London, June 5th, 1827.
This morning I paid a visit to Mrs. Hope, and saw her husband’s
collection of works of art more in detail. A very beautiful Venus by
Canova was peculiarly interesting to me, having seen it some years ago,
unfinished, in the ‘atélier’ of that delightful artist in Rome; it then
left a more agreeable impression on my mind than any of his works.
Among the pictures, I was particularly struck with the infamous Cesare
Borgia, by Correggio. What a sublime villain! He stands in the most
intrepid manly beauty; vigour and loftiness of mind beam from every
feature; in the eyes alone lurks the ferocious tiger. The collection is
peculiarly rich in pictures of the Flemish school; many of them are of
inimitable truth, which I freely confess has often a greater charm for
me than even the perfect representation of an Ideal, if that does not
happen to hit some kindred conception in my own mind.
Thus a fine stately old Dutch burgher’s wife, drinking down a glass of
wine with great ‘délice,’—her husband wrapped in his cloak with the
bottle out of which he has just helped her still in his hand, while he
looks at her with good-natured pleasure,—was to me a very attractive
subject.
So, likewise, some officers of the sixteenth century in their handsome
and appropriate dress, carousing after their hard and bloody toils: and
several others, equally true to nature. Among the landscapes I made
acquaintance with a Hobbima, which has the greatest resemblance to the
manner of Ruysdael. Fruit, which almost deceived the sense, by Van
Huysum and Van Os. Houses, in which every tile is given, by Van der
Meer. Several Wouvermans, Paul Potters, &c. &c.—nothing was wanting to
complete the richness of the collection. Only the modern English
pictures were bad.
The rest of the day I staid at home, to hallow the birthday of my good
mother, alone and in quiet.
June 7th.
As a sample of the necessities of a London dandy, I send you the
following statement by my ‘fashionable’ washerwoman, who is employed by
some of the most distinguished ‘élégans,’ and is the only person who can
make cravats of the right stiffness, or fold the breasts of shirts with
plaits of the right size. An ‘élégant,’ then, requires per week,—Twenty
shirts; twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs; nine or ten pair of ‘summer
trowsers;’ thirty neck-handkerchiefs (unless he wears black ones;) a
dozen waistcoats; and stockings ‘á discretion.’
I see your housewifely soul aghast. But as a dandy cannot get on without
dressing three or four times a day, the affair is ‘tout simple,’ for he
must appear,—
1st. In breakfast toilette,—a chintz dressing-gown and Turkish
slippers.
2nd. Morning riding dress,—frock coat, boots and spurs.
3rd. Dinner dress,—dress coat and shoes.
4th. Ball dress, with ‘pumps,’ a word signifying shoes as thin as paper.
At six o’clock the Park was so full that it was like a rout on
horseback, only much pleasanter; instead of carpets or chalked floors
there was the green turf, a fresh breeze instead of stifling heat and
vapour; and instead of tiring one’s own legs, one made the horse’s do
all the work.
Before I rode thither I called on Princess E—— and found three young
and handsome ‘ambassadrices en conférence, toutes les trois profondement
occupées d’une queue;’ namely, whether it was necessary to wear one at
the queen of Würtemberg’s, or not.
At a ball this evening, at the forementioned Marchioness of
Londonderry’s, I saw the Polonaise and the Mazurka danced here for the
first time,—and very badly. We supped in the Statue Gallery. Many
ladies had hung shawls and other articles of dress on the statues, which
dreadfully shocked one’s feeling for art. At six I came home, and am
writing to you while they are closing my shutters to make an artificial
night. The valets here have a sad life of it, and can only sleep out of
hand, if I may say so, or like watchmen, in the day.
June 13th.
I have already told you that one is invited here to a Royal Prince, just
as in some other places, among intimate friends, to a dainty dish. I was
thus invited yesterday to dine with the Duchess of Gloucester, and
to-day with the Duke of Sussex. This Prince, who is ‘brouillé’ with the
King, has gained great popularity by his liberal opinions, and quite
deserves it. He has been much on the Continent, and likes the German
mode of life. Our language is perfectly familiar to him, as indeed it is
to most of his brothers. In compliment to him, after the ladies left the
table, cigars were brought, and more than one smoked, which I never
before saw in England. Monsieur de Moutron told a great many droll
stories, with genuine French address. But the most amusing person was
Major Keppel, the Persian traveller, who related some rather
‘scabreuses’ but amazingly ‘piquantes’ anecdotes, which he would not
commit to print, and which I reserve till we meet. In the morning I
drive to Ascot with young Captain R——, and shall visit Windsor, to
make some break in this life of uniform dissipation. It is supposed that
the races will be unusually brilliant, as the King is to be present, and
his horses are to run.
Windsor, June 14th.
After a rapid drive of twenty-five English miles,—partly through
Windsor Park, behind which the Castle, the residence of so many kings,
rears its head,—we reached the wide and barren heath of Ascot, where
the races are held. The place presented a perfect picture of pleasuring
encampment. Endless lines of tents for horse and man; streets of
carriages along the course, chiefly filled with pretty women; high
stands, consisting of three or four stages one above another, with the
King’s stand at the goal;—all this enlivened by twenty or thirty
thousand people, of whom many have been encamped here five or six
days:—such are the leading features of the motley picture. One part
forms a sort of fair, where among the other booths and tents,—like a
Liberty or Free Quarter[58] in the middle ages,—are to be found various
games of hazard, elsewhere severely forbidden.
The ladies in the carriages are provided with excellent breakfasts, and
champagne, which they distribute with great hospitality. I found many
old friends, and made some new acquaintances; among others, an extremely
agreeable woman, Lady ——, who invited me to dine at her cottage. As the
races ended for to-day at six o’clock, we drove to T—— Park, through a
most beautiful country, so thickly studded with trees that spite of its
ploughed fields it had the appearance of a cultivated wood. We arrived
before the family, and found the house open, but without a servant or
any living creature in it. It was like the enchanted dwelling of a
fairy, for a more lovely abode cannot be conceived. Could you but have
seen it! On a rising ground, half-concealed by the most magnificent old
trees, stood a house whose various jutting parts, built at different
periods, and here and there hidden by the shrubberies, never permitted
the eye to catch its entire outline. A sort of colonnade of rose-trees,
covered with flowers, led directly into the hall; and passing through
some other apartments and a corridor, we reached the dining-room, where
a table stood richly covered,—but still no human being was visible. The
garden lay before us, a perfect paradise, lighted by the glow of the
evening sun. Along the whole house, now projecting, now receding, were
verandas of various forms, and clothed with creeping plants. These
formed a border to the gayest flower-garden, covering the whole slope of
the hill. Close upon the edge of it was a deep and narrow green valley;
behind which the ground rose again and formed a higher line of hill, the
side of which was clothed with huge beeches. At the end of the valley
the near view was terminated by water. In the distance, above the crown
of trees, was seen the ‘Round Tower’ of Windsor Castle, with the
majestic royal banner floating in the blue air. This was the only object
to remind us that Nature, or some beneficient fairy, did not reign alone
here; but that man, with his pleasures, his pomps, and his necessities,
was near at hand. Like a beacon-tower of ambition it looked down upon
the peaceful cottages; alluring the gazer to a higher but more deceitful
enjoyment, which he who obtains buys only with his own grievous loss.
Peace and contentment abide in the valley.
My poetical ‘extase’ was interrupted by my fair hostess, who was greatly
amused at our description of her enchanted palace, and immediately took
care that we should be shown to our rooms, to make our toilet, which the
dust and heat rendered very necessary. An excellent dinner, with iced
champagne and delicious fruits, was very grateful, and we remained at
table till midnight. Coffee and tea, with music, occupied two hours
more, the latter of which, I must in all sincerity confess, we could
willingly have dispensed with.
After our agreeable evening a rather disagreeable incident awaited me.
As I was going to bed B—— began to exclaim that ill-luck followed him
everywhere.
“Why, what has happened?”
“O Lord! if I could help it I would not tell, but it must come out.”
“Now, Devil take you, make an end; what is it?”
The confused-headed old fellow had put a purse with five and twenty
pounds I gave him into the pocket of the carriage, instead of into the
seat; and, like Kotzebue’s stupid country squire, took it out in the
tumult of the booths to pay for a glass of beer, changed a sovereign,
because as he said he had no small money, and then carefully put the
purse in the same place again. It followed, as a matter of course in
England, that when he returned to the carriage it was gone.
Richmond, June 13th.
This morning we visited the Castle, which is now completing according to
the old plan, and is already the vastest and most magnificent residence
possessed by any sovereign in Europe. The time was too short to see the
interior, which I therefore deferred to another opportunity. I only paid
a visit to the Duchess of C——, who lives in the great tower and enjoys
a delicious view from her lofty balcony. Among her attendants was a
beautiful Greek boy in his national costume, scarlet, blue, and gold,
with naked legs and feet. He was saved from the massacre of Scio by
being hidden in an oven. He is now become a perfect Englishman, but has
retained something inexpressibly noble and foreign in his air. At one
o’clock we returned to the race-ground; and this time I received my
breakfast (luncheon) from the hands of another beauty. At the close of
the races we drove to Richmond, where R——’s regiment is quartered,
and passed a very joyous evening with the officers. The universal
competence of England permits a far more luxurious life than military
men enjoy with us. These gentlemen deny themselves nothing, and their
mess is better served throughout than many a princely table in Germany.
In the morning this regiment of Hussars and a regiment of Lancers are to
be reviewed by an Inspecting General, which I shall stay to see.
June 16th.
The regiment went through its business very well; with less
affectation,—perhaps with less precision,—than our marvellously
trained three-year horse-soldiers; but with more true military coolness,
and with the steadiness and ease resulting from long habit: all their
evolutions too were more rapid, from the excellence of their horses,
with which those of the Continent are not to be compared. The English
cavalry has gained immensely in command of the rein, and in military
seat, since the last war, which is mainly to be ascribed to the care
and attention of the Duke of Wellington: the men had their horses as
well in hand as the best of ours. The extraordinary thing, according to
our notions, was to see the perfect ease with which fifty or sixty
officers in plain clothes,—several General officers among them, some in
undress jackets and top-boots, some in frock-coats and coloured
cravats,—took part in the review, and thronged around the Inspecting
General, who with his two aids-de-camp were the only men in uniform,
except the regiment. Nay, even some supernumerary officers of the
regiment itself, not on actual service, rode about with him in civil
dress and shoes,—a sight which would have given such shock to the
nerves of a —— general, as would have endangered his intellects for
ever. In a word, one sees here more of the reality; with us, more of the
form. Here, ’tis true, the clothes do not make the man; and this
simplicity is sometimes very imposing.
