Me tabula sacer Votiva paries indicat uvida Suspendisse potenti Vestimenta maris Deo (Od. i. 5).]

_PAOLI--AMBa.s.sADORIAL ETIQUETTE._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _June_ 14, 1769.

I thank you for the history of the Pope and his genealogy, or, rather, for what is to be his genealogy; for I suppose all those tailors and coachmen his relations will now found n.o.ble families. They may enrich their blood with the remaining spoils of the Jesuits, unless, which would not surprise me, his new Holiness should now veer about, and endeavour to save the order; for I think the Church full as likely to fall by sacrificing its janissaries, as by any attacks that can be made upon it. _Deme unum, deme etiam unum._

If I care little about your Roman politics, I am not so indifferent about your Corsican. Poor brave Paoli!--but he is not disgraced! We, that have sat still and seen him overwhelmed, must answer it to history.

Nay, the Mediterranean will taunt us in the very next war. Choiseul triumphs over us and Madame du Barri; her star seems to have lost its influence. I do not know what another lady[1] will say to Choiseul on the late behaviour of his friend, the Amba.s.sador, here. As the adventure will make a chapter in the new edition of Wiquefort, and, consequently, will strike _you_, I will give you the detail. At the ball on the King's birthday, Count Czernichew was sitting in the box of the Foreign Ministers next to Count Seilern, the Imperial Amba.s.sador. The latter, who is as fierce as the Spread Eagle itself, and as stiff as the chin of all the Ferdinands, was, according to his custom, as near to Jupiter as was possible. Monsieur du Chatelet and the Prince de Ma.s.serano came in.

Chatelet sidled up to the two former, spoke to them and pa.s.sed behind them, but on a sudden lifted up his leg and thrust himself in between the two Imperials. The Russian, astonished and provoked, endeavoured to push him away, and a jostle began that discomposed the faces and curls of both; and the Russian even dropped the word _impertinent_.

Czernichew, however, quitted the spot of battle, and the Prince de Ma.s.serano, in support of the family-compact, hobbled into the place below Chatelet. As the two champions retired, more words at the door.

However, the Russian's coach being first, he astonished everybody by proposing to set Monsieur du Chatelet down at his own house. In the coach, _it is said_, the Frenchman protested he had meant nothing personal either to Count Czernichew, or to the Russian Minister, but having received orders from his Court to take place on all occasion _next_ to the Imperial Amba.s.sador, he had but done his duty. Next morning he visited Czernichew, and they are _personally_ reconciled. It was, however, feared that the dispute would be renewed, for, at the King's next levee, both were at the door, ready to push in when it should be opened; but the Russian kept behind, and at the bottom of the room without mixing with the rest of the Foreign Ministers. The King, who was much offended at what had pa.s.sed, called Count Czernichew into the middle of the room, and talked to him for a very considerable time.

Since then, the Lord Chamberlain has been ordered to notify to all the Foreign Ministers that the King looks on the ball at Court as a private ball, and declares, _to prevent such disagreeable altercations for the future_, that there is no precedence there. This declaration is ridiculed, because the ball at Court is almost the only ceremony that is observed there, and certainly the most formal, the princes of the blood dancing first, and everybody else being taken out according to their rank. Yet the King, being the fountain of all rank, may certainly declare what he pleases, especially in his own palace. The public papers, which seldom spare the French, are warm for the Russian.

Chatelet, too, is not popular, nor well at Court. He is wrong-headed, and at Vienna was very near drawing his Court into a sc.r.a.pe by his haughtiness. His own friends even doubt whether this last exploit will not offend at Versailles, as the Duc de Choiseul has lately been endeavouring to soften the Czarina, wishes to send a minister thither, and has actually sent an agent. Chatelet was to have gone this week, but I believe waits to hear how his behaviour is taken. Personally, I am quite on his side, though I think him in the wrong; but he is extremely civil to me; I live much at his house, admire his wife exceedingly, and, besides, you know, have declared war with the Czarina; so what I say is quite in confidence to you, and for your information. As an Englishman, I am whatever Madam Great Britain can expect of me. As intimate with the Chatelets, and extremely attached to the d.u.c.h.ess of Choiseul, I detest Madame du Barri and her faction. You, who are a Foreign Minister, and can distinguish like a theologian between the _two natures_ perfectly comprehend all this; and, therefore, to the charity of your casuistry I recommend myself in this jumble of contradictions, which you may be sure do not give me any sort of trouble either way. At least I have not _three_ distinctions, like Chatelet when he affronted Czernichew, but neither in his private nor public capacity.

