“Quand les ambassadeurs de tant de rois divers
Vinrent le reconnoître au nom de l’univers.”
For his own fame, I do not wish otherwise any of his later misfortunes; nor for the tragic interest, any of his errors and faults. He bore ‘coups d’épées’ and ‘coups d’épingles’ with equal fortitude and dignity; and left an epitaph worthy of his life in the words, ‘Je lègue l’opprobre de ma mort à l’Angleterre.’
Thus much is certain, he is still too near us for impartial judgment; and experience has amply taught us that it was less his despotic principles than his personal aggrandisement which provoked such inveterate hostility. The principles exist still; but, God be praised, the energy with which he put them in practice, is utterly wanting, and that is a great gain for human nature.[32]
There is now a French theatre here, which is attained only by the best company, and nevertheless is like a dark little private theatre. Perlet and Laporte are its great supports, and play admirably. The latter also, with true French assurance, acts on the English stage, and thinks, when the audience laughs at his accent and French manners, that it is merely a tribute to his ‘vis comica.’
I went to the theatre with Mrs. ——, wife of the well-known minister and member of parliament, and accompanied her after the play to the first genuine rout I have attended this time of my being in England,—what is more, too, in a house in which I was entirely a stranger. It is the custom here to take your friends to parties of this sort, and to present them, then and there, to the mistress of the house, who never thinks you can bring enough to fill her small rooms to suffocation: the more the better; and for the full satisfaction of her vanity, a ‘bagarre’ must arise among the carriages below; some must be broken to pieces, and a few men and horses killed or hurt, so that the ‘Morning Post’ of the following day may parade a long article on the extremely ‘fashionable soirée’ given by ‘Lady Vain,’ or ‘Lady Foolish.’
In the course of the evening I made a more interesting acquaintance than I expected on the staircase, (I could get no further,) in Lady C—— B——, who has some reputation as an authoress. She is the sister of a Duke, and was a celebrated beauty.
The next morning I called on her, and found everything in her house brown, in every possible shade;—furniture, curtains, carpets, her own and her children’s dresses, presented no other colour. The room was without looking-glasses or pictures; and its only ornaments were casts from the antique. * * *
After I had been there some time, the celebrated bookseller C—— entered. This man has made a fortune by Walter Scott’s novels, though, as I was told, he refused his first and best, Waverly, and at last gave but a small sum for it. I hope the charming Lady C—— B—— had better cause to be satisfied with him. I thought it discreet to leave her with her man of business, and made my bow.
December 10th.
The affairs of Portugal are now much discussed in all circles; and the Marquis P—— read us the just printed English Declaration to-night, in a box at the French theatre. Politics are here a main ingredient of social intercourse; as they begin to be in Paris, and will in time become in our sleepy Germany; for the whole world has now that tendency. The lighter and more frivolous pleasures suffer by this change; and the art of conversation as it once flourished in France, will perhaps soon be entirely lost. In this country I should rather think it never existed, unless perhaps in Charles the Second’s time. And, indeed, people here are too slavishly subject to established usages; too systematic in all their enjoyments; too incredibly kneaded up with prejudices; in a word, too little vivacious, to attain to that unfettered spring and freedom of spirit, which must ever be the sole basis of agreeable society. I must confess that I know none more monotonous, nor more persuaded of its own pre-excellence, than the highest society of this country,—with but few exceptions, and those chiefly among foreigners, or persons who have resided a good deal on the Continent. A stony, marble-cold spirit of caste and fashion rules all classes, and makes the highest tedious, the lower ridiculous. True politeness of the heart and cheerful ‘bonhommie’ are rarely to be met with in what is called society; nor, if we look for foreign ingredients, do we find either French grace and vivacity, or Italian naturalness; but at most, German stiffness and awkwardness concealed under an iron mask of arrogance and ‘hauteur.’