R—— told me that this regiment was originally formed by the Tailors’
Company, at the time of the threatened French invasion, and at first
consisted entirely of tailors. They are now transformed into very sturdy
martial hussars, and fought with great distinction at La Belle Alliance.
June 18th.
Since the day before yesterday I have returned to the old track. I
‘débutai’ with four balls, and a dinner at Lord Caernarvon’s, where I
met Monsieur Eynard, the celebrated Philhellenist, whose pretty wife
manifests an equal enthusiasm for the Greek cause. Yesterday I dined at
Esterhazy’s, and met a young Spaniard whom I could not help wishing an
actor, that he might play Don Juan, for he seemed to me the perfect
Ideal of that character. With the tones of the dramatic Pasta, whom one
hears every evening, ringing in my ears, I went to bed.
This evening there was a concert at the tall Duke’s, where every body
was in raptures at old Velluti, because he sang well once upon a time.
He lives here upon his ancient fame. From thence I went to one of the
prettiest balls I have seen in London, at the house of a Scotch woman of
rank. The largest room was entirely decorated with paper lamps made in
the forms of various flowers, very tastefully grouped.
As we got into our carriages at six o’clock, by sunshine, the ladies had
a most strange appearance. No ‘fraicheur’ could stand this test: they
changed colour like chameleons. Some looked perfectly blue, some
mottled, most of them death-like, their locks hanging about, their eyes
glassy. It was frightful to see how the blooming rosebuds of lamplight
were suddenly changed by the sunbeams into faded withered roses.
June 23rd.
What say you, dear Julia, to a breakfast given to two thousand people?
Such an one took place to-day in the ‘Horticultural Gardens,’ which are
extensive enough to accommodate that number of persons conveniently. Not
that there was any deficiency of horrible crowding in the tents in which
the provisions were placed,—especially where the prize fruits were
exhibited. As soon as the prizes were distributed, they were devoured in
the twinkling of an eye, in the coarsest and most unseemly manner. There
was one Providence pine which weighed eleven pounds; deep red and green
ones of not much smaller dimensions; strawberries as big as small
apples; and the rarest choice of delicious fruits of all kinds. The
fête, on the whole, was gay, and of an agreeable rural character.
The smooth turf, and the well-dressed company that trod it; the tents
and groups among the shrubs; perfect masses of roses and flowers of
every kind, produced the most cheerful, agreeable scene. I drove there
with our Ambassador, with whom I returned at seven in the evening. We
could not help laughing at the strange industry of an Irishman, who
affected to light us to our carriages, with a lantern in which there
was, of course, no light, as it was broad day. By this piece of manual
wit he earned a shilling from the merry and good-natured. One of his
English comrades called out to him, “You are showing the way to liberal
people.” “Oh!” said he, “if I did not know them for such, I should not
go with them.” Odd enough too were the Tyrolese singers, who are in
great fashion; they call every body, even the King, who talks German
with them, ‘Du’ (thou), and are strangers to all false shame or fear
of man. It is comical enough to see one of them go up to Prince
Esterhazy, to whose patriotic favour they are chiefly indebted for their
great vogue, put out his hand to him and exclaim, “Nun, was machst Du,
Esterhazy?” (literally, “Well, what art thou about, Esterhazy?”) The
little female in this party of wonderful animals came up to me to-day
and said, “I have been looking at thee a long time, for thou art so like
my dear John, that I must give thee a kiss.” The offer was not very
tempting, for the girl is ugly; but as His Majesty himself has kissed
her (of which there is a good caricature in the shops), the proposal is
now esteemed flattering.
June 26th.
The Duke of Northumberland had the kindness to show me his fine palace
to-day in detail. I here found what I had long vainly desired to see,—a
house in which not only the general effect is that of the highest
splendour and elegance, but every thing, the greatest as well as the
smallest, is executed with equal exactness and perfection,—‘ou rien ne
cloche.’
Such an Ideal is in this instance completely realized. You do not find
the smallest trifle neglected, not a line awry, not a speck of dirt,
nothing faded, nothing out of fashion or keeping, nothing worn out,
nothing sham, not an article of furniture, not a window, or a door,
which is not, in its way, a model of workmanship.
This extraordinary perfection has indeed cost several hundred thousand
pounds, and doubtless no little trouble; but it is perhaps unique in its
kind. The richest embellishment from works of art and curiosities is
also not wanting. The arrangement of the latter on terrace-formed
shelves covered with violet velvet, behind which are looking-glasses in
one piece, is very tasteful. One of the most striking things is the
marble staircase, with a railing of gilded bronze. The hand-rail of
polished mahogany at the top is a curious piece of workmanship: by some
contrivance, which remains a secret, the wood is so put together that it
is impossible to discover a single joint from top to bottom. The whole
seems to be made of one piece, or is so really. Another remarkable thing
is the false ‘porte cochère’ in the outer wall, which is only opened on
occasion of a great press of carriages; and when closed, cannot be
detected in the façade. It is of iron, and so completely masked by a
coating of composition stone and a false window, that it cannot be
distinguished from the rest of the house.—Of the pictures another time.
At the Duke of Clarence’s, in the evening, I made the acquaintance of a
very interesting man,—Sir Gore Ouseley, late ambassador to Persia, who
was accompanied by Mr. Morier, the author of Hadji Baba, as his
secretary of legation. I must tell you two or three characteristic
anecdotes of that country, which I heard from him.
The present Shah was held in such a state of dependence by his prime
minister, Ibrahim Khan, who had placed him on the throne while yet a
child, that he had little more than the name of a ruler. It was
impossible for him to make any resistance, since every province or city
throughout the empire was governed, without exception, by relations or
creatures of the minister. At length the Shah determined to withdraw
himself at all risks from such a bondage, and devised the following
energetic means, which bear the genuine stamp of Oriental character.
According to the ancient institutions of the country, there exists a
class of soldiers, thinly scattered through all the principal towns,
called the King’s guard. These obey no order that does not proceed
immediately from the King himself, and bear his own private signet: this
guard has thus remained the only body independent of the minister, and
the sole sure support of the throne. The King now secretly despatched
orders, written by his own hand, to the chief of this faithful band,
requiring them on a particular day and hour to put to death all
Ibrahim’s relations throughout the kingdom. On the appointed day the
Shah held a Divan, sought to bring on a dispute with Ibrahim, and when
the latter assumed his usual lofty tone, commanded him immediately to
retire to the state prison. The minister smiled, and replied, “that he
would go, but that the King would be pleased to consider that the
governor of every one of his provinces would call him to account for
this act.” “Not now, friend Ibrahim,” exclaimed the King gaily,—“Not
now.” Then drawing out his English watch, and casting a withering glance
at the perplexed minister, he coolly added, “At this minute the last of
your blood has ceased to breathe, and you will soon follow.” And so it
happened.
The second anecdote shows that the Shah acts on the principle of the
French song, which says, “quand on a dépeuplé la terre, il faut la
répeupler aprés.”
At Sir Gore’s audience of leave, he begged the Shah graciously to tell
him what was the number of his children, that he might give his own
monarch correct information on so interesting a subject, provided, as
was probable, he should make any inquiry. “A hundred and fifty-four
sons,” replied the Shah. “May I venture to ask your Majesty how many
children?” The word daughters, according to the rules of Oriental
etiquette, he dared not to pronounce, and indeed the general question
was, according to Persian notions, almost an offence. The King, however,
who liked Sir Gore very much, did not take it ill. “Ha ha! I understand
you,” said he laughing; and called to the chief of his eunuchs, “Musa,
how many daughters have I?” “King of kings,” answered Musa, prostrating
himself on his face, “five hundred and sixty.” When Sir Gore Ouseley
repeated this conversation to the Empress-mother in Petersburg, she only
exclaimed, “Ah, le monstre!”
June 29th.
As the season, thank Heaven, now draws near its close, I project a tour
to the north of England, and Scotland, whither I have received several
invitations, but had rather preserve my liberty in order to scour the
country ‘à ma guise,’ if time and circumstances permit.
To-day we had the finest weather I have seen in England; and as I
returned from the country in the evening, after an early dinner at Count
Münster’s, I saw, for the first time, an Italian light on the
distance,—shades of blue and lilac as rich and as soft as a picture of
Claude’s.
‘A propos,’ among the notabilia for imitation I must mention a
flower-table of the Countess’s. The top is a crystal-clear glass, under
which is a deep box or tray filled with wet sand, with a fine wire net
over it, in the interstices of which fresh flowers are closely stuck.
The tray is pushed in, and you have the most beautiful flower-picture to
write or work over. If you wish to regale yourself with the fragrance,
you may open the glass cover, or remove it entirely.
Children’s balls are now the order of the day, and I went to one of the
prettiest this evening at Lady Jersey’s. These highborn northern
children had every possible advantage of dress, and many were not
without grace; but it really afflicted me to observe how early they had
ceased to be children;—the poor things were, for the most part, as
unnatural, as unjoyous, and as much occupied with themselves, as we
great figures around them. Italian peasant-children would have been a
hundred times more graceful and more engaging. It was only at supper
that the animal instinct displayed itself more openly and unreservedly,
and, breaking through all forms and all disguises, reinstated Nature in
her rights. The pure and lovely natural feeling, however, was the
tenderness of the mothers, which betrayed itself without affectation in
their beaming eyes, made many an ugly woman tolerable, and gave to the
beautiful a higher beauty.
A second ball at Lady R——’s presented the hundredth repetition of the
usual stupid throng, in which poor Prince B——, for whose corpulence
these squeezes are little adapted, fainted, and leaning on the banister,
gasped for air like a dying carp. Pleasure and happiness are certainly
pursued in very odd ways in this world.
July 3rd.
This afternoon I rode by a long circuitous way to eat a solitary fish
dinner at Greenwich. The view from the Observatory is remarkable for
this,—that almost the whole surface of ground you overlook is occupied
by the city of London, which continually stretches out its polypus arms
wider and wider, and swallows up the villages in its neighbourhood, one
after another. Indeed, for a population equal to that of half the
kingdom of Saxony some space is wanted.
