I forgot to tell you that about a fortnight ago the elegant little Brunswick Theatre, scarcely finished, fell in during the rehearsal of a new piece, and destroyed a great many lives. I went to look at the ruins yesterday; the carcasses of two cart-horses, which had been crushed in the street were still lying under the rubbish. It was a fearful sight. Only one single box remained standing; in this, Farren the actor saved himself, by his coolness in not stirring from the spot.—Thence he saw the whole horrible catastrophe,—only too real and unexpected a tragedy.
In the whirl of the season it’s all forgotten. Yet this tumultuous life furnishes far less stuff for thought than might be imagined; and what it does furnish, is soon forgotten in the confusion.
A family dinner at the great R——’s, who has been likened to the Sultan, because the one is the Ruler of all Believers, and the other the Believer in all Rulers, occurred as a variety. This man has really something very original about him. He was peculiarly merry to-day; ordered the servant to bring his new Austrian consular uniform, which “his friend M——ch,” as he said, had sent him from Vienna; showed it to us, and even suffered himself to be persuaded to try it on before the looking-glass, and to walk about in it. And, as virtuosi when they have once begun never know when to stop, he now sent for other magnificent Court dresses, and changed his toilette several times, as if he had been on the stage:—and that with such child-like good-nature and naïveté, that I could only compare such a golden hero with Henry the Fourth, found by the foreign ambassadors acting as horse to his little son.
It was, ‘au reste,’ rather droll to see how this otherwise serious tradesman-like man tried to assume the various bendings and bowings, and the light and gracious air, of a courtier; and, not in the least disconcerted by our laughing, assured us, with as much confidence as joviality, that N—— M—— R——, if he liked, could act any part; and, with the help of five or six glasses of wine extra, could make as good a figure at Court as the best of them.
An acquaintance I made a few days ago had a very different sort of interest for me,—I mean that of General Mina. You have seen several portraits of him, all of which represent him with huge mustachios and wild features, like a ferocious captain of brigands. Think then of my astonishment at seeing, in the hero of Spain, a mild, simple, and singularly modest man, without the slightest trace of what is called a military ‘tournure;’ on the contrary, like a country schoolmaster or farmer, with an open good natured countenance, and blushing at every compliment paid him, like a girl. When he grew animated with conversation, I, however, remarked a change in his features and a lightning of his dark eye, which betrayed the spirit within.
He is in very good preservation, and has scarcely the air of a man of forty, though his short hair is quite white; but this by no means makes him look old,—it only gives him the appearance of being powdered. He said, in the course of conversation, that he never had that luxuriant bush of hair to boast, which people are so fond of bestowing upon him, and that he had often laughed at the caricatures which he saw of himself in the shop-windows.
There were two other distinguished Spaniards present: Arguelles,—Minister under the Constitutional Government, and the most celebrated popular orator of Spain—a man of most prepossessing appearance and polished manners; and General Valdez, Commandant of Cadiz during the last siege. It was he who took the beloved Ferdinand on board his ship, (he being then senior Admiral of the Fleet) to the French camp. Though as he said, before and during the voyage the King overwhelmed him with caresses, repeatedly expressed his thanks for the treatment he had received in Cadiz, and made great promises for the future, the fate of poor Valdez was already sealed. “The moment the King quitted my ship,” continued Valdez, “his behaviour suddenly changed; and as soon as he felt himself secure, he cast a piercing look of triumph and of long suppressed rage at me. I knew this look, and instantly took my resolution. Without waiting to deliberate or take leave, I sprang on board my ship, and set sail instantly for Cadiz. I thus probably escaped death: but my exile here, in poverty and wretchedness,—far from my unhappy country,—is, for a man of sixty, accustomed to wealth and greatness, perhaps a greater evil.”
I must now take you again to the theatre, and in the company, too, of the celebrated Lord L——, an old acquaintance of mine, who, after his varied and busy career, now preserves himself by daily washing with vinegar; whereas he used formerly to pickle others in a sauce as sour and pungent as that of the former ‘Confiseur’ of the Elegante Zeitung, both in writing and by word of mouth. We talked of past times; and as we reached the door of Drury Lane, he recited some wild but beautiful verses of Moore’s.[83]* * *
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They are nearly as follows, in my usual halting verse—translations of the moment.[84]