The Bois de Boulogne yesterday presented one of the gayest sights imaginable as we drove through it, for, being Sunday, all the _bourgeoisie_ of Paris were promenading there, and in their holyday dresses. And very pretty and becoming were the said dresses, from those of the _femmes de negociants_, composed of rich and tasteful materials, down to those of the humble _grisettes_, who, with jaunty air and roguish eyes, walked briskly along, casting glances at every smart toilette they encountered, more intent on examining the dresses than the wearers.

A good taste in dress seems innate in Frenchwomen of every cla.s.s, and a confidence in their own attractions precludes the air of _mauvaise honte_ and _gaucherie_ so continually observable in the women of other countries, while it is so distinct from boldness that it never offends.

It was pretty to see the gay dresses of varied colours fluttering beneath the delicate green foliage, like rich flowers agitated by a more than usually brisk summer's wind, while the foliage and the dresses are still in their pristine purity.

The _beau monde_ occupied the drive in the centre, their vehicles of every description attracting the admiration of the pedestrians, who glanced from the well-appointed carriages, whose owners reclined negligently back as if unwilling to be seen, to the smart young equestrians on prancing steeds, who caracoled past with the air half dandy and half _militaire_ that characterises every young Frenchman.

I am always struck in a crowd in Paris with the soldier-like air of its male population; and this air does not seem to be the result of study, but sits as naturally on them as does the look, half fierce, half mocking, that accompanies it. There is something in the nature of a Frenchman that enables him to become a soldier in less time than is usually necessary to render the natives of other countries _au fait_ in the routine of duty, just as he learns to dance well in a quarter of the time required to teach them to go through a simple measure.

The Emperor Napoleon quickly observed this peculiar predisposition to a military life in his subjects, and took advantage of it to fool them to the top of their bent. The victories achieved beneath his banner reflect scarcely less honour on them than on him, and the memory of them a.s.sociates his name in their hearts by the strongest bonds of sympathy that can bind a Frenchman--the love of glory. A sense of duty, high discipline, and true courage, influence our soldiers in the discharge of their calling. They are proud of their country and of their regiment, for the honour of which they are ready to fight unto the death; but a Frenchman, though proud of his country and his regiment, is still more proud of his individual self, and, believing that all eyes are upon _him_ acts as if his single arm could accomplish that which only soldiers _en ma.s.se_ can achieve.

A pleasant party at dinner at home yesterday. The Marquis de Mornay, Count Valeski, and General Ornano, were among the number. Laughed immoderately at the _navete_ of ----, who is irresistibly ludicrous.

Madame ---- came in the evening and sang "G.o.d save the King." Time was that her singing this national anthem would have electrified the hearers, but now--. Alas! alas! that voices, like faces, should lose their delicate flexibility and freshness, and seem but like the faint echo of their former brilliant tones!

Does the ear of a singer, like the eye of some _has-been_ beauty, lose its fine perception and become accustomed to the change in the voice, as does the eye to that in the face, to which it appertains, from being daily in the habit of seeing the said face! Merciful dispensation of Providence, which thus saves us from the horror and dismay we must experience could we but behold ourselves as others see us, after a lapse of years without having met; while we, unconscious of the sad change in ourselves, are perfectly sensible of it in them. Oh, the misery of the _mezzo termine_ in the journey of life, when time robs the eyes of their l.u.s.tre, the cheeks of their roses, the mouth of its pearls, and the heart of its gaiety, and writes harsh sentences on brows once smooth and polished as marble!

Well a-day! ah, well a-day!

Why fleets youth so fast away, Taking beauty in its train, Never to return again?

Well a-day! ah, well a-day!

Why will health no longer stay?

After youth 't will not remain, Chased away by care and pain.

Well a-day! ah, well a-day!

Youth, health, beauty, gone for aye, Life itself must quickly wane With its thoughts and wishes vain.

Well a-day! ah, well a-day!

Frail and perishable clay That to earth our wishes chain, Well it is that brief's thy reign.

I have been reading Captain Marryat's _Naval Officer_, and think it exceedingly clever and amusing. It is like himself, full of talent, originality, and humour. He is an accurate observer of life; nothing escapes him; yet there is no bitterness in his satire and no exaggeration in his comic vein. He is never obliged to explain to his readers _why_ the characters he introduces act in such or such a manner.

They always bear out the parts he wishes them to enact, and the whole story goes on so naturally that one feels as if reading a narrative of facts, instead of a work of fiction.

I have known Captain Marryat many years, and liked him from the first; but this circ.u.mstance, far from rendering me more indulgent to his novel, makes me more fastidious; for I find myself at all times more disposed to criticise the writings of persons whom I know and like than those of strangers: perhaps because I expect more from them, if, as in the present case, I know them to be very clever.