I went into the Ship tavern, gave my horse to the hostler, and was shown
into a very neat little room with a balcony projecting over the Thames,
under which the fish were swimming which I, merciless human beast of
prey, was about to devour. The river was enlivened by a hundred barks;
music and song resounded cheerfully from the steam-boats passing by; and
behind the gay scene, the sun, blood-red, and enveloped in a light veil
of mist, declined towards the horizon. As I sat at the window, I gave
audience to my thoughts, till the entrance of various sorts of fish as
variously prepared, called me to more material pleasures. Iced
champagne, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters, which I had put into my
pocket, gave zest to my repast; and after a short siesta, during which
night had come on, I remounted my horse and rode the German mile and a
half to my home through an unbroken avenue of brilliant gas lamps, and
over well-watered roads. It was just striking midnight when I reached
the house, and a coffin hung with black passed me on the left like an
apparition.
July 5th.
B—— gave me your letter at Almack’s, and I immediately hastened ‘home’
with it. How greatly have your descriptions rejoiced me! I was near
weeping over the venerable trees that called to me, through you,—“Oh,
our master and lord, hearest thou not the rustling of our leafy tops,
the home of so many birds?” Ah, yes, I hear it in spirit, and shall have
no true enjoyment till I am once more therewith my truest friend, and
the plants that are to me as loving children. I thank you cordially for
the leaf of cinq foil; and as the horse of the accompanying Vienna
postillion, the bearer of a thousand blessings, has lost his tail on the
road, I have replaced it by this leaf, which gives him a genuine Holy
Alliance look.
Here my old B—— interrupted me with the question whether he might stay
out for the night, promising to be back by eight in the morning. I gave
him leave, and asked, laughing, what adventure he had in hand? “Ach!”
said he, “I only want for once to see how they hang people here, and at
six o’clock in the morning five men are to be hanged at once.”
What a discord rang through my whole being, just filled with joyous
tumult! What a contrast between the thousands, wearied with the dance,
and sated with multiplied amusements, returning home at that hour to
their luxurious couches, and those wretched beings who are condemned to
pass through anguish and pain into eternity! I exclaimed again with
Napoleon, “Oh, monde, monde!” and for a long time, after a day wasted in
frivolity, could not go to sleep; I was pursued by the thought that at
that very moment perhaps these unhappy ones were called to take so
fearful a leave of the world and its joys; not excited and elevated by
the feeling of being martyrs to some good or great cause, but the
victims of vulgar, debasing crime. Men pity those who suffer innocently:
how much more pitiable do the guilty appear to me!
My imagination when once excited always outstrips wisdom and expediency;
and thus did all vain pleasures, all those refinements of luxury which
mock at misery and privation, now appear to me in the light of real
sins: indeed I very often feel in the same temper with regard to them. A
luxurious dinner has often been spoiled to me when I have looked at the
poor servants, who are present indeed, but only as assistant slaves; or
thought of the needy, who at the close of a long day’s ceaseless toil
can hardly obtain their scanty miserable meal; while we, like the
epicure in the English caricature, envy the beggar his hunger. Yet
spite of all these good and just feelings, (I judge of others by
myself,) we should be greatly incensed if our servant played the
Tantalus and removed the dishes from our tempting table, or if the poor
man invited himself to share our feast without the wedding garment.
Heaven has ordained that some should enjoy, while others want; and so
it must remain in this world. Every shout of joy is echoed, in some
other place, by a cry of grief and despair; and while one man here
breaks the cord of existence in phrensy, another is lost elsewhere in an
ecstasy of delight.
Let no one therefore fret himself vainly concerning it, if he neither
deserve nor understands that it should fare better or worse with him
than with others. Fate delights in this bitter irony—therefore pluck, O
man! the flowers with child-like joy so long as they bloom; share their
fragrance and beauty when you can with others, and manfully present a
breast of steel to your own misfortunes.
July 7th.
I return to my daily chronicle.
After dining with the epicurean Sir L——, I passed the evening very
agreeably in a small party at the Duchess of Kent’s. The Court circles
here, if they may be called so, have no resemblance whatever to those of
the Continent, which once led the absent Count R—— into such a strange
scrape. The King of B—— asked him how he enjoyed the ball that
evening; “Oh,” replied he, “as soon as the Court is gone I think it will
be very pleasant.”
At a very late hour I drove from thence to a ball at Princess L——’s,
a lady whose entertainments are perfectly worthy of her Fashionableness
‘par excellence.’ A conversation I accidentally fell into with another
diplomate procured me some interesting particulars. He told me about
that difficult mission, the purpose of which was to induce the Empress
of the French voluntarily to quit an army still devoted to Napoleon, and
consisting of at least twelve thousand picked men. Contrary to all
expectation, however, he found in Marie Louise scarcely a disposition to
resist, and very little love for the Emperor (which indeed the sequel
has sufficiently proved.) The little King of Rome alone, then only five
years old, steadfastly refused to go, and could only be removed by
force;—just as on a former occasion, led by the same heroic instinct,
he had resisted the Regent’s pusillanimous flight from Paris. His
account of the parts which many distinguished men played on this
occasion I must omit: I can only say that it confirmed me in the
persuasion that the French nation never sunk to so low a pitch of
baseness as at the time of Napoleon’s abdication.
July 10th.
It is now more oppressively hot than I had imagined possible in this
misty country. The turf in Hyde Park is of the colour of sand, and the
trees dry and sear; the squares in the town, spite of all the watering,
do not look much better. Nevertheless the grass-plots are as carefully
mowed and rolled as if there were really grass upon them. No doubt, with
equal care and labour, even more beautiful turf could be obtained in
South Germany than here; but we shall never get to that,—we love our
ease too well.
As the heat increases, London empties, and the season is nearly over.
For the first time I found myself without an invitation to-day, and
employed my leisure in sight-seeing. Among other things I visited the
King’s Bench and Newgate prisons.
The former, which is principally appropriated to the reception of
debtors, is a perfect isolated world in miniature;—like a not
insignificant town, only surrounded by walls thirty feet high.
Cookshops, circulating libraries, coffee-houses, dealers, and artizans
of all kinds, dwellings of different degrees, even a
market-place,—nothing is wanting. When I went in, a very noisy game at
ball was going on in the latter. A man who has money lives as well and
agreeably as possible within these walls,—bating liberty. Even very
‘good society,’ male and female, is sometimes to be found in this little
commune of a thousand persons; but he who has nothing fares ill enough;
to him, however, every spot on the globe is a prison. Lord Cochrane
passed some time in the King’s Bench, for spreading false intelligence
with a view to lower the Funds; and the rich, highly respected, and
popular Sir Francis Burdett was also imprisoned here some time for a
libel he wrote. The prisoner who conducted me about had been an
inhabitant of the place twelve years, and declared in the best possible
humour, that he had no hope of ever coming out again. An old
French-woman of very good air and manners said the same; and declared
that she did not intend ever to acquaint her relations with her
situation, for that she lived very contentedly here, and did not know
how she might find matters in France. She seemed perfectly persuaded
‘que le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.’
The aspect of Newgate, the prison for criminals, is more apalling. But
even here the treatment is very mild, and a most exemplary cleanliness
reigns throughout. The Government allows each criminal a pint of thick
gruel in a morning, and half a pound of meat or a mess of broth
alternately for dinner, with a pound of good bread daily. Besides this,
they are permitted to buy other articles of food, and half a bottle of
wine a day. They employ themselves as they please; there are separate
courts belonging to a certain number of rooms or cells: for those who
like to work there are work rooms; but many smoke and play from morning
till night. At nine o’clock they must all attend divine service. Seven
or eight generally inhabit one room. They are allowed a mattress and two
blankets for sleeping, and coals for cooking, and, in winter, for
warming the cells. Those condemned to death are put in separate less
convenient cells, where two or three sleep together. By day, even these
have a court-yard for recreation, and a separate eating room. I saw six
boys, the eldest of whom was not more than fourteen, all under sentence
of death, smoking and playing very merrily. The sentence was not yet
confirmed, however, and they were still with the other prisoners; it was
thought it would be commuted for transportation to Botany Bay. Four of a
maturer age, in the same predicament,—only that the enormity of their
crimes left them no hope of pardon,—took their fate still more gaily.
Three of them were noisily playing whist with Dummy,[59] amid jokes and
laughter; but the fourth sat in a window-seat busily engaged in studying
a French grammar. ‘C’était bien un philosophe sans le savoir!’
July 12th.
Yesterday evening I went for the first time to Vauxhall, a public
garden, in the style of Tivoli at Paris, but on a far grander and more
brilliant scale. The illumination with thousands of lamps of the most
dazzling colours is uncommonly splendid. Especially beautiful were
large bouquets of flowers hung in the trees, formed of red, blue,
yellow, and violet lamps, and the leaves and stalks of green; there were
also chandeliers of a gay Turkish sort of pattern of various hues, and a
temple for the music, surmounted with the royal arms and crest. Several
triumphal arches were not of wood, but of cast-iron, of light
transparent patterns, infinitely more elegant, and quite as rich as the
former. Beyond this the gardens extended with all their variety and
their exhibitions, the most remarkable of which was the battle of
Waterloo. They open at seven: there was an opera, rope-dancing, and at
ten o’clock (to conclude) this same battle. It is curious enough, and in
many scenes the deception really remarkable. An open part of the gardens
is the theatre, surrounded by venerable horse-chesnuts mingled with
shrubs. Between four of the former, whose foliage is almost impervious,
was a ‘tribune,’ with benches for about twelve hundred persons, reaching
to the height of forty feet. Here we took our seats, not without a
frightful squeeze, in which we had to give and take some hearty pushes.
