The Duc d'Orléans is said to be wholly engrossed in the future prospects of his children, and in insuring, as far as human foresight can insure, their prosperity.
I have been reading Shelley's works, in which I have found many beautiful thoughts. This man of genius—for decidedly such he was—has not yet been rendered justice to; the errors that shroud his poetry, as vapours rising from too rich a soil spread a mist that obstructs our view of the flowers that also spring from the same bed, have hindered us from appreciating the many beauties that abound in Shelley's writings. Alarmed by the poison that lurks in some of his wild speculations, we have slighted the antidote to be found in many others of them, and heaped obloquy on the fame of a poet whose genius and kindness of heart should have insured our pity for the errors of his creed.
He who was all charity has found none in the judgment pronounced on him by his contemporaries; but posterity will be more just. The wild theories and fanciful opinions of Shelley, on subjects too sacred to be approached lightly, carry with them their own condemnation; and so preclude the evil which pernicious doctrines, more logically reasoned, might produce on weak minds. His theories are vague, dreamy, always erroneous, and often absurd: but the imagination of the poet, and the tenderness of heart of the man, plead for pardon for the false doctrines of the would-be philosopher; and those who most admire his poetry will be the least disposed to tolerate his anti-religious principles. As a proof that his life was far from being in accordance with his false creed, he enjoyed, up to his death, the friendship of some of the most excellent men, who deplored his errors but who loved and valued him.
William Spencer, the poet, dined here yesterday. Alas! he has "fallen into the sere and yellow leaf," for though sometimes uttering brilliant thoughts, they are "like angel visits, few and far between;" and total silence, or half-incoherent rhapsodies, mark the intervals.
This melancholy change is accounted for by the effects of an indulgence in wine, had recourse to in consequence of depression of spirits. Nor is this pernicious indulgence confined to the evening, for at a déjeûner à la fourchette at two o'clock, enough wine is drunk to dull his faculties for the rest of the day. What an unpoetical close to a life once so brilliant!
Alas, alas, for poor human nature! when, even though illumined by the ethereal spark, it can thus sully its higher destiny. I thought of the many fanciful and graceful poems so often perused with pleasure, written by Mr. Spencer amid the brilliant fêtes in which he formerly passed his nights, and where he often found his inspirations. His was ever a courtly Muse, but without the hoop and train—a ball-room belle, with alternate smiles and sentimentality, and witty withal. No out-bursting of passion, or touch of deep pathos, interrupted the equanimity of feeling of those who perused Spencer's verses; yet was their absence unmissed, for the fancy, wit, and sentiment that marked them all, and the graceful ease of the versification, rendered them precisely what they were intended for,—les vers de société, the fitting volume elegantly bound to be placed in the boudoir.
And there sat the pet poet of gilded salons, whose sparkling sallies could once delight the fastidious circles in which he moved. His once bright eyes, glazed and lustreless, his cheeks sunken and pale, seeming only conscious of the presence of those around him when offered champagne, the excitement of which for a few brief moments produced some flashing bon mot à propos de rien passing at the time, after which his spirits subsided even more rapidly than did the bubbles of the wine that had given them their short excitement.
It made me sad to contemplate this wreck; but most of those around him appeared unconscious of there being any thing remarkable in his demeanour. They had not known him in his better days.
I am often amused, and sometimes half-vexed by witnessing the prejudices that still exist in France with regard to the English. These prejudices prevail in all ranks, and are, I am disposed to think, incurable.
They extend to trivial, as well as to more grave matters, and influence the opinions pronounced on all subjects. An example of this prejudice occurred a few weeks ago, when one of our most admired belles from London having arrived at Paris, her personal appearance was much canvassed. One person found her too tall, another discovered that she had too much embonpoint, and a third said her feet were much too large. A Frenchman, when appealed to for his opinion, declared "Elle est très-bien pour une Anglaise." I ought to add, that there was no English person present when he made this ungallant speech, which was repeated to me by a French lady, who laughed heartily at his notion.