Dined yesterday at the Cadran Bleu, and went in the evening to see _La Tour d'Auvergne_, a piece founded on the life, and taking its name from a soldier of the time of the Republic. A n.o.bler character than that of La Tour d'Auvergne could not be selected for a dramatic hero, and ancient times furnish posterity with no brighter example. A letter from Carnot, then Minister of War, addressed to this distinguished soldier and admirable man, has pleased me so much that I give its substance:

"On fixing my attention on the men who reflect honour on the army, I have remarked you, citizen, and I said to the First Consul--'La Tour d'Auvergne Corret, descendant of the family of Turenne, has inherited its bravery and its virtues. One of the oldest officers in the army, he counts the greatest number of brilliant actions, and all the brave name him to be the most brave. As modest as he is intrepid, he has shewn himself anxious for glory alone, and has refused all the grades offered to him. At the eastern Pyrenees the General a.s.sembled all the companies of the grenadiers, and during the remainder of the campaign gave them no chief. The oldest captain was to command them, and he was Latour d'Auvergne. He obeyed, and the corps was soon named by the enemy the Infernal Column.

"'One of his friends had an only son, whose labour was necessary for the support of his father, and this young man was included in the conscription. Latour d'Auvergne, broken down by fatigue, could not labour, but he could still fight.

He hastened to the army of the Rhine; replaced the son of his friend; and, during two campaigns, with his knapsack on his hack and always in the foremost rank, he was in every engagement, animating the grenadiers by his discourse and by his example. Poor, but proud, he has refused the gift of an estate offered to him by the head of his family. Simple in his manners, and temperate in his habits, he lives on the limited pay of a captain. Highly informed, and speaking several languages, his erudition equals his courage. We are indebted to his pen for the interesting work ent.i.tled _Les Origines Gauloises_. Such rare talents and virtues appertain to the page of history, but to the First Consul belongs the right to antic.i.p.ate its award.'

"The First Consul, citizen, heard this recital with the same emotions that I experienced. He named you instantly first grenadier of the Republic, and decreed you this sword of honour. _Salut et fraternite_."

The distinction accorded so readily to Latour d'Auvergne by the First Consul, himself a hero, who could better than any other contemporary among his countrymen appreciate the glory he was called on by Carnot to reward, was refused by the gallant veteran.

"Among us soldiers," said he, "there is neither first nor last." He demanded, as the sole recompense of his services, to be sent to join his old brothers-in-arms, to fight once more with them, not as the _first_, but as the _oldest_, soldier of the Republic.

His death was like his life, glorious; for he fell on the field of battle at Neubourg, in 1800, mourned by the whole army, who devoted a day's pay to the purchase of an urn to preserve his heart, for a niche in the Pantheon.

Another distinction, not less touching, was accorded to his memory by the regiment in which he served. The sergeant, in calling his names in the muster of his company, always called Latour d'Auvergne, and the corporal answered--"_Mort au champ d'honneur_." If the history of this hero excited the warm admiration of those opposed to him in arms, the effect of its representation on his compatriots may be more easily imagined than described. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm it excited in their minds. Men, women, and children, seemed electrified by it.

There is a chord in the hearts of the French that responds instantaneously, and with vivid emotion, to any appeal made to their national glory; and this susceptibility const.i.tutes the germ so easily fructified by those who know how to cultivate it.

Enthusiasm, if it sometimes leads to error, or commits its votaries into the ridiculous, also prompts and accomplishes the most glorious achievements; and it is impossible not to feel a sympathy with its unsophisticated demonstrations thus evinced _en ma.s.se_. Civilization, more than aught else, tends to discourage enthusiasm; and where it is pushed to the utmost degree of perfection, there will this prompter of great deeds, this darer of impossibilities and instigator of heroic actions, be most rarely found.

Drove yesterday to see the villa of the d.u.c.h.esse de Montmorency, which is to be let. The grounds are very pretty, and a portion of them opens by iron rails to the Bois de Boulogne, which is a great advantage. But neither the villa nor the grounds are to be compared to the beautiful ones in the neighbourhood of London, where, as an old French gentleman once observed to me, "the trees seem to take a peculiar pride and pleasure in growing."

I have seen nothing to be compared with the tasteful villas on green velvet lawns sloping down to the limpid Thames, near Richmond, with umbrageous trees bending their leafy branches to the earth and water; or to the colonnaded mansions peeping forth from the well-wooded grounds of Roehampton and its vicinage.

I can remember as distinctly as if beheld yesterday, the various tempting residences that meet the eye in a morning drive, or in a row on the silvery Thames, compelling the violation of the tenth commandment, by looking so beautiful that one imagines how happily a life might glide away in such abodes, forgetful that in no earthly abode can existence be pa.s.sed free from the cares meant to remind us that this is not our abiding-place.

Went to see Bagatelle yesterday with the d.u.c.h.esse de G----. Here the Duc de Bordeaux and Mademoiselle, his sister, pa.s.s much of their time.