It was a warm and most lovely night: the moon shone extremely bright,
and showed a huge red curtain, hung, at a distance of about fifty paces
from us, between two gigantic trees, and painted with the arms of the
United Kingdom. Behind the curtain rose the tops of trees as far as one
could see. After a moment’s pause, the discharge of a cannon thundered
through the seeming wood, and the fine band of the second regiment of
Guards was heard in the distance. The curtain opened in the centre, was
quickly drawn asunder; and we saw, as if by the light of day, the
outwork of Houguemont on a gently rising ground, amid high trees. The
French ‘Gardes’ in correct uniform now advanced out of the wood to
martial music, with the bearded ‘Sapeurs’ at their head. They formed
into line; and Napoleon on his gray horse, and dressed in his gray
surtout, accompanied by several marshals, rode past them ‘en revue.’ A
thousand voices shout ‘Vive l’Empereur!’—the Emperor touches his hat,
sets off at a gallop, and the troops bivouac in dense groups. A distant
firing is then heard; the scene becomes more tumultuous, and the French
march out. Shortly after, Wellington appears with his staff,—all very
good copies of the individuals,—harangues his troops, and rides slowly
off. The great original was among the spectators, and laughed heartily
at his representative. The fight is begun by the ‘tirailleurs;’ whole
columns then advance upon each other, and charge with the bayonet; the
French cuirassiers charge the Scotch Grays; and as there are a thousand
men and two hundred horses in action, and no spare of gunpowder, it is,
for a moment, very like a real battle. The storming of Houguemont, which
is set on fire by several shells, was particularly well done: the
combatants were for a time hidden by the thick smoke of real fire, or
only rendered partially visible by the flashes of musquetry, while the
foreground was strewed with dead and dying. As the smoke cleared off,
Houguemont was seen in flames,—the English as conquerors, the French as
captives: in the distance was Napoleon on horseback, and behind him his
carriage-and-four hurrying across the scene. The victorious Wellington
was greeted with loud cheers mingled with the thunder of the distant
cannon. The ludicrous side of the exhibition was the making Napoleon
race across the stage several times, pursued and fugitive, to tickle
English vanity, and afford a triumph to the ‘plebs’ in good and bad
coats. But such is the lot of the great! The conqueror before whom the
world trembled,—for whom the blood of millions was freely shed,—for
whose glance or nod kings waited and watched,—is now a child’s pastime,
a tale of his times, vanished like a dream,—the Jupiter gone, and as it
seems, Scapan only remaining.
Although past midnight it was still early enough to go from the strange
scene of illumination and moonlight to a splendid ball at Lady L——’s,
where I found a blaze of diamonds, handsome women, dainty refreshments,
a luxurious supper, and gigantic ennui; I therefore went to bed as early
as five o’clock.
July 13th.
I had often heard of a certain Mr. Deville, a disciple of Gall; a
passionate craniologist, who voluntarily, and only with a view to the
advancement of his science, gives audience every day at certain hours.
He carefully examines the skulls of his visitors, and very courteously
communicates the result of his observations.
Full of curiosity, I went to him this morning, and found a gallery
containing a remarkable collection of skulls and casts, filled with
ladies and gentlemen; some of whom brought their children to be examined
with a view to their education. A pale, unaffected, serious man was
occupied in satisfying their curiosity with evident good-will and
pleasure. I waited till all the rest were gone, and then asked Mr.
Deville to do me the favour to grant me an especial share of attention;
for that, though it was unhappily too late for education with me, I
earnestly wished to receive from him such an account of myself as I
might place before me as a sort of mirror. He looked at me attentively,
perhaps that he might first detect, by the Lavaterian method, whether I
was ‘de bonne foi,’ or was only speaking ironically. He then politely
asked me to be seated. He felt my head for a full quarter of an hour;
after which he sketched the following portrait of me, bit by bit. You,
who know me so well, will doubtless be as much surprised at it as I was.
I confess that it plunged me into no little astonishment, impossible as
I knew it to be that he could ever have known anything about me. As I
wrote down all he said immediately, and the thing interested me, as you
may believe, not a little, I do not think I can have mistaken in any
material point.[60]
“Your friendship,” he began, “is very difficult to win, and can be
gained only by those who devote themselves to you with the greatest
fidelity. In this case, however, you will requite their attachment with
unshaken constancy.”
“You are irritable in every sense of the word, and capable of the
greatest extremes; but neither the passion of love, of hatred, nor any
other, has very enduring consequences with you.”
“You love the arts, and if you had applied, or would apply to them, you
would make great proficiency with little difficulty. I find the power of
composition strongly marked upon your skull. You are no imitator, but
like to create: indeed you must often be driven by irresistible impulse
to produce what is new.”
“You have also a strong sense of harmony, order, and symmetry. Servants
or workmen must have some trouble in satisfying you, for nothing can be
complete and accurate enough for you.”
“You have,—strangely enough,—the love of domestic life and the love of
rambling about the world (which are opposed,) of equal strength. No
doubt, therefore, you take as many things about with you as you can find
means to convey; and try in every place to surround yourself with
accustomed objects and images as quickly as possible.” (This, so
strikingly true, and so much in detail, astonished me particularly.)
“There is a similar contradiction in you between an acute understanding
(forgive me, I must repeat what he said,) and a considerable propensity
to enthusiasm and visionary musing. You must be profoundly religious,
and yet, probably, you have no very strong attachment to any particular
form of religion, but rather (his very words) revere a First Cause under
a moral point of view.”
“You are very vain,—not in the way of those who think themselves
anything great, but of those who wish to be so. Hence, you are not
perfectly at ease in the society of your superiors, in any sense of the
word,—nay, even of your equals. You are perfectly at ease only where,
at least on one point, either from your station, or from some other
cause, you have an acknowledged preponderance. Contradiction, concealed
satire, apparent coldness, (especially when ambiguous and not decidedly
and openly hostile,) paralyze your faculties; and you are, as I said,
perfectly unrestrained and ‘cheerful’ only in situations where your
vanity is not ‘hurt;’ and where the people around you are, at the same
time, attached to you, to which your good-nature—one of your strongest
characteristics—makes you peculiarly susceptible.”
“This latter quality, united to a strong judgment, makes you a great
venerator of truth and justice. The contrary incenses you; and you would
always be disposed to take the part of the oppressed, without any
individual interest in the matter. You are ready to confess your own
injustice, and to make any reparation you can. Unpleasant truths
concerning yourself may vex you, but if said without hostile intention,
will incline you to much higher esteem for the sayer. For the same
reason, you will not rate distinctions of birth too highly, though your
vanity may not be wholly insensible to them.”
“You are easily carried away, and yet levity is not one of your
characteristics: on the contrary, you have ‘cautiousness’[61] in a high
degree. It is indeed the wormwood in your life; for you reflect far too
much upon everything; you conjure up the strangest fancies, and fall
into distress and trouble, mistrust of yourself and suspicion of others,
or into perfect apathy, at mere trifles. You occupy yourself almost
always with the future, little with the past, and less with the
present.”
“You continually aspire (streben); are covetous of distinction, and
very sensitive to neglect; have a great deal of ambition, and of various
kinds; these you rapidly interchange, and want to reach your object
quickly, for your imagination is stronger than your patience; and
therefore you must find peculiarly favourable circumstances in order to
succeed.”
“You have, however, qualities which make you capable of no common
things, even the organ of perseverance and constancy is strongly
expressed on your skull, but obstructed by so many conflicting organs,
that you stand in need of great excitement to give room for it to act:
then the nobler powers are called forward, and the meaner ones recede.”
“You value wealth very highly, as all do who wish to accomplish great
objects,—but only as means, not as end. Money in itself is indifferent
to you, and it is possible that you are not always a very good manager
of it.”
“You want to have all your wishes gratified in a moment, as with an
enchanter’s wand: often however, the wish expires before the fulfilment
is possible. The pleasures of sense, and delight in the beautiful, have
a powerful influence over you; and as you certainly incline to the
imperious, the ambitious, and the vain, you have here a cluster of
qualities, against which you have need to be upon your guard not to fall
into great faults; for all propensities in themselves are good; it is
only their abuse that renders them a source of evil. Even the organs so
erroneously designated by the father of our science the organs of murder
and theft, (now more correctly termed organs of destructiveness and
acquisitiveness) are only marks of energy and of desire to possess,
which, when united with good-nature, conscientiousness and foresight,
form a finely constituted head; though without these intellectual
qualities they may easily lead to crime.”
He also said, that in judging of a skull it was necessary to regard not
the separate organs, but the aggregate of the whole; for that they
respectively modified each other in various ways; nay, sometimes
entirely neutralized each other; that therefore the proportions of the
whole afforded the true key to the character of the man.
As a universal rule, he laid down, that men whose skulls, if divided by
a supposed perpendicular line drawn through the middle of the ear,
presented a larger mass before than behind, were the higher portion of
the species; for that the fore part contains the intellectual, the hind
part the animal propensities.
All the skulls of criminals who had been executed, for instance, which
he had in his collection, confirmed his theory; and in one distinguished
for the atrocious character of his offence, the occiput was two-thirds
of the whole head. The busts of Nero and Caracalla exhibit the same
proportions.—Where the contrary extreme prevails, the individual in
question is deficient in energy: and here, as in every thing, a balance
is the true desideratum.
Mr. Deville affirmed that it was possible, not only to enlarge organs
already prominent by the exercise of the qualities they denote, but by
that very process to diminish others; and assured me that no age was
excepted from this rule. He showed me the cast of a skull of a gentleman
who, when near sixty, devoted himself intensely to the study of
astronomy; and in a few years the appropriate ‘bosse’ became so
prominent as to project considerably beyond all others.[62]
July 14.
I have paid several visits to Mr. Nash, to whom I am indebted for much
valuable instruction in my art. He is said to have ‘erected’ an
enormous fortune. He has a beautiful country-house, and no artist is
more handsomely lodged in town. I was particularly pleased with his
library. It consists of a long and wide gallery, with twelve deep niches
on each side, and two large doorways at the ends, leading into two other
spacious rooms. In each niche is a semicircular window in the roof, and
on the wall a fresco painting, copied from the ‘Logge di Rafaelle;’ and
below these, casts of the best antique statues, on pedestals. The
remaining space in the niches is occupied by books, which, however, rise
no higher than the pedestal of the statues. Arabesques, also copied from
those of the Vatican, admirably executed in fresco, adorn the broad
pilasters between the niches.
All the space on the walls or pilasters not covered with paintings is of
a pale red stucco, with small gold mouldings. The execution seems
thoroughly finished and excellent.
I dined at the Portuguese Ambassador’s. Our dinner was very near ending
like Prince Schwartzenberg’s at Paris. One of Rundell and Bridge’s
beautiful brilliant silver girandoles came too near the curtain, which
immediately blazed up. The flames were extinguished by the Spanish
Ambassador; a fact which may afford matter for witticisms to the
newspapers, in the present political conjuncture.
I drove half a post further in the streets, late at night, to see the
tower of St. Giles’s church, whose new bright-red illuminated clock-face
shines like a magnificent star in the dark.
I found your letter at home, with all sorts of affectionate reproaches
for my neglect of our own interests for indifferent things. Even were
this sometimes the case, you must not think that my heart is the less
filled with you. The rose, too, sometimes yields a stronger, sometimes a
weaker perfume; nay, sometimes there is not a flower on the bush; in
their season they bud and blossom again—but the nature of the plant is
always the same.
Herder’s prayer is beautiful—but it is not applicable to this earth;
for though it is true that God’s sun shines on the evil and on the good,
it is equally true that His thunderbolt strikes the good and the evil.
