man—a whimsical connexion of cause and effect, recalling Molière’s _Vous êtes orfèvre_.

I had the pleasure of seeing in one evening, Corneille’s _Menteur_, and _Les Plaideurs_, by Racine. To see on the same night the first good French comedy (which, however, is an acknowledged translation from the Spanish), and the two best comic productions of the greatest tragic writers of this nation, was fortunate. But _Les Plaideurs_ being founded on an alienation of mind, gives pain, in spite of all its humour and brilliancy. No superstructure can universally please on this foundation, which appears to me radically faulty, and equally an offence against good taste and good feeling.

When I saw the Comtesse de Pimbeche she immediately reminded me of my dear friend Mad. de Sévigné, who says, ‘_Je suis une vraie Comtesse de Pimbeche_;’ and I was glad to laugh at what had diverted her.

* * * * *

_Nov. 20._—The poor dismantled Gallery! Here are the empty frames of the fine pictures, which have been restored to their rightful owners; a mournful memento, however just the act of restoration. Still, much is left. Albano’s Cupids still whet their arrows, and Cuyp’s soft light still beams from the walls.

The _Hôtel des Invalides_ is one of the most glorious monuments of the reign of Louis XIV. The veterans are well fed and clothed. They lodge in a palace, and command a view spacious and magnificent, as far as regular plantations and wide alleys can make it so. Sixty years of age, or wounds that disable from service, are the titles of admission. They receive forty sous a month pocket-money.

The general idea of such a retreat for the veterans of war, flatters the imagination at a distance; but when we approach, it is in detail a melancholy sight. There is something so disproportioned between the grandeur of the building and the maimed, old, and debilitated figures who creep and shiver through its magnificent arcades; and also between the remuneration of a mere provision for the necessities of life, and those acts, always of self-devotion, sometimes of eminent heroism, connected with a military career, that one gladly escapes from so painful a contrast; and when one has said, This is _the best_ that unlimited power can do for valour in the aggregate, one turns shuddering to _the worst_, and sees in their true light the calamities of war. A few priests and _Sœurs de la Charité_ glide along among these feeble veterans, these remnants of themselves, adding to the solemnity of the picture. The day was bitterly cold; possibly the summer sun might have given it a different colouring.

* * * * *

_Nov. 21._—Saw _Les Ménechmes_, and _Crispin Rival de son Maître_. _In Les Ménechmes_ the hero turns off as a jest a written promise of marriage, for which it appears he had received a valuable consideration. This dishonourable action would not be tolerated in England. In _Crispin_ the dishonesty of a servant who gives proof of ingenious and hardened roguery, is not only forgiven, but his master promises to try him again in the same situation.

* * * * *

_Nov. 22._—_Les Horaces_ is perhaps the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Cimarosa. The music is worthy of the subject. Catalani, whose want of feminine softness always leaves something to be desired in a woman’s part, was a charming young Roman, uniting the soldier and the lover with admirable grace. In the first part of the piece, where spirit, love, and happiness were to be exprest, she was delightful; it was all sunshine trembling and glittering through roses, or fountains sparkling and playing in the beams of the moon. Curiatius advances like the spirit of happiness to receive the vows of his bride. The sacred flames are kindled, the priests pronounce the nuptial benediction, the bride has permitted her veil to be withdrawn, their hands advance to join, when the three Horatii, similar in dress, appearance, and expression, enter, like the Fates, and interrupt the rites, never to be renewed. Their number, their resemblance to one another, gives to their appearance somewhat supernatural and imposing. One trembles at the expression of one will in these three human forms, whom one cannot distinguish from each other. One loses all hope of softening by prayer those who seem divested of individuality. From this fatal moment all is tragic; and, finally, we see these victims to their patriotism go out to a combat which leaves no hope for the victors or the vanquished. The piece closes at this awful period. The sacrifice is consummated; Rome or Alba may be saved, but the happiness of those for whom our interest has been strongly excited, is for ever gone. I know no piece more animated, interesting, noble, and energetic. _Touching_ it would surely be, in the hands of those who know how to strike the chords of the pathetic; but here Catalani’s genius forsakes her; she commands admiration and smiles, but never excites a tear. She is, therefore, much finer in the first part of this opera than in the second.

* * * * *

_Nov. 30._—When an Englishwoman enters a milliner’s shop, every individual flies at her, like birds of prey on a tame dove. In the highest of these _magazins_ a _beau garçon_ is always to be found, who gives the cap its last arrangement when tried on, and decides on its being extremely becoming. He is an amphibious being, dressed in an effeminate and highly ornamented manner, who ‘now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.’ One of these creatures took the liberty of asking an English lady to let him see the English corset she wore that day, as they were always so becomingly made about _la gorge_. The presence of these supernumeraries prodigiously inflames a bill, on which Lady C. said she never went to shops where they are to be found, as ‘she had no idea of paying for the sight of a man.’