It is a very pleasant villa, and contains many proofs of the taste and industry of these very interesting children, who are greatly beloved by those who have access to them. Various stories were related to us ill.u.s.trative of their goodness of heart and considerate kindness for those around them; and, making all due allowance for the partiality of the narrators, they went far to prove that these scions of royalty are more amiable and unspoilt than are most children of their age, and of even far less elevated rank. "Born in sorrow, and nursed in tears," the Duc de Bordeaux's early infancy has not pa.s.sed under bright auspices; and those are not wanting who prophesy that he may hereafter look back to the days pa.s.sed at Bagatelle as the happiest of his life.

It requires little of the prescience of a soothsayer to make this prediction, when we reflect that the lives of even the most popular of those born to the dangerous inheritance of a crown must ever be more exposed to the cares that weigh so heavily, and the responsibility that presses so continually on them, than are those who, exempt from the splendour of sovereignty, escape also its toils. "Oh happy they, the happiest of their kind," who enjoy, in the peace and repose of a private station, a competency, good health, a love of, and power of indulging in, study; an unreproaching conscience, and a cheerful mind!

With such blessings they may contemplate, without a feeling of envy, the more brilliant but less fortunate lots of those great ones of the earth, whose elevation but too often serves to render them the target at which Fortune loves aim her most envenomed darts.

Pa.s.sed the greater part of the morning in the house in the Rue de Matignon, superintending the alterations and improvements to be carried into execution there. It has been found necessary to build an additional room, which the proprietor pledges himself can be ready for occupation in six weeks, and already have its walls reached nearly to their intended height. The builders seem to be as expeditious as the upholsterers at Paris, and adding a room or two to a mansion appears to be as easily accomplished as adding some extra furniture.

One is made to pay dearly, however, for this facility and expedition; for rents are extravagantly high at Paris, as are also the prices of furniture.

Already does the terrace begin to a.s.sume the appearance of a garden.

Deep beds of earth inclosed in green cases line the sides, and an abundance of orange-trees, flowering shrubs, plants, and flowers, are placed in them.

At the end of the terrace, the wall which bounds it has been painted in fresco, with a view of Italian scenery; and this wall forms the back of an aviary, with a fountain that plays in the centre. A smaller aviary, constructed of gla.s.s, is erected on the end of the terrace, close to my library, from the window of which I can feed my favourite birds; and this aviary, as well as the library, is warmed by means of a stove beneath the latter. The terrace is covered by a lattice-work, formed into arched windows at the side next the court: over the sides and roof there are trailing parasitical plants. Nothing in the new residence pleases me so much as this suite, and the terrace attached to it.

Already do we begin to feel the unsettled state peculiar to an intended change of abode, and the prospect of entering a new one disturbs the sense of enjoyment of the old. Gladly would we remain where we are, for we prefer this hotel to any other at Paris; but the days we have to sojourn in it are numbered, and our regret is unavailing.

CHAPTER XX.

September, 1829.--A chasm of many months in my journal. When last I closed it, little could I have foreseen the terrible blow that awaited me. Well may I exclaim with the French writer whose works I have been just reading, "_Nous, qui sommes bornes en tout, comment le sommes-nous si peu quand il s'agit de souffrir_." How slowly has time pa.s.sed since!

Every hour counted, and each coloured by care, the past turned to with the vain hope of forgetting the present, and the future no longer offering the bright prospect it once unfolded!

How is my destiny changed since I last opened this book! My hopes have faded and vanished like the leaves whose opening into life I hailed with joy six months ago, little dreaming that before the first cold breath of autumn had tinted them with brown, _he_ who saw them expand with me would have pa.s.sed from the earth!

_October_.--Ill, and confined to my chamber for several days, my physician prescribes society to relieve low spirits; but in the present state of mine, the remedy seems worse than the disease.

My old friends Mr. and Mrs. Mathews, and their clever son, have arrived at Paris and dined here yesterday. Mr. Matthews is as entertaining as ever, and his wife as amiable and _spirituelle_. They are excellent as well as clever people, and their society is very agreeable. Charles Mathews, the son, is full of talent, possesses all his father's powers of imitation, and sings comic songs of his own composition that James Smith himself might be proud to have written.

The Duc and d.u.c.h.esse de Guiche, the Marquise de Poulpry, Lady Combermere, Madame Craufurd, and Count Valeski, came in the evening, and were all highly gratified with some recitations and songs given us by Mr. Mathews and his son. They were not less pleased with Mrs.

Mathews, whose manners and conversation are peculiarly fascinating, and whose good looks and youthfulness of appearance made them almost disbelieve that she could be the mother of a grown-up son.

How forcibly did the recitations and songs bring back former times to my memory, when in St. James's Square, or in his own beautiful cottage at Highgate, I have so frequently been delighted by the performances of this clever and worthy man! The recollection of the past occupied me more last night than did the actual present, and caused me to return but a faint echo to the reiterated applause which every new effort of his drew forth from the party. There are moments when the present appears like a dream, and that we think the past, which is gone for ever, has more of reality in it!