Each must protect himself from calamity, with all the wisdom and the
courage he is endowed with.
Men are wearisome to you, you say. Oh, Heaven! how wearisome are they to
me! When one has lived so long in the interchange of all feelings and
all thoughts, the intercourse with the ‘banal’ unsympathizing world is
more than empty and tasteless.
Your hypothesis, that two kindred souls will, in another world, melt
into one existence, is very pretty—but I should not like to be united
to you in that manner. One being must, indeed, love itself; but the
mutual love of two is voluntary, and that alone has value. Let us
therefore hope to meet again, but to be one, as we are now,—one only in
mutual love and truth.
One of the many currents of this great stream carried me into the Annual
Exhibition of Pictures. In historical pictures there was little to
delight the lover of art. Some portraits by Sir Thomas Lawrence showed,
as all his do, his great genius, and at the same time his carelessness.
He finishes only particular parts, and daubs over the remainder in such
a manner that it must be looked at from a distance, like scene-painting.
The great masters of the art painted not so, when they devoted their
talents to portrait painting.
In landscapes, on the other hand, there was much that was attractive.
First, The Dead Elephant.—The scene is a wild mountain-district in the
interior of India. Strange gigantic trees and luxuriant tangled thickets
surround a dark lake. A dead elephant lies stretched on its shore, and a
crocodile, opening its wide jaws and displaying its frightful teeth, is
seen climbing up the huge body, driving away a monstrous bird of prey,
and menacing the other crocodiles which are eagerly swimming across the
lake to their repast. Vultures are poised on the branches of the trees,
and the head of a tiger glares from the jungle. On the other side are
seen three still more formidable predatory animals,—English hunters,
whose guns are pointed at the great crocodile, and will soon excite more
terrific confusion among this terrific group.
Another view is on the sea-shore of Africa. You see ships in the far
distance. In the foreground a palm-grove slopes down to the clear
stream, where a boat is lying at anchor, in which a negro is
sleeping—but in what a fearful situation! A gigantic boa-constrictor
has issued from the wood, and, while its tail rests in the thicket, has
twined itself in a loose ring around the sleeper, it now rears its head
aloft hissing with rage at his companions, who are hastening with their
axes to his assistance. One of them has just fortunately succeeded in
scotching it, and has thus saved the negro, who wakes, and stares in
wild terror on the serpent. It is said that as soon as the muscles of
the back of the boa are divided in any part it loses all its power. The
picture is taken from an incident which really occurred in the year
1792.
We are still in a distant part of the globe, but in more remote ages. A
wondrously beautiful moonlight gleams and glitters on the Bay of
Alexandria. Majestic monuments and temples of Egyptian art lie in the
strongly contrasted light and shadow; and from the steps of a hall of
noble architecture, Cleopatra, surrounded by all the luxury and pomp of
the East, is descending to the golden bark which is to bear her to
Antony. The most beautiful boys and girls strew flowers under her feet,
and a chorus of old men with snowy beards and clad in purple, are seated
on the sea-shore, singing a farewell song to their golden harps.
Have you not enough of this yet, dear Julia? Well then, look at the
Travelled Monkey, who returns to his brethren in the woods, in the dress
of a modern ‘exclusive.’ They throng around him in amazement; one pulls
at his watch chain, another at his well starched cravat. At length, one
whose jealousy is excited by his finery gives him a box on the ear: this
is a signal for an universal pillage. In a few minutes he will be
reduced to appear once more ‘in naturalibus.’
Here I close my exhibition. Dear Julia, confess that if you were the
editor of the ‘Morgen Blatt,’ you could not have a more indefatigable
correspondent. Whether I be well or ill, merry or sad, I always fulfil
my duty. Just now I am by no means at my best: I am ill, and I have lost
a great deal of money at whist. It is really extraordinary how soon one
comes to regard a pound as a ‘thaler.’ Though I know the difference full
well, and often find it not very agreeable, yet the physical effect of
the ‘sovereign’ here, is constantly the same upon me as that of the
‘thaler’ at home, for which I often laugh at myself. I wish fate would
make a similar mistake, and convert our ‘thalers’ into pounds. I, for
one, should certainly not bury mine. Yet we should put our gains to good
interest; for when one tries to make a beautified living creation out of
dead money, as we have done, and at the same time to increase the
comfort of those around one,—as I did by employing them, and you by the
more direct means of bounty,—surely one has gained usurious interest.
Prudence, however, is not our ‘forte,’ and if you have shown rather more
than I, it is only because you are a woman, and have therefore the habit
of being on the defensive. Prudence is far more a weapon of defence than
of attack.
You have now a good opportunity for the exercise of it in the
S—— society, and I already see you in thought taming the refractory,
and speaking the words of peace with dignified serenity. Here is your
portrait on the margin, ‘à la Sir Thomas Lawrence.’ You will doubtless
recognize that strong bent for art which the Gallite discovered on my
cranium. The surrounding caricatures you must ascribe to my somewhat
sulky humour.
As a mind in this flat depressed tone is little fertile in thoughts,
permit me to supply the place of them by some passages out of a singular
book I have met with. You will think that it must have flowed not only
from my pen but from my most inmost soul.
“It is incalculable,” says the author, “what an influence the objects
which surround our childhood exercise over the whole formation of our
character in after life. In the dark forests of the land of my birth, in
my continual solitary wanderings where nature wears so romantic an
aspect, arose my early love for my own meditations, and, when I was
afterwards thrown among numbers of my own age at school, rendered it
impossible to my disposition of mind, to form any intimate
companionships, except those which I first began to discover in
myself.
“In the day my great pleasure was lonely wandering in the country:—in
the evening, the reading of romantic fictions, which I connected in my
mind with the scenes I was so familiar with; and whether I sat in winter
in the chimney corner poring over my book, or in summer lay stretched in
luxurious indolence under a tree, my hours were equally filled with all
those misty and voluptuous dreams which were perhaps the essence of
poetry, but which I was not gifted with the genius to embody. Such a
temper is not made for intercourse with men. One while I pursued an
object with restless activity,—another I lived in perfectly supine
meditation. Nothing came up to my wishes or my imaginings, and my whole
being was at last profoundly imbued with that bitter, melancholy
philosophy, which taught me, like Faust, that knowledge is but useless
stuff, that hope is but a cheat; and laid a curse upon me, like that
which hangs on him who, amid all the joys of youth and the allurements
of pleasure, feels the presence of a spirit of darkness ever around him.
“The experience of longer and bitterer years makes me doubt whether this
earth can ever bring forth a living form which can realize the visions
of him who has dwelt too long absorbed in the creations of his own
fancy.”
In another place, he says of a man who was much praised:
“He was one of the macadamized Perfections of society. His greatest
fault was his complete levelness and equality; you longed for a hill to
climb;—for a stone, even if it lay in your way. Love can attach itself
only to something prominent, were it even a thing that others might
hate. One can hardly feel what is extreme for mediocrity.”
‘C’est vraiment une consolation!’
Further: “Our senses may be enthralled by beauty; but absence effaces
the impression, and reason may vanquish it.”
“Our vanity may make us passionately adore rank and distinction, but the
empire of vanity is founded on sand.”
“Who can love Genius, and not perceive that the feelings it excites are
a part of our own being and of our immortality?”
July 18th.
Would you believe, dearest Julia, that although annoyed in various ways,
and almost ill, I have found these days of solitude, in which I have
been occupied only with you, my books, and my thoughts, much more
satisfactorily,—how shall I express it?—much more fully employed, than
that comfortless existence which is called society and the world. Play
forms an ingredient, for that is a mere killing of time without any
result, but has at least the advantage, that we are not conscious of the
time we are wasting during its lapse, as we are in most so-called
amusements. How few men can rightly enter into such a state of mind! and
how fortunate may I esteem myself that you can! You are only too
indulgent towards me, and that makes me place less confidence in your
judgments.
Now for a secret:—When I send you any extracts from books, you are
never to swear whose they are; for, thanks to my boasted organ of
composition (you see I am still busied with Mr. Deville,) exact
transcribing is almost an impossibility with me. A borrowed material
always becomes something different, if not something better, under my
hands. But as I am so excitable and mobile, I must often appear
inconsistent, and my letters must contain many contradictions.
Nevertheless, I hope a genuinely humane spirit always appears in them,
and, here and there, a knightly one; for every man must pay his tribute
to the circumstances with which birth and existence have surrounded him.
Ah, if we did but live together in the old knightly days! Many a time
has the enchanting picture of the castle of our fathers,—such as they
inhabited it, in the wild Spessart, frowning from rocks surrounded by
old oaks and firs,—stood like a dim recollection before my fancy. Along
the hollow way in the valley, I see the lord of the castle with his
horsemen riding to meet the morning sun, (for as a true knight he is an
early riser.) You, good Julia, lean forward from the balcony, and wave
your handkerchief till not a steel breastplate glitters in the sunbeam,
and nothing living is in sight, save a timid roe that darts out of the
thicket, or a high-antlered stag that looks proudly down from some
crested crag on the country beneath.
Another time we are seated, after some successful feud, at our goblets.
You pour out the wine, which I quaff like a brave and true knight, while
the good chaplain reads the wonders of a legend. Now the warder’s horn
is heard on the turret, and a banner is seen winding up to the castle
gate. It is your former lover returned from the Holy Land—‘Gare à
toi.’[63]
July 19th.
A cheerful ray of sun enticed me forth, but I soon exchanged the clear
air of heaven for subterranean gloom. I went into the famous Tunnel, the
wonderful passage under the Thames. You have read in the papers that the
water broke in some weeks ago, and filled the part that was completed,
five hundred and forty feet in length. Any event, lucky or unlucky, is
sure to give birth to a caricature in a few days. There is one
representing the Tunnel catastrophe, in which a fat man on all-fours,
and looking like a large toad, is trying to save himself, and screaming
‘Fire!’ with a mouth extended from ear to ear. With the aid of the
diving-bell the hole has been so stopped, that it is asserted there is
no fear of a recurrence of the accident. The water has been pumped out
by a steam-engine of great power, so that one can descend with perfect
safety. It is a gigantic work, practicable nowhere but here, where
people don’t know what to do with their money.