Talleyrand says of the Duke of Richelieu, his successor as prime minister, ‘He is well bred, well conducted, and no man in France knows so much—of the Crimea.’

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

Paris, Dec. 2, 1815.

Your letter from Chalons was kind and _seasonable_, for it arrived on a day when I was very ill and very low. If I had not seen you well and happy, I should very much regret my visit to Paris, for, being unprovided with proper letters of introduction, and confined by my cold, I have had no pleasures of society, and we are so much embarrassed at this moment by failure of rents, that even the trifling sum which it will cost is a matter of some inconvenience. I shall regret nothing but the dancing-master, by far the best that I ever saw, and I have observed the art with some attention. When I announced to him that —— could take no more lessons from him, as we were on the point of leaving Paris, he looked at him with commiseration, lifted up his hands and eyes, and exclaiming, _C’est un enfant perdu!_ hurried away.

I see the Diet at Frankfort is thickening. Pray present my compliments to Prince Hardenberg, whom I had the pleasure of knowing at Berlin in 1801; and if you ascertain that his wife is living, inquire for her in my name. Three of the persons whom I most esteemed and loved amongst those whose acquaintance I made in that well-remembered tour, are no more, Mad. de Büssche, Mad. de Walmöden, and Mad. de la Gardie. If you ever see any of their near relations, recall me to their remembrance. Sometimes I regret being forgotten and out of remembrance, and almost extinct as to all the purposes of social life, except within my own family circle; and at other times I say to myself, that sphere _ought_ to content a woman. So it ought, but you, I know, will rejoice in seeing I have momentary aspirations after the living world, and am not always imbarked and rooted in my geraniums and myrtles.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Dec. 25, 1815.

You ask me of Mrs. Piozzi. She is a lively, animated woman, far advanced in years, and peculiarly agreeable in countenance, conversation, and manners. So she appeared to me, who have only met her in mixed company, and so I have heard her described by others. She is a woman of very high spirits, and only two years ago went to a masquerade in Bath disguised as a constable, Lady Belmore (the dowager) and Miss Caldwell attending her as watchmen; and they amused themselves throwing the whole assembly into consternation by pretending they had a warrant to disperse and imprison them as engaged in an illegal amusement.

Alas, and have I seen in the _Farmers Journal_ Mr. Lefanu’s eulogium on boxing, and has he condescended to use the old hackneyed argument that boxing is better than the stiletto! In my youth I used also to hear that ‘cards were better than scandal,’ as if there were no _third_ manner of passing the evening.

* * * * *

1815.—The following are some of the thoughts and observations
which I have found scattered up and down in my Mother’s
note-books and journals, often without a date. More of them
seem to belong to this year and the preceding than to any
other, and I have therefore grouped them together at this place.

Our friends may commend us above our deserts without corrupting our hearts, because we know their opinions _must_ be attributed to partiality, and cannot be shared by any indifferent persons.

* * * * *

A witty man is a public benefactor. Every time one of his brilliant sayings is repeated a portion of pleasure is imparted, keen according to the susceptibility of the hearer; a smile is called into tearful eyes; severity relaxes her brow, and anxiety forgets her cares. Social enjoyments are increased, the hearers like each other the better for the pleasure they have shared together. What an amount of enjoyment Jekyll has given to the world, raised for how many the leaden mantle of _ennui_, and eased them for a moment of its weight.

* * * * *

To write daily in absence is an excellent habit in marriage. As daily prayer nourishes our soul, so does daily correspondence feed the religion of the heart.

* * * * *

Man seems to bear a strange resemblance to the planet he inhabits. His mind appears composed of layers, like the earth. There is the layer of education, and that of habit; the ideas he avows to the world; those within, which he avows to his friends; under those, what he acknowledges to himself; and yet deeper, what he really feels without daring even a self-avowal.

* * * * *

In the Macobar Islands everything a man possesses is buried with him, and the dead are spoken of no more. In highly polished and dissipated society this practice seems gaining ground.

* * * * *

A jesting account of women by a woman.—Women are kind to men, unkind to one another. The best point in their character is that they are good nurse-tenders; the worst, that they seldom speak a word of absolute truth. They are envious of beauty, singing, dancing, dress, wealth, and rank, in their own sex, but not the least so of goodness, sense, or domestic happiness.