[Footnote 1: The Czarina.]

This fracas happens very luckily, as we had nothing left to talk of; for of the Pope we think no more, according to the old saying, than of the Pope of Rome. Of Wilkes there is no longer any question, and of the war under the Pole we hear nothing. Corsica, probably, will occasion murmurs, but they will be preserved in pickle till next winter. I am come hither for two months, very busy with finishing my round tower, which has stood still these five years, and with an enchanting new cottage that I have built, and other little works. In August I shall go to Paris for six weeks. In short, I am delighted with having bid adieu to Parliament and politics, and with doing nothing but what I like all the year round.

_HIS RETURN TO PARIS--MADAME DEFFAND--A TRANSLATION OF "HAMLET"--MADAME DUMENIL--VOLTAIRE'S "MEROPE" AND "LES GUeBRES._"

TO JOHN CHUTE, ESQ.

PARIS, _Aug._ 30, 1769.

I have been so hurried with paying and receiving visits, that I have not had a moment's worth of time to write. My pa.s.sage was very tedious, and lasted near nine hours for want of wind.--But I need not talk of my journey; for Mr. Maurice, whom I met on the road, will have told you that I was safe on _terra firma_.

Judge of my surprise at hearing four days ago, that my Lord Dacre and my lady were arrived here. They are lodged within a few doors of me. He is come to consult a Doctor Pomme who has prescribed wine, and Lord Dacre already complains of the violence of his appet.i.te. If you and I had _pommed_ him to eternity, he would not have believed us. A man across the sea tells him the plainest thing in the world; that man happens to be called a doctor; and happening for novelty to talk common sense, is believed, as if he had talked nonsense! and what is more extraordinary, Lord Dacre thinks himself better, _though_ he is so.

My dear old woman [Madame du Deffand] is in better health than when I left her, and her spirits so increased, that I tell her she will go mad with age. When they ask her how old she is, she answers, "J'ai soixante et mille ans." She and I went to the Boulevard last night after supper, and drove about there till two in the morning. We are going to sup in the country this evening, and are to go to-morrow night at eleven to the puppet-show. A _protege_ of hers has written a piece for that theatre. I have not yet seen Madame du Barri, nor can get to see her picture at the exposition at the Louvre, the crowds are so enormous that go thither for that purpose. As royal curiosities are the least part of my _virtu_, I wait with patience. Whenever I have an opportunity I visit gardens, chiefly with a view to Rosette's having a walk. She goes nowhere else, because there is a distemper among the dogs.

There is going to be represented a translation of Hamlet; who when his hair is cut, and he is curled and powdered, I suppose will be exactly _Monsieur le Prince Oreste_. T'other night I was at "Merope." The Dumenil was as divine as Mrs. Porter[1]; they said her familiar tones were those of a _poissonniere_. In the last act, when one expected the catastrophe, Narbas, more interested than anybody to see the event, remained coolly on the stage to hear the story. The Queen's maid of honour entered without her handkerchief, and her hair most artfully undressed, and reeling as if she was maudlin, sobbed out a long narrative, that did not prove true; while Narbas, with all the good breeding in the world, was more attentive to her fright than to what had happened. So much for propriety. Now for probability. Voltaire has published a tragedy, called "Les Guebres." Two Roman colonels open the piece: they are brothers, and relate to one another, how they lately in company destroyed, by the Emperor's mandate, a city of the Guebres, in which were their own wives and children; and they recollect that they want prodigiously to know whether both their families did perish in the flames. The son of the one and the daughter of the other are taken up for heretics, and, thinking themselves brother and sister, insist upon being married, and upon being executed for their religion. The son stabs his father, who is half a Guebre, too. The high-priest rants and roars.

The Emperor arrives, blames the pontiff for being a persecutor, and forgives the son for a.s.sa.s.sinating his father (who does not die) because--I don't know why, but that he may marry his cousin. The grave-diggers in Hamlet have no chance, when such a piece as the Guebres is written agreeably to all rules and unities. Adieu, my dear Sir! I hope to find you quite well at my return. Yours ever.

[Footnote 1: Mme. Dumenil, as has been mentioned in a former note, was the most popular of the French tragic actresses at this time, as Mrs.

Porter was of the English actresses.]

_THE FRENCH COURT--THE YOUNG PRINCES--ST. CYR--MADAME DE MAILLY._

TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

PARIS, _Sunday night, Sept._ 17, 1769.

I am heartily tired; but, as it is too early to go to bed, I must tell you how agreeably I have pa.s.sed the day. I wished for you; the same scenes strike us both, and the same kind of visions has amused us both ever since we were born.