From hence I went to Astley’s theatre, the Franconi’s of London, and
superior to its rival. A horse called Pegasus, with wings attached to
his shoulders, performs wonderful feats; and the drunken Russian
courier, who rides six or eight horses at once, cannot be surpassed for
dexterity and daring. The dramatic part of the exhibition consisted of a
most ludicrous parody of the Freischütz. Instead of the casting of the
bullets, we had Pierrot and Pantaloon making a cake, to which Weber’s
music formed a strangely ludicrous accompaniment. The spirits which
appear are all kitchen spirits, and Satan himself a ‘chef de cuisine.’
As the closing horror, the ghost of a pair of bellows blows out all the
lights, except one great taper, which continually takes fire again. A
giant fist seizes poor Pierrot; and a cook almost as tall as the
theatre, in red and black devilish costume, covers both with an
‘extinguisher’ as big as a house.
These absurdities raise a laugh for a moment, it is true; but they
cannot make a melancholy spirit cheerful, and you know I have so many
causes for gloom which I cannot forget * * *
* * * * * * *
Some evil constellation must now reign over us; for certainly there are
lucky and unlucky tides in man’s life, and to know when they set in
would be a great assistance to the steersman. The star which you tell me
burns so brightly over your residence must have a hostile influence. One
star, however, shines benignly upon me, and that is your love. With
that, would my life be extinguished.
Change of scene seems to become more and more necessary to me,
especially as there is little here to amuse or interest. After rain,
sunshine:—forward then,—and do you rouse me by your letters. Let them
be cheering and invigorating by their own cheerfulness, for that is more
important to me than all the intelligence, bad or good, they can
contain. Nothing is so terrible to my imagination as to think of you, at
a distance, distressed or out of spirits. It is so great an art to
suffer triumphantly—like a martyr; and it is practicable when one
suffers innocently, or for love of another. You, my dearest Julia, have
known few other sufferings than these. Of myself I cannot speak so
proudly.
July 23rd.
This morning I visited Bedlam. Nowhere are madmen—confined ones, that
is—better lodged. There is a pleasure-ground before the door of the
palace, and nothing can be cleaner and more conveniently fitted up than
the interior. As I entered the women’s gallery, conducted by a very
pretty young girl, who officiated as keeper, one of the patients, a
woman of about thirty, looked at me for a long time very
attentively,—then suddenly coming up to me she said, “You are a
foreigner: I know you, Prince! Why did you not put on your uniform to
come to see me? that would have become you better. Ah, how handsome
Charles used to look in his!”
You may imagine my painful astonishment. “Poor thing!” said my guide,
“she was seduced by some foreign prince, and every foreigner she sees
she fancies is one. Sometimes she cries the whole day long, and will let
nobody go near her: after that she is quite sensible again for weeks.
She was very pretty once, but fretting has spoiled all her beauty.”
I was greatly struck by a young man, evidently of respectable station
and education, who was possessed by one fixed idea,—that he was a
Stuart, and had therefore a lawful claim to the throne. I conversed with
him for half an hour without being able to get him upon this subject. He
always broke off cautiously, nay cunningly, and talked in a very
interesting manner of other things, particularly of America, where he
had travelled for a considerable time; nor did he exhibit the slightest
trace of insanity. Speaking of Walter Scott’s novels, I several times
mentioned the Pretender, which I thought would excite him to speak; and
at length said in a confidential tone, “I know you are a Stuart
yourself.” This seemed to alarm him; and laying his finger on his lips,
he whispered, “We must not speak of that here; the triumph of justice
can be brought about by time alone, but the light will soon shine
forth.” “I am going into Wales,” replied I, (he is a native of the
Principality,) “will you give me your father’s address, that I may carry
him your greetings?” “With the greatest pleasure,” said he; “give me
your pocket-book, and I will write it.” I gave it him, and he wrote his
real name, —— ——; then pointing to it with a smile, he added, “That’s
the name under which my father passes there.—Adieu!” and with a
gracious motion of the hand he left me.
What a dreadful spectacle! One single inveterate idea converts the most
agreeable man into an incurable lunatic, costs him his freedom, and
condemns him to the society of vulgar madness for life. What is unhappy
man in conflict with physical evil,—and where, then, is the freedom of
his will?
There was a foreign patient, whose conceits were more ridiculous,—if
those of madness can ever be so;—a German pedant and writer of tours,
who joined me in looking about the house, of which he was a constant
inmate. He was incessantly taking notes. He addressed each of the
patients at great length, and carefully committed their answers to
paper, though they were often any thing but complimentary to him.
Scarcely had he observed my conversation with the young man I have
mentioned, when he came up to me, and besought me pressingly to let him
see what that gentleman had written in my pocket-book. I told him. “Oh
excellent—singular,” said he, “perhaps a real Stuart! I must inquire
into it immediately,—a secret of state perhaps,—who knows? Very
remarkable. Ich empfehle mich unterthänigst.” So saying, he strutted
away, with an awkward, silly air, yet perfectly satisfied with himself.
On my way home I met a number of funerals, which indeed in a gulf like
London, where Death must be ever at work, is no wonder; and yet I must
always regard it as a bad omen, even though the superstition that deems
it so belong rather to Bedlam than to a reasonable head.—With me it has
some foundation.
When I was very young I was once driving in a curricle through the town
of J—— where I then resided. A long funeral procession met me: I was
forced to stop; and as my horses were shy and restive, I had some
difficulty in holding them in, and at length became infected with their
impatience. I broke through the train, and inconsiderately exclaimed,
“The D—l take all this absurd funeral pomp; I can’t be detained by it
any longer.” I drove on; and had scarcely gone fifty paces further, when
a little boy darted out of a shop door, and ran with such rapidity
between the horses and the carriage that it was impossible to check them
till the wheel had passed over the whole length of the poor child’s
body, and he lay lifeless on the pavement. You may imagine my mortal
terror. I sprang out, raised the little fellow; and a number of people
were already gathered around us, when the mother rushed forward, rent my
heart with her cries, and excited the people to take vengeance on me. I
was obliged to harangue the crowd to allay the rising storm; and after
relating the manner of the accident, giving my name, and leaving money
with the mother, I succeeded, not without some difficulty, in regaining
my carriage and escaping from the tumult. I was near the gate, to which
you descend by a tolerably steep hill. I was so absorbed by the thought
of the accident which had just occurred, that I did not attend to the
reins,—one slipped out of my hand. The horses, already hurried and
alarmed by the confusion, set off, and came in contact with a wagon,
with such force that one of them was killed on the spot, and my curricle
smashed to pieces. I was thrown out with great violence, and for a
moment rendered senseless by the shock. On recovering, I found myself
lying with my face pressed so close to the ground that I was almost
stiffled. I felt, however, the plunging of a furious animal above me,
and heard the thunder of blows which seemed to strike my head, and yet
gave me but little pain. In the midst of all, I clearly distinguished
the cries of several persons around, and the exclamation, “He is a dead
man—shoot the horse instantly!” At these words I received a blow on
the temple which entirely deprived me of sense.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a mattrass in the middle of
a miserable room: an old woman was washing the blood from my head and
face, and a surgeon, busied with his instruments, was preparing to
trepan me. “Oh, let the poor gentleman die in peace!” cried the woman
compassionately: and as I thought I felt distinctly that, spite of my
external wounds, I had received no internal injury, I happily found
strength to resist the operation; though the young man, who was an
hospital pupil, was extremely eager to prove his skill—which, he
encouragingly added, he had not yet had an opportunity of trying—upon
my skull. I exerted all my remaining strength, ordered a carriage, asked
for water and a looking-glass, in which, however, I could scarcely
recognize myself, the greater part of the skin of my face being left in
the high road. It was not till nature had replaced it by a new one, that
my groom,—who was sitting by me at the time of the accident, and was
thrown into a field by the road-side and but little hurt,—told me what
strange circumstances had attended the accident. The pole of the
curricle had splintered like a lance against the wagon: the light
vehicle fell forwards, and I with it. The stump of the pole had stuck
into the earth, and had fastened down my head. Upon me laid the horse
entangled in the traces, making the most furious efforts to get free,
and continually kicking with his hind feet against the broken pole,
which thus became my sole preserver, by receiving the blows which would
otherwise have dashed my head into a hundred pieces. This lasted almost
a quarter of an hour before they could disengage the horse.
From that day I never liked meeting funerals.
As postscript to these reminiscences of my past life, I must add one
comical incident. The boy I ran over recovered completely, and six weeks
after his accident and mine, his mother brought him to me with rosy
cheeks and dressed in his Sunday clothes. As I kissed him and gave his
mother a parting present, the poor woman exclaimed with tears of joy,
“Oh, Sir, I wish my boy could be run over so every day of the week!”
July 28th.
It was a long time since I had visited the City, and I accordingly
devoted yesterday to it. As I am, in my quality of Teutonic knight, a
beerbrewer, I turned my ‘cab’ to Barclay’s brewery, which the vastness
of its dimensions renders almost romantic, and which is one of the most
curious sights in London.
From twelve to fifteen thousand barrels, that is about twenty thousand
quarts[64] of beer, are brewed here daily. Every thing is done by
machinery, which is all set in motion by a single steam-engine. The beer
is boiled in four vats, each of which holds three hundred barrels. The
hops are first put into the vat or cauldron dry, and kept stirring by a
machine, that they may not burn. During this process the sweet-wort
flows in upon them. There is a curious apparatus for cooling the beer
in hot weather;—it is made to pass through a number of pipes like those
of an organ, through which a stream of cold water is then let to flow,
and so on, alternately. At last the beer flows into a barrel as high as
a house, of which there are ninety-nine under gigantic sheds. You can’t
conceive the strange effect of seeing a vessel holding six hundred
thousand quarts tapped for you to drink a glass of porter, which, ‘par
parenthèse,’ is excellent, and cold as ice. These barrels are covered
with a little hill of fresh sand, and preserve the beer fresh and good
for a twelvemonth. It is drawn off into smaller casks, and sent out to
the consumer. The drawing off is effected with great rapidity by means
of leathern pipes, as the smaller casks are arranged in readiness under
the floor on which the great ones stand.
A hundred and fifty horses, like elephants, one of which can draw a
hundred hundred-weight, are daily employed in carrying out the beer.
A single enormous chimney devours the smoke of the whole establishment;
and from the roof of the principal building you have a very fine
panoramic view of London.