* * * * *

To have too clear an insight into one’s own mind is sometimes a misfortune, for one magnifies one’s own meditations and chimeras, till they assume ‘a local habitation and a name,’ and then one acts upon them as if they were realities.

* * * * *

There are few more effectual ways of displeasing, than dwelling on our own happiness, except to those who consider themselves as the authors of it. Artful and designing women are so aware of the converse of this principle, that an interesting and melancholy story of which self is the heroine, is one of their most common and yet most successful means of seduction.

* * * * *

An enthusiastic manner generally denotes either mediocrity, or affectation, or both. Those who possess a deep knowledge of the fine arts, never converse on the subject but most reluctantly, and by a sort of force. Such, I recollect, was the case with Sir William Hamilton. Smatterers cannot see a parish church without a comparison between Gothic and Grecian architecture, nor a Turk’s head on a sign-post without referring to ‘classical contours’ and ‘the Apollo Belvedere.’

* * * * *

A charity sermon is a satire on man. That he should require to be adjured by every motive spiritual and temporal, and courted by every form of eloquence, to grant a small portion of his superfluity for the relief of human misery, is most wonderful.

* * * * *

The affectation of sensibility seldom imposes on those who possess the reality. The performer may have learned the tune, but will be out of time. The _poco piu_ or the _poco meno_ will expose him.

* * * * *

In the Alps you sometimes find yourself under a clear blue sky on a bright sunny throne above the clouds—the top of the mountain being divided from the lower world by this magnificent boundary, which, occasionally unfolding, presents partial views of the earth beneath. A just emblem of the state of those who truly love.[55]

* * * * *

The sense of shame is so fine a weapon, it is a pity to risk its edge, or even its polish.

* * * * *

Happiness! a fearful word, seldom uttered but as the forerunner of calamity. It seems as if happiness, like the lamps in the ancient sepulchres, is of a nature to burn only while unnoticed and unknown.

* * * * *

There is no subject on which people betray more of their character than in their unprepared opinions on the marriages of others. How much sordid littleness and pitiful calculation breaks out on these occasions.

* * * * *

The fine taste in music prevalent in some Roman Catholic countries, is accounted for by the excellence of their Church Music. Perhaps the universal good style of writing in England may be owing in part to the beauty of the language of our liturgy. Any person who will take the trouble of comparing the epistolary style of the middle classes in other countries of modern Europe may perceive our superiority.

* * * * *

There is no virtue which is not caricatured by some defect. Christian charity is caricatured by that worldly-minded prudence which receives contumely and neglect, at least from equals or superiors, with a sort of awe approaching to admiration; and which more willingly renders its tribute of praise or favours to fear than love, alive to apprehension and dead to gratitude.

* * * * *

One may cut down one’s own ambition, but the shoots will spring up for one’s children.

* * * * *

To be in a passion with one’s superior is dangerous; with an equal, imprudent; with an inferior, cowardly.

* * * * *

Travelling gives weak minds an exaggerated idea of the value of those personal advantages which, in a country where the character and connexions of strangers and the gradations of English rank are unknown, obtain distinctions, attention, and flattery, far beyond what they would obtain at home.

* * * * *

Travelling is the most selfish of all pleasures, whether we consider the number of painful scenes we avoid, or of duties we elude, by absence from the natural sphere of our duties.

* * * * *

Shakespeare should never be mentioned with an epithet.

* * * * *

Perhaps few have ever written thoroughly good and musical prose, who did not at one time or other exercise their pens in verse. Experience seems to corroborate this, and it is a strong motive for encouraging all poetical attempts.

* * * * *

Things to be avoided in society:—

Excessive laughter on any subject.

All jests on poverty, infirmity, plainness of person, sickness, debility, or whatever else may be _felt_ as a misfortune.

Story-telling, or mimicry, repeated in the same circle.

Discussion of ages or incomes.

Superlatives and enthusiasm.

Any quotations exceeding a line, or generally known.

Any discussion on the fine arts, unless we can produce new observations of our own.

Any account of our travels, except the subject is introduced by others.

* * * * *

It is singular how ill, in general, _men_ bear _little_ talents and accomplishments, and how much more overweening they are made by them than by great ones. This seems to justify what one considers at first an English prejudice—the sort of contempt that excelling in ornamental branches of education is so apt to bring on a man, unless managed with great address and apparent indifference to them; and, indeed, even then I believe they rather take from his dignity.

* * * * *

The moral uses of pain and sickness. Humility, patience, courage, sympathy, and compassion. A just appreciation of beauty, strength, rank, talents, and riches. A willingness to think no assistance to our fellow-creatures too considerable to be given, or too small to be received. An extraordinary increase and development of the social affections. Besides these general uses, sickness has often the particular advantage of breaking vicious or dangerous connexions, and arresting us in the career of guilt and folly.