Well then; I went this morning to Versailles with my niece Mrs.

Cholmondeley, Mrs. Hart, Lady Denbigh's sister, and the Count de Grave, one of the most amiable, humane, and obliging men alive. Our first object was to see Madame du Barri. Being too early for ma.s.s, we saw the Dauphin and his brothers at dinner. The eldest is the picture of the Duke of Grafton, except that he is more fair, and will be taller. He has a sickly air, and no grace. The Count de Provence has a very pleasing countenance, with an air of more sense than the Count d'Artois, the genius of the family. They already tell as many _bon-mots_ of the latter as of Henri Quatre and Louis Quatorze. He is very fat, and the most like his grandfather of all the children. You may imagine this royal mess did not occupy us long: thence to the Chapel, where a first row in the balconies was kept for us. Madame du Barri arrived over against us below, without rouge, without powder, and indeed _sans avoir fait sa toilette_; an odd appearance, as she was so conspicuous, close to the altar, and amidst both Court and people. She is pretty, when you consider her; yet so little striking, that I never should have asked who she was. There is nothing bold, a.s.suming or affected in her manner. Her husband's sister was along with her. In the Tribune above, surrounded by prelates, was the amorous and still handsome King. One could not help smiling at the mixture of piety, pomp, and carnality. From chapel we went to the dinner of the elder Mesdames. We were almost stifled in the antechamber, where their dishes were heating over charcoal, and where we could not stir for the press. When the doors are opened, everybody rushes in, princes of the blood, _cordons bleus_, abbes, housemaids, and the Lord knows who and what. Yet, so used are their highnesses to this trade, that they eat as comfortably and heartily as you or I could do in our own parlours.

Our second act was much more agreeable. We quitted the Court and a reigning mistress, for a dead one and a Cloister. In short, I had obtained leave from the Bishop of Chartres to enter _into_ St. Cyr; and, as Madame du Deffand never leaves anything undone that can give me satisfaction, she had written to the abbess to desire I might see everything that could be seen there. The Bishop's order was to admit me, _Monsieur de Grave, et les dames de ma compagnie_: I begged the abbess to give me back the order, that I might deposit it in the archives of Strawberry, and she complied instantly. Every door flew open to us: and the nuns vied in attentions to please us. The first thing I desired to see was Madame de Maintenon's apartment. It consists of two small rooms, a library, and a very small chamber, the same in which the Czar saw her, and in which she died. The bed is taken away, and the room covered now with bad pictures of the royal family, which destroys the gravity and simplicity. It is wainscotted with oak, with plain chairs of the same, covered with dark blue damask. Everywhere else the chairs are of blue cloth. The simplicity and extreme neatness of the whole house, which is vast, are very remarkable. A large apartment above (for that I have mentioned is on the ground-floor), consisting of five rooms, and destined by Louis Quatorze for Madame de Maintenon, is now the infirmary, with neat white linen beds, and decorated with every text of Scripture by which could be insinuated that the foundress was a Queen.

The hour of vespers being come, we were conducted to the chapel, and, as it was _my_ curiosity that had led us thither, I was placed in the Maintenon's own tribune; my company in the adjoining gallery. The pensioners, two and two, each band headed by a man, march orderly to their seats, and sing the whole service, which I confess was not a little tedious. The young ladies, to the number of two hundred and fifty, are dressed in black, with short ap.r.o.ns of the same, the latter and their stays bound with blue, yellow, green, or red, to distinguish the cla.s.ses; the captains and lieutenants have knots of a different colour for distinction. Their hair is curled and powdered, their coiffure a sort of French round-eared caps, with white tippets, a sort of ruff and large tucker: in short, a very pretty dress. The nuns are entirely in black, with c.r.a.pe veils and long trains, deep white handkerchiefs, and forehead cloths, and a very long train. The chapel is plain but very pretty, and in the middle of the choir under a flat marble lies the foundress. Madame de Cambis, one of the nuns, who are about forty, is beautiful as a Madonna.[1] The abbess has no distinction but a larger and richer gold cross: her apartment consists of two very small rooms. Of Madame de Maintenon we did not see fewer than twenty pictures. The young one looking over her shoulder has a round face, without the least resemblance to those of her latter age. That in the royal mantle, of which you know I have a copy, is the most repeated; but there is another with a longer and leaner face, which has by far the most sensible look. She is in black, with a high point head and band, a long train, and is sitting in a chair of purple velvet. Before her knees stands her niece Madame de Noailles, a child; at a distance a view of Versailles or St. Cyr,[2] I could not distinguish which. We were shown some rich reliquaires and the _corpo santo_ that was sent to her by the Pope. We were then carried into the public room of each cla.s.s. In the first, the young ladies, who were playing at chess, were ordered to sing to us the choruses of Athaliah; in another, they danced minuets and country dances, while a nun, not quite so able as St. Cecilia, played on a violin. In the others, they acted before us the proverbs or conversations written by Madame de Maintenon for their instruction; for she was not only their foundress but their saint, and their adoration of her memory has quite eclipsed the Virgin Mary. We saw their dormitory, and saw them at supper; and at last were carried to their archives, where they produced volumes of her letters, and where one of the nuns gave me a small piece of paper with three sentences in her handwriting.