I next proceeded to the West-India docks and warehouses,—an
immeasurable work; one of those at the sight of which the most
cold-blooded spectator must feel astonishment, and a sort of awe at the
greatness and the might of England. What a capital lies here in
buildings, wares, and vessels! The admirably excavated basin, which it
took me half an hour to walk round, is thirty-six feet deep, and
surrounded by sheds and warehouses, some of which are five or six
stories high: some of them are built entirely of iron, the foundations
only being of stone. This mode of building has however been found to be
dangerous, from the contraction and expansion of the metal. In these
boundless depositories there was sugar enough to sweeten the whole
adjoining basin, and rum enough to make half England drunk. Two thousand
artisans and overseers are commonly employed daily, and the value of the
goods here collected is estimated at twenty millions sterling; exclusive
of the stores, which are kept in great quantities in a storehouse, so
that the breaking or spoiling of any of the tools delays the work only a
few minutes. The number of well-contrived tools and machines is
wonderful. I looked on with great pleasure while blocks of mahogany and
other foreign woods, many larger than the largest oak, were lifted up
like feathers, and deposited on drays or wagons as carefully as if they
had been the most brittle ware. Everything is on a colossal scale. On
each side of the basin lie rows of ships, most of them newly painted.
There are two basins, one for import and the other for export. I was
obliged to leave this interesting place sooner than I wished, as the
entrance-gate and all the warehouses are closed at four o’clock. The
gatekeeper does not take the slightest trouble to ascertain whether
there is any one in the yard, so that it appeared to me one would have
to bivouac there for the night if one missed the hour. The man very
coolly assured me that if the King were there he would not wait a
minute; I made my escape therefore as quickly as I could.
On my way home I passed a booth where a man was calling out that here
were the famous German dwarf and his three dwarf children; the living
skeleton; and, to conclude, the fattest girl that ever was seen. I paid
my shilling, and went in. After waiting a quarter of an hour, till five
other spectators arrived, the curtain was drawn up, and the most
impertinent ‘charlatanérie’ exhibited that ever I witnessed. The living
skeleton was a very ordinary sized man, not much thinner than I. As an
excuse for our disappointment, we were assured that when he arrived from
France he was a skeleton, but that since he had eaten good English
beef-steaks, it had been found impossible to check his tendency to
corpulence.
The fattest woman in the world was a perfect pendant to the skeleton.
She was not fatter than the Queen of Virginia Water.
Last came the so-called dwarfs—which were neither more nor less than
the little children of the ‘Impressario,’ stuck into a sort of
bird-cage, their faces shaded, and only their hands and feet left free.
With the former the little wretches made a horrible noise with great
bells.—Here closed the exhibition:—an English hoax, which no Frenchman
could have executed more burlesquely nor with more effrontery.
July 29th.
Since I became Mr. Deville’s pupil I cannot help measuring the skulls of
all my acquaintances with my eye, before I open myself to them; and
to-day, like the man in Kotzebue’s comedy, I examined an English servant
I was hiring, ‘in optima forma.’ Let us hope the result will not be
similar,—for the line drawn through the ear gave good promise. And here
it struck me that the common proverb (and how much popular truth do such
often contain!) is perfectly in accordance with Deville’s principle—“He
has it behind the ear, beware of him!” (Er hat es hinter den Ohren,
hütet euch vor ihm!)
Joking apart, I am perfectly convinced that, as with magnetism, so with
craniology, people throw away the good with the bad[65] when they treat
it as a mere chimera. It may admit of many modifications: but I have so
fully proved the justice of the leading principles upon my own skull,
that I should not think people at all ridiculous for paying some
attention to it in educating their children—nor even for using it to
aid their own self-knowledge. I, at least, have gained a more clear idea
of myself by this means than I had before.
As I had been writing all day, I took advantage of the mild and clear
moonlight for my ride.
The night was quite Italian, and the roads lighted to a great distance
with lamps, within the region of which I remained, and rode for several
hours in the town and suburbs. The view from Westminster-bridge was most
striking. The numerous lights on board the vessels danced like
Will-o’-the-Whisps, on the surface of the Thames; and the many bridges
spanned the noble stream as with arches of light. Westminster Abbey
alone was without any artificial illumination. Only the loving moon, the
betrothed of ruins and Gothic temples, caressed with her pale beams the
stone pinnacles and ornaments, sought every deep nook with eager
fondness, and silvered the long glittering windows; while the roof and
towers of the lofty building reared themselves, still and cold, in black
colourless majesty, above the lights and the tumult of the city, into
the deep blue firmament.
The streets remain busy till midnight: nay, I even saw a boy of eight
years old at the utmost, perfectly alone in a little child’s carriage
drawn by a large dog, driving along full trot, and without the slightest
fear, among the latest carriages and stage-coaches. Such a thing can be
seen only in England, where children are independent at eight, and
hanged at twelve.
But good morning dear Julia; it is time to go to bed.
August 1st.
The heat is still very oppressive—the earth is like an ash-heap; and if
the macadamized streets were not kept watered by a continual succession
of large water-carts, the dust would be insufferable. But this makes
driving and riding pleasant still; and though the fashionable time is
over, shopping is very amusing: one is greatly tempted to buy more than
one wants; and as I have very little money just now, I am obliged to
call in fancy to my aid to procure me all I covet for you and for
myself.
I sent you some time ago a description of a very original man, Sir
L—— M——. I was invited to his house to-day, to a most luxurious
dinner, fixed so long beforehand that a diplomatic guest had been
summoned across the seas, from Baden, by courier, a month ago. He
arrived punctually on the very morning, and seemed to have brought a
“British and foreign” appetite with him. He had not forgotten to load
himself with continental delicacies, to which, as well as to the
numerous excellent wines, the most exemplary justice was done. One had
need have a strong head to withstand such things, but the air really
makes a great deal of food and strong drink more necessary than with us.
A man who could at first hardly drink a glass of English claret, (that
is, mixed with brandy,) after a time finds a whole bottle of port agree
very well with his health, and with the English fogs. But if our palates
were especially consulted at this repast, there was no want of salt in
the conversation. An officer who had served in the Birman war told us
many interesting details of that people.
Another man related an Irish bull, which appeared to me the best I had
heard—inasmuch as the blunder was no less than a man’s cutting off his
own head. The fact is, however, as he asserted, authentic, and occurred
as follows:—
The peasants of Ulster use an enormous scythe, with the end of the
handle sharpened to a point, that they may stick it into the ground.
When they go home from work, they carry these formidable weapons over
their shoulders, in such a manner that the edge of the scythe lies round
their neck. Two peasants were sauntering home by the side of a river,
when they spied a large salmon with his head hidden under the roots of
an old tree, and his tail lying out into the stream. “Look, Paddy,” said
one, “at the stupid salmon! he thinks because he can’t see us that we
can’t see him: if I had but my pike I would let him know the
difference.” “Och!” said the other, creeping down the bank, “sure the
scythe-handle will do for that—here goes!” And so saying, he struck at
the salmon; and hit him truly enough,—only, unfortunately, with the
same stroke he took off his own head, which fell plump into the water
before the eyes of his astonished comrade. For a long time he could not
understand how it was that Paddy’s head fell off so suddenly, and still
maintains that there was something not quite as it should be in the
business.
I closed the day with the English Opera. At the end of the first act a
mine falls in and buries the principal persons of the piece alive. In
the last scene of the second act they reappear in the bowels of the
earth, nearly starved indeed, having lain there three days, and utterly
exhausted. This, however, proves no impediment to the prima donna
singing a long Polonaise air, to which there is a chorus with trumpets,
“Ah, we are lost, all hope is gone!” but, oh miracle! the rocks fall
asunder again, and open a wide entrance to the light of day. All
distress, and with it the distressing nonsense of the piece, was at an
end.
August 2nd.
Yesterday’s debauch called my attention to an organ which Mr. Deville
did not include in his list—the organ of ‘gourmandise,’ which
immediately confines on that of murder, and is in fact, like that, a
species of destructiveness. I find I possess it in a considerable
degree, and I only wish all the bumps and knobs on my skull gave as
innocent and agreeable results. It indicates not the mere vulgar desire
for eating and drinking, but enables its possessor to estimate the
delicate fragrance of wine, or the inventive genius of a cook. It is
inimical to human happiness only when found in conjunction with a
sentimental stomach,—which happily does not appear to be the case with
me.
To-day I saw an exhibition of an entire gallery of pictures embroidered
with the needle, and the work of one person: their excellence is really
surprising. The name of the artist, the most patient of women, is Miss
Linwood. At a little distance the copies are very like the originals,
and the enormous prices she gets for them shows that their merit is
recognized. I heard that one such piece of tapestry, after Carlo Dolce,
sold for three thousand guineas. There was a portrait of Napoleon during
the Consulate, which must have been very like him at that time, and was
regarded by some Frenchmen present with great admiration.
I next went to see the solar microscope, the magnifying power of which
is a million. What it shows is really enough to drive a man of lively
imagination mad. Nothing can be more horrible,—no more frightful
devilish figures could possibly be invented,—than the hideous,
disgusting water animalculæ (invisible to the naked eye, or even to
glasses of inferior power,) which we daily swallow. They looked like
damned souls darting about their filthy pools with the rapidity of
lightning, while every motion and gesture seemed to bespeak deadly hate,
horrid torture, warfare, and death.
I was seized with a sight-seeing fit, and wished to efface the shocking
impressions of that infernal world by something more agreeable. I
visited three panoramas,—Rio Janeiro, Madrid, and Geneva.
The first is a singular and paradisaically luxuriant country, differing
completely from the forms and appearances of that which surround us. The
second, in its treeless sandy plain, looks the picture of blank
stationariness and of the Inquisition: burning heat broods over the
whole scene like an ‘auto da fè.’ The third appeared to me like an old
acquaintance; and with a full heart I looked long at the immoveable and
unchangeable fatherlandish friend,—the majestic Mont Blanc.
August 8th.
Canning is dead. A man in the plenitude of his intellectual power, who
had but a few weeks ago arrived at the goal of his active life, who had
risen to be the ruler of England, and, in that quality, unquestionably
the most influential man in Europe; endowed with a spirit of fire that
would have guided the reins he held with a mighty hand, and a soul
capable of embracing the good of his species from a station more
elevated than any to which human ambition could raise him.
One shock has overthrown this proud structure of many years. And this
high-spirited man was doomed to end his days by a sudden and tragic
death, amid fearful sufferings, the victim of a relentless Destiny, who
steps on with iron foot, treading down all that comes in her way,
heedless whether it be the young seedling, the swelling blossom, the
lordly tree, or the withering plant, that she crushes.