* * * * *

Why should a ready laugh, a general shake of the hand, and that difficulty of living alone or in a family circle which makes all new comers equally welcome, constitute a good-natured man? Good nature is no great laugher. Nine laughs out of ten spring from a contemptuous feeling toward their object, or a triumphant consciousness of superiority. Good nature is too affectionate to shake hands with every new comer in the same cordial manner; and above all, good nature can cheerfully pass her time alone; for her hours, always sweetened by the kindliness of her feelings, cannot be tinctured with _ennui_, while she can either serve or gratify another.

* * * * *

The liberty of the press acts like a perpetual alterative, curing, or lessening by imperceptible degrees, the ailments of the body politic.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 18, 1816.

I am distressed at finding you do not receive my letters. This I am assured of, you will take it for granted I have written, as I never claimed from your duty those kind attentions you have always shown me from friendship and affection; and therefore could not be guilty of enjoying your entertaining letters without offering my thanks. Lady Rumbold gives a ball to-night. Mrs. Dott and Mrs. —— have already done so. The latter gave hers on the christening of her little boy. The tenants dined with them next day, and Mr. —— made a speech of extraordinary length, in which he talked of his _tenantry_ and his _ancestry_ in as pompous a style as if he were of the line of Plantagenet, and possessed of half a province. It is curious to observe how much more flattered people seem to be by standing on the lower steps of the pyramid than by perching near the pinnacle. A little height above our fellows seems to give more pleasure than a great elevation.

As you rise in the scale of language I descend, for I do not recollect enough of German even to decypher the short story you have sent to me. It is as completely locked up from me as if it were written in modern Greek—of which, by the bye, I am quite tired. Every one is prating and writing and publishing about Greece and modern Greek. Have you read Leake’s _Researches_? He is, you know, a brother diplomat. The _Edinburgh Review_ for February, 1815, has minced him up in a very amusing way. The dish is pungent, and excites appetite, but not for Mr. Leake’s book. Lord —— is going to marry Mrs. ——, a fat, fair, and fifty card-playing resident of the Crescent. They each received anonymous letters abusive of the other, compared them, and became better friends than ever.

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, March 5, 1816.

The objection you make to _Roderick_ struck me forcibly, though _late_. Perhaps in description of country scenery it excels every poem except _The Seasons_; and some of the finer feelings of the heart are admirably portrayed, both in their sources, progress, and consequences. I think _the hinge_ on which the poem turns is radically ignoble, and forms its principal defect. It is in parts highly pathetic. From the time Florinda and Roderick join Count Julian till _her_ death, I know nothing more affecting. In short, it is a fine epic; and I believe I prefer it to any poetical work by any living author. I am not surprised it is not much admired as yet; and I found a few lines to-day in Dryden which seem so applicable to the subject that I will copy them here:—

‘A well-weighed, judicious poem, which at its first appearance gains no more upon the world than to be just received, and rather not blamed than much applauded, insinuates itself by insensible degrees into the liking of the reader; and whereas poems which are produced by the vigour of imagination only have a gloss upon them at first which time wears off, the works of judgment are like the diamond, the more they are polished the more lustre they receive.’

I cannot think why I have copied this, as I am very angry when I receive a word in _your_ letters not your own.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, April 1, 1816.

I have just bought Edgeworth’s _Readings on Poetry_. Professing to explain _the popular poetry in daily use_, the author devotes thirty-six pages to Parnell’s _Pandora_[56]—a poem little read, though admirably written. Any person who has frequented society could have told him that half the lovers of poetry know not that this piece exists. In another point of view it was an injudicious choice. It is a bitter satire upon women, full of _finesse_ and talent, but the spirit of it is wholly unintelligible to the young. A _boy_ would not understand it, and on a _girl_ the vulgar exclamation, ‘What _a beautiful figure_ would Pandora _make_ at a masquerade,’ will rather produce the effect of causing her to long for the garland, the veil, and the crown, and perhaps for the masquerade, which had better have been left out, than inspire her with any disgust of the character. I am surprised how to reconcile the choice of this poem, and the remarks on it, with the practical good sense of Edgeworth Town. There is also a bitterness of sarcasm on the females of the present day expressed in some of these remarks (see p. 85), quite unworthy of that mint. I do believe the girls of the present day have _not lost_ the power of blushing; and though I have no grown-up daughters, I enjoy the friendship of some who might be my daughters; in whom the greatest delicacy and modesty are united with perfect ease of manner and habitual intercourse with the great world. Pray do not communicate these remarks _in any shape_ to Edgeworth Town. Your peculiarly gentle and even diffident feelings do not permit you to know how much unsought-for criticism offends.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

Bursledon Lodge, April, 1816.