I forgot to tell you, that this kind dame who took to me extremely, asked me if we had many convents and relics in England. I was much embarra.s.sed for fear of destroying her good opinion of me, and so said we had but few now. Oh! we went too to the _apothecairie_, where they treated us with cordials, and where one of the ladies told me inoculation was a sin, as it was a voluntary detention from ma.s.s, and as voluntary a cause of eating _gras_. Our visit concluded in the garden, now grown very venerable, where the young ladies played at little games before us. After a stay of four hours we took our leave. I begged the abbess's blessing; she smiled, and said, she doubted I should not place much faith in it. She is a comely old gentlewoman, and very proud of having seen Madame de Maintenon. Well! was not I in the right to wish you with me?--could you have pa.s.sed a day more agreeably.

[Footnote 1: Madame du Deffand, in her letter to Walpole of the 10th of May, 1776, encloses the following portrait of Madame de Cambise, by Madame de la Valliere:--"Non, non, Madame, je ne ferai point votre portrait: vous avez une maniere d'etre si n.o.ble, si fine, si piquante, si delicate, si seduisante; votre gentilesse et vos graces changent si souvent pour n'en etre que plus aimable, que l'on ne peut saisir aucun de vos traits ni au physique ni au moral." She was niece of La Marquise de Boufflers, and, having fled to England at the breaking out of the French Revolution, resided here until her death, which took place at Richmond in January, 1809.]

[Footnote 2: St. Cyr was a school founded by Mme. de Maintenon for the education of girls of good families who were in reduced circ.u.mstances.

Mme. de Maintenon was the daughter of M. D'Aubigne, a writer of fair repute both as a historian and a satirist. Her first husband had been a M. Paul Scarron, a comic poet of indifferent reputation. After his death, she was induced, after an artful show of affected reluctance, to become governess to the children of Louis XIV. and Mme. de Montespan.

Louis gave her the small estate of Maintenon, and, after the death of his queen, privately married her. She became devout, and, under the tuition of the Jesuits, a violent promoter of the persecution of the Huguenots. It was probably her influence that induced Louis to issue the Edict revoking the Edict of Nantes promulgated by Henry IV. in 1598. She outlived the King, and died in 1719.]

I will conclude my letter with a most charming trait of Madame de Mailly,[1] which cannot be misplaced in such a chapter of royal concubines. Going to St. Sulpice, after she had lost the King's heart, a person present desired the crowd to make way for her. Some brutal young officers said, "Comment, pour cette catin la!" She turned to them, and with the most charming modesty said--"Messieurs, puisque vous me connoissez, priez Dieu pour moi." I am sure it will bring tears into your eyes. Was she not the Publican and Maintenon the Pharisee? Good night! I hope I am going to dream of all I have been seeing. As my impressions and my fancy, when I am pleased, are apt to be strong, my night perhaps may still be more productive of ideas than the day has been. It will be charming indeed if Madame de Cambis is the ruling tint.

Adieu!

Yours ever.

[Footnote 1: Mme. de Mailly was the first of the mistresses of Louis XV.

She was the elder sister of the d.u.c.h.esse de Chateauroux and Mme. de Lauragais. She has the credit, such as it is, of having been really in love with the King before she became acquainted with him; but she soon retired, feeling repentance and shame at her position, and being superseded in his fancy by the more showy attractions of her younger sisters.]

_A MASQUERADE--STATE OF RUSSIA._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

ARLINGTON STREET, _Feb._ 27, 1770.