What will be the consequences of his death? Years must elapse before
that will be seen; perhaps it will hasten on a conclusion which seems to
threaten us on many sides, and to which only a large-minded, liberal,
and enlightened statesman, like Canning, were capable of giving unity
and a favourable direction. It is not impossible that the party which
now so indecently and unfeelingly triumphs at his untimely death, may be
the first to be placed in real and imminent peril by that very event;
for not in vain has Lord Chesterfield said, with a far-seeing prophetic
eye, “Je prevois que dans cent ans d’ici les métiers de gentilhomme et
de moine ne seront plus de la moitié aussi lucratifs qu’ils le sont
aujourd’hui.”
But what do I care about politics? Could I but always preserve the due
equipoise in myself, I should be content. Meantime Canning’s death is
now, of course, the talk of the town, and the details of his sufferings
are truly afflicting. The Saints, who hated him for his liberal
opinions, try to set it abroad that during his physical torments he was
converted—what they call converted. One of his friends, on the other
hand, who was by his bed-side for a considerable time, knew not how
sufficiently to eulogize his stoical courage, and the serenity with
which he bore his cruel fate;—occupied to the last moment with plans
for the weal of England and of humanity, and anxiously desiring to
impress them once more on the heart of the King.
As the grave and the gay, the tragic and the frivolous, shake hands here
below, a very curious novel divides attention with this great calamity.
It is remarkable for its rather ‘baroque,’ but often witty and faithful
delineations of continental manners. I give you the description of the
beginning of a ball at Ems, as a sample of the observations of
Englishmen on our manners and customs.
“The company at the Archduke’s fête was most select: that is to say,
it consisted of every single person who was then at the baths: those who
had been presented to His Highness having the privilege of introducing
any number of their friends: and those who had no friend to introduce
them, purchased tickets at an enormous price from Cracowsky—the wily
Polish intendant. The entertainment was most imperial; no expense and no
exertion were spared to make the hired lodging-house look like an
hereditary palace; and for a week previous to the great evening, the
whole of the neighbouring town of Wisbaden,[66] the little capital of
the duchy, has been put under contribution. What a harvest for
Cracowsky!—What a commission from the restaurateur for supplying the
refreshments!—What a per-centage on hired mirrors and dingy hangings!
“The Archduke, covered with orders, received every one with the greatest
condescension, and made to each of his guests a most flattering speech.
His suite, in new uniforms, simultaneously bowed directly the flattering
speech was finished.
“‘Madame von Furstenburg, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My
greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Madame von
Furstenburg, I trust that your amiable and delightful family are quite
well.” [The party passed on.]—‘Cravatischeff!’ continued His Highness,
inclining his head round to one of his aid-de-camps; ‘Cravatischeff! a
very fine woman is Madame von Furstenburg. There are few women whom I
more admire than Madame von Furstenburg.’”
“‘Prince Salvinski, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My
greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Poland honours no
one more than Prince Salvinski.’—‘Cravatischeff! a remarkable bore is
Prince Salvinski. There are few men of whom I have a greater terror than
Prince Salvinski.’”
“‘Baron von Konigstein, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My
greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Baron von
Konigstein, I have not yet forgot the story of the fair
Venetian.’—‘Cravatischeff! an uncommonly pleasant fellow is Baron von
Konigstein. There are few men whose company I more enjoy than Baron von
Konigstein’s.’”
“‘Count von Altenburgh, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My
greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. You will not forget
to give me your opinion of my Austrian troop.’—‘Cravatischeff! a very
good billiard-player is Count von Altenburgh. There are few men whose
play I’d sooner bet upon than Count von Altenburgh’s.’”
“‘Lady Madeleine Trevor, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My
greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends.—Miss Fane, your
servant—Mr. Sherborne—Mr. St. George—Mr. Grey.’—‘Cravatischeff! a
most splendid woman is Lady Madeleine Trevor. There is no woman whom I
more admire than Lady Madeleine Trevor;—and, Cravatischeff! Miss Fane,
too! a remarkably fine girl is Miss Fane.’”
Stinging enough, is it not, Julia? I have met with few descriptions that
have amused me more: and my translation,—extremely good, is it not?
There are few translations that please me more than my own.
In a serious style, too, the Author is not amiss.[67]
More practically does the celebrated Smollett write to a friend: “I am
old enough to have seen and convinced myself that we are all the
playthings of Destiny, and that it often depends on a trifle not more
important than the toss-up of a halfpenny, whether a man should raise
himself to riches and honours, or pine away in misery and want till he
dies.
August 15th.
I daily inspect the workmen in St. James’s Park, formerly only a sort of
meadow for cows, and now converted into beautiful gardens, according to
a plan of Mr. Nash’s. The water is also much better distributed. I
acquire a great deal of technical information here, and admire the
judicious division and series of the work, the ingenious modes of
transport, the moveable iron railways, &c.
It is characteristic, that while the laws which protect private property
are so strict that a man who climbs over a wall into a garden runs the
risk of being hanged, or otherwise grievously punished; that if it
occurs in the night the proprietor may shoot him dead;—with the public,
wherever they have the shadow of a claim, it is necessary to go to work
as gingerly as you would with a raw egg. This park is the property of
the Crown, but has been open to the public from remote ages; and
Government does not dare to close it, even temporarily, notwithstanding
the improvements which the King is now carrying on, (at the nation’s
cost, it is true.) A board is put up on which is inscribed literally as
follows:—“The public are most respectfully requested, during the
operations which are designed for the increase of their own
gratification, not to injure the carts and tools of the workmen, and to
avoid as much as possible the part where the men are at work.” Very
little attention, however, is paid to this respectful and reasonable
petition, and the carts and barrows which lie empty when the men leave
work are often used by the boys to wheel each other about, and to play
all sorts of tricks with. The girls seesaw on the long planks, and many
little wretches amuse themselves with throwing stones in the water just
at the very spot where ladies are standing, who are of course so
splashed as to be obliged to hasten home. This brutal love of mischief
is quite peculiar to the English people, and forms the sole apology for
the grudging inhumanity with which the opulent classes shut up their
charming pleasure-grounds. It is worth inquiring, however, whether the
moroseness of the rich was not the cause, instead of the effect, of the
mischievous temper of the poor. It is difficult for people on the
Continent to imagine to what a pitch it goes.
The anxiety with which the rich English shut up their property from the
profaning eyes of the stranger is sometimes truly amusing, but may
chance to be painful. I was riding one day in the neighbourhood of
London,—and attracted by the sight of a fine house and grounds, I asked
the porter who stood at the lodge, whether he would allow me to look at
the gardens? He had many scruples, but at last he opened the gate,
taking charge of my horse during the time. I might have walked about for
a quarter of an hour, and was just looking at the neatly-kept
pleasure-ground, when a somewhat fat personage in his shirt appeared at
a window of the house; he seemed to be running about in great distress,
but at last threw open the window with great vehemence, and whilst I
heard the violent ringing of a large bell, cried out to me with
half-suppressed rage, “Qui êtes-vous, Monsieur? que cherchez-vous ici?”
I thought it too ridiculous to shout back the answer from such a
distance, and soon found it unnecessary; for a number of servants,
alarmed by the ringing of the bell, flocked together from all
directions, one of whom now repeated to me the question ‘ex officio.’ In
a few words I let the proprietor know by him that I was a foreigner who
had been attracted by fondness for gardening; that I had not climbed
over the wall, as he seemed to believe, but had entered through the
usual entrance, where my horse was still waiting; that I was heartily
sorry for having caused him such a shock in his illness, and only wished
that it might have no serious consequences, at the same time assuring
him of my best respects, and that I would immediately leave the
forbidden garden. I soon reached my horse, and rode off laughing, for
this was the gay side of the affair. About a fortnight after, I passed
by chance near the same house: I approached the lodge again, and rang
the bell; another man appeared; and in a mischievous fit I inquired
after the health of his master, and whether I could be permitted to see
the garden? “God forbid!” was the answer, “on no account!” I now heard
from the servant, to my sincere grief, that the poor fellow, his
predecessor, had been dismissed with his wife and children, though he
had been in the service of the family for many years, merely for having
let a stranger enter without permission. Nevertheless this severe
gentleman is one of the patent liberals of England. What would an
illiberal one have done?
The walks and rides in the neighbourhood are now very inviting again,
for autumn has set in early. The scorched grass has resumed its coat of
bright green, and the trees hold their foliage longer and fresher than
with us, though they begin to change their colour earlier. Winter comes
late, often not at all, to throw its broad white mantle over them. The
mowing of the grass, and cleaning and sweeping of the gardens and
grounds never cease; indeed, as autumn and winter are ‘the seasons’ in
the country, that is just the time when most care is bestowed upon them.
London is deserted by the fashionables; and that with such affectation,
that many who are obliged to remain on business positively conceal
themselves. The streets in the west end of the town are like those of a
deserted city. * * *
* * * * * * *
They are still infested with beggars, and with that most affecting sort
of beggars who ply their melancholy trade in the night. Not only English
women, but foreigners here contract this shocking custom. I was really
made almost desperate by a withered French woman, of whom I could not
get rid, even by the usual shilling:—“Encore un moment,” exclaimed she;
“je ne demande rien, c’est seulement pour parler Français, pour avoir
une conversation raisonnable, dont ces Anglais ne sont pas capables.”
In the present solitude one has at least as much time to oneself as one
likes; one can work, and read the legion of newspapers at one’s leisure.
The absurdities which daily appear in them on foreign affairs are almost
incredible. To-day I found the following article: “The admiration of
the Emperor Alexander for Napoleon was for a long time boundless. It is
well known that at the theatre at Erfuth, when Talma uttered the words
‘L’amitié d’un grand homme est un bienfait des Dieux,’
Alexander leaned over to Napoleon and said, ‘Ces paroles ont été écrites
pour moi.’—The following anecdote is probably less known. We can vouch
for the truth of it. Alexander one day expressed to Duroc the intense
desire he had to possess a pair of breeches of his great ally the
Emperor Napoleon. Duroc sounded his master on this very extraordinary
subject. Napoleon laughed heartily. ‘Oh,’ cried he, ‘donnez lui tout ce
qu’il veut, pourvu qu’il me reste une paire pour changer.’ This is
authentic. We are also assured that Alexander, who was very
superstitious, never wore any other breeches than Napoleon’s in the
field, during the campaigns of 1812-13.”
The day ended very pleasantly for me with the arrival of my friend
L——, for whom I now leave you, and close this letter (which is far
enough from being amusing or instructive in proportion to its dreadful
length,) with the old assurance, which to you I know will want no charm
of novelty, that, far or near, you are ever next to my heart.
Your faithful L——.