I received about the same time your delightful volume and magnificent present. I am absolutely Queen of Pekin and Canton. You have obliged me very much by this affectionate proof of your recollection and of your desire to please. Besides, these beautiful specimens of art will often, often furnish me with an occasion of conversing about my son; and as love is the same in all ages, I shall be able to say, ‘’Tis a present from _him_,’ with as much pride as Mad. de Sévigné felt when she was dressed in her brocade petticoat, and said, ‘_C’est un présent de ma fille_.’ I hope the light of your own eyes may soon be turned on your vases and jars, which are placed in great order in the drawing-room, at least as many as the drawing-room can possibly contain. Mr. T., who was as anxious _de faire valoir_ your gift, as if I had not admired it sufficiently myself, assisted me in all the nervous task of unpacking—that is, he assisted me as the coachman in La Fontaine _assisted_ the fly on the wheel. _Enfin, voilà nos gens dans la plaine_; and very little damage had occurred, none from want of care on your side in the packing. Mr. T. did the honours, and was affronted if there was any light and shade in my admiration, if I did not think every cup, saucer, jar, vase, and grinning _magot_, equally beautiful.

I know nothing of the Byron separation, but from report, reflected, refracted, and far remote from the fountain-head. We know how _he_ was spoiled by flattery, or rather by just praise, and self-indulgence; and we know _she_ was, unluckily, young, lovely, of great mental endowments and acquirements, an heiress, highly allied, an only child, educated by doting parents, and had as yet received no lessons from the great instructors, time and sorrow. Strike out any of these circumstances, and she might have been more suited to yield to the caprices of temper, and the irritability of genius. I suspect they were a pair of spoiled children, and that each might have been happier with a thousand others.

My Mother often contemplated an English translation of a
selection of Mad. de Sévigné’s _Letters_, her favourite book; I
do not, however, find among her papers any letters translated,
but only the following.

Preface to an English translation of Mad. de Sévigné’s _Letters_:—

Madame de Sévigné has not yet appeared in any English dress but one which has obscured her charms; and those who have not an intimate acquaintance with her own language are as yet entire strangers to a writer the most interesting and amusing. A moderate knowledge of French, such as will enable us to read with pleasure Bossuet, Fénélon, Racine, and La Bruyère, is insufficient for the perfect comprehension of her letters, filled as they are with French idioms, allusions to proverbial expressions, to well-known passages in favourite authors, and to the historical events of the time. It is hoped that the following translation and explanatory notes will be acceptable to those who are yet unacquainted with this charming writer.

The little that can be known of her history has been so often repeated, it seems superfluous to insert it here; yet as a few of my readers may desire some information here, I will briefly mention that she was an heiress, and of a noble family; that she was born in the year 1627, and in the reign of Louis XIII.; that she married at eighteen the Marquis de Sévigné, a dissipated and profligate young man, who was killed in a duel in 1651, leaving her a widow at the age of twenty-four, with one son and one daughter; that she was adorned with beauty of the most attractive kind, and with first-rate abilities, highly improved by education; that, in spite of these dangerous gifts, she passed through the ordeal of a licentious Court with an unblemished reputation, educated her children with affection and judgment, regulated their pecuniary concerns with discretion, established them both in marriages which seem to have been honourable and happy to a degree very uncommon in her time. Anything more that is known of Mad. de Sévigné may be collected from the following letters, for her history is all domestic. It might abate the present ardour of our females in quest of notoriety, did they remark that one of those women who have obtained the highest celebrity, never sought for it, but, pursuing the quiet path of maternal affection, has, like the glowworm, involuntarily attracted admiration by her native brightness.

May I be permitted to hint to mothers, that the letters of Mad. de Sévigné are not a collection suited to extreme youth, though hitherto made a medium for learning the French language? They are _unintelligible_ to a beginner; and if they had not this radical fault, we must still inquire whether the confidential letters of a lively communicative Parisian mother, that mother being in the centre of a corrupt court, and writing as news all the gallantries of the day, ought to enter into the studies of very young girls, however moral the writer might be in her own conduct? In short, let not Mad. de Sévigné be introduced to any one who is not of an age to appreciate her merits, and to understand from her general conduct both where she speaks ironically, and where she disapproves, though she does not happen to censure. In the present selection the passages we allude to are not introduced.

* * * * *