In the evening I took R—— to the Adelphi Theatre. It is small and neat, and distinguished for the goodness of its machinery; just now, too, it possesses several excellent actors. One of them played the drunkard more naturally than I ever saw it. It is true that he has more facilities here for the study of that state of mind,—for the same reason that the ancients represented the naked figure better than our artists,—namely, because they saw it more frequently. An excellent trait of real life was, that the drunkard, who cherished a tender passion for a young and poor girl in the house where he lodged, when sober formed other projects, but in his drunken fits invariably returned with tears ‘à ses anciennes amours,’ and in that state of mind was at length happily brought to marry her.
December 23d.
Many thanks for the news from B——. I am particularly pleased that Alexander Von Humboldt is employed by Government. It must give pleasure to every patriot to see a man like him at length fixed in his native country, which is so justly proud of his fame in all parts of the world. It must be a happy occurrence too for many circles there, in which the salt will at length be mingled, the want of which has so long rendered them quite unpalatable.
How much I lament the accident which has befallen our good and noble King, (and I had already learned it from L——,) you can easily imagine, as you know my feelings on that subject; but I hope to God that his strong constitution, and the help of such skilful men, will remove every remaining evil. How rare, and how beautiful, to hear a whole nation exclaim with one heart and mind, “May heaven preserve to us our beloved Monarch!”[33]
My own state of spirits is, ‘au reste,’ somewhat of the same melancholy cast, probably from the everlasting fogs, which are often so bad that one is obliged to light candles in the middle of the day, and yet cannot see. ‘Le pire est, que je suis tantôt trop, et tantôt trop peu sensible á l’opinion et aux procédés des autres.’ In the former disposition, (and dispositions unfortunately govern me with despotic power,) they not only make me sad or cheerful, but, what is worse, wise or foolish. I sometimes appear to myself like a person who has climbed up a ladder of ropes, where his hands have grown benumbed; and after hanging for a long time near the top, and endeavouring to get still higher, is now on the point of being obliged to let go, and fall down again to the bottom. And yet, perhaps, when once arrived on the level plain of common-place and obscurity, he may be more tranquil than in the stormy breezes; and though his hopes be less, he may be surrounded by a happier, though a more simple reality. But a truce to such vain speculations. They are unprofitable, and even fears of a threatening real misfortune ought always to be forcibly banished; for why torment ourself with anxieties about that which may come, and yet perhaps never does come; yet, as a mere dreamy phantom, has embittered so much of a present which might otherwise have been cheerful?
In all such states of mind, your image is my best comfort; and to you, my only and unchanging friend, I turn at length with tearful eyes, and tender gratitude for all your manifold love, kindness and indulgence. In your faithful bosom I deposit my grief as well as my joy, and all my hopes; the most brilliant fulfilment of which would, without you, lose all value for me.
But now I must leave you, as my duty requires, (for otherwise I would not,) to go to a large party; where I am destined, as in life, to lose myself in the multitude. It is, I think, my last visit to the gay world, as I am preparing to set out on a park-and-garden journey with B——, which probably will take us a month. The present season is indeed just the best for him who wishes to make landscape-gardening a study, for the leafless trees afford a clear and free view in all directions; one can thus see the whole artificial landscape in a single tour, understand the effects produced, and judge of the whole like a plan on paper; as well as distinguish the parts of every plantation in their intended order.
Yesterday we visited, ‘en attendant,’ the parks in town,—Kensington Gardens;—Regent’s park, ‘en détail,’ &c., on which occasion we did not omit to look in at the Diorama exhibited there. This far surpassed my expectations, and all that I had formerly seen of the same kind. It is certainly impossible to deceive the senses more effectually; even with the certitude of illusion one can hardly persuade himself it exists. The picture represented the interior of a large abbey-church, appearing perfectly in its real dimensions. A side door is open, ivy climbs through the windows, and the sun occasionally shines through the door, and lightens with a cheering beam the remains of coloured windows, glittering through cobwebs. Through the opposite window at the end you see the neglected garden of the monastery, and above it, single clouds in the sky, which, flitting stormily across, occasionally obscure the sunlight, and throw deep shadows over the church—tranquil as death; where the crumbled but magnificent remains of an ancient knight reposes in gloomy majesty.
As our departure is fixed for to-morrow, I send off this letter, although it has not yet grown to the usual corpulence. How slender are yours in comparison! Certainly, whenever our descendants find the dusty correspondence of their ancestors in a corner of the old library, they will be equally astonished at my prodigality and at your avarice, ‘A propos,’ do not be too dissipated in B——, and forget not, even for the shortest time,
The most faithful of your friends, L.