It is very lucky, seeing how much of the tiger enters into the human composition, that there should be a good dose of the monkey too. If Aesop had not lived so many centuries before the introduction of masquerades and operas, he would certainly have antic.i.p.ated my observation, and worked it up into a capital fable. As we still trade upon the stock of the ancients, we seldom deal in any other manufacture; and, though nature, after new combinations, lets forth new characteristics, it is very rarely that they are added to the old fund; else how could so striking a remark have escaped being made, as mine, on the joint ingredients of tiger and monkey? In France the latter predominates, in England the former; but, like Orozmades and Arimanius,[1] they get the better by turns. The bankruptcy in France, and the rigours of the new Comptroller-General, are half forgotten, in the expectation of a new opera at the new theatre. Our civil war has been lulled asleep by a Subscription Masquerade, for which the House of Commons literally adjourned yesterday. Instead of Fairfaxes and Cromwells, we have had a crowd of Henry the Eighths, Wolseys, Vand.y.k.es, and Harlequins; and because Wilkes was not mask enough, we had a man dressed like him, with a visor, in imitation of his squint, and a Cap of Liberty on a pole. In short, sixteen or eighteen young lords have given the town a Masquerade; and politics, for the last fortnight, were forced to give way to habit-makers. The ball was last night at Soho; and, if possible, was more magnificent than the King of Denmark's. The Bishops opposed: he of London formally remonstrated to the King, who did not approve it, but could not help him. The consequence was, that four divine vessels belonging to the holy fathers, alias their wives, were at this Masquerade. Monkey again! A fair widow,[2] who once bore my whole name, and now bears half of it, was there, with one of those whom the newspapers call _great personages_--he dressed like Edward the Fourth, she like Elizabeth Woodville,[3] in grey and pearls, with a black veil.

Methinks it was not very difficult to find out the meaning of those masks.

[Footnote 1: "_Orozmades and Arimanius._" In the Persian theology Orozmades and Ahriman are the good and bad angels. In Scott's "Talisman"

the disguised Saracen (Saladin) invokes Ahriman as "the dark spirit." In one of his earlier letters Walpole describes his friend Gray as Orozmades.]

[Footnote 2: "_A fair widow._" Lady Waldegrave, a natural daughter of Walpole's uncle, married the King's favourite brother, the Duke of Gloucester, the _great personage_. The King was very indignant at the _mesalliance_; and this marriage, with that of the King's other brother, the Duke of c.u.mberland, to Mrs. Horton, led to the enactment of the Royal Marriage Act.]

[Footnote 3: Elizabeth Woodville was the daughter of a Sir Richard Woodville, and his wife, the d.u.c.h.ess of Bedford, the widow of the ill.u.s.trious brother of Henry V. Her first husband had been Sir John Grey, a knight of the Lancastrian party; and, after his death, Edward IV., attracted by her remarkable beauty, married her in 1464.]

As one of my ancient pa.s.sions, formerly, was Masquerades, I had a large trunk of dresses by me. I dressed out a thousand young Conways and Cholmondeleys, and went with more pleasure to see them pleased than when I formerly delighted in that diversion myself. It has cost me a great headache, and I shall probably never go to another. A symptom appeared of the change that has happened in the people.

The mob was beyond all belief: they held flambeaux to the windows of every coach, and demanded to have the masks pulled off and put on at their pleasure, but with extreme good-humour and civility. I was with my Lady Hertford and two of her daughters, in their coach: the mob took me for Lord Hertford, and huzzaed and blessed me! One fellow cried out, "Are you for Wilkes?" another said, "D--n you, you fool, what has Wilkes to do with a Masquerade?"

In good truth, that stock is fallen very low. The Court has recovered a majority of seventy-five in the House of Commons; and the party has succeeded so ill in the Lords, that my Lord Chatham has betaken himself to the gout, and appears no more. What Wilkes may do at his enlargement in April, I don't know, but his star is certainly much dimmed. The distress of France, the injustice they have been induced to commit on public credit, immense bankruptcies, and great bankers hanging and drowning themselves, are comfortable objects in our prospect; for one tiger is charmed if another tiger loses his tail.

There was a stroke of the monkey last night that will sound ill in the ears of your neighbour the Pope. The heir-apparent of the House of Norfolk, a drunken old mad fellow, was, though a Catholic, dressed like a Cardinal: I hope he was scandalised at the wives of our Bishops.

So you agree with me, and don't think that the crusado from Russia will recover the Holy Land! It is a pity; for, if the Turks kept it a little longer, I doubt it will be the Holy Land no longer. When Rome totters, poor Jerusalem! As to your Count Orloff's[1] denying the murder of the late Czar, it is no more than every felon does at the Old Bailey. If I could write like Shakspeare, I would make Peter's ghost perch on the dome of Sancta Sophia, and, when the Russian fleet comes in sight, roar, with a voice of thunder that should reach to Petersburg,

Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!