MR. FOX
Mr. Fox appears sincerely to rejoice at the prospect of being able to give himself up to those pursuits that amuse and, notwithstanding his powers as a statesman, occupy him most. Literature, and especially the metaphysics of grammar, and the cultivation of his plants, are objects that engage the wonderful activity of his mind. He has lately revived his Greek, and daily gets by heart a given number of lines in Homer. Having seen so little of him, my opinion of him is chiefly taken from public report and the very partial picture drawn by his nephew; however, his very enemies admit that he possesses more estimable qualities as an individual than falls to the share of scarcely any other. Perhaps to a harsh observer his facility might be termed a weakness and his good nature an indolent foible, but if extremes are bad his bent is on the most amiable side. One cannot but regret that such a man is lost to society, for so may his retirement at St. Anne’s be called, and the habits of his life when there. Mrs. Armstead,[161] I understand, possesses still those merits which, when united to the attractions of youth, a degree of beauty, and much celebrity, placed her above her competitors for the glory of ruining and seducing the giddy youth of the day. She has mildness and little rapacity, but those negative merits, when bereft of the other advantages, constitute but an insipid resource in solitude. Besides, as she still retains the immoderate love of expense which her former life led her into, she may almost be called a pernicious connection, as disadvantageous for his comfort as for his reputation; for after all that has passed, fresh pecuniary embarrassments will be discreditable to him. But I have often remarked that very superior men are easier satisfied with respect to the talents of those they live with than men of inferior abilities. Whether it springs from a movement of vanity, that they despair of meeting an equal and are therefore contented with gentle accommodation, or that they are conscious that they have little to learn, I cannot determine, but the fact is certain.
GENERAL DUMOURIEZ
I do not mean to compare Dumouriez to Mr. Fox, but nevertheless I was astonished to find, in a visit I made him (last June, ’96), that the partner of his solitude was much the most trifling, insignificant personage I had ever beheld. He was living in a wretched Westphalian hovel or barn near Hamburg, with little money and less estimation, and yet, contrary to what might have been imagined from his inordinate ambition and vanity, happier (I believe) there surrounded by his brood of well-disciplined ducklings than after the battle of Jemappes. I never saw him but once, and that in a way that might have offended a man less vain. Hearing from his relation, Chateauneuf, a bookseller at Hamburg, that he lived in the neighbourhood, I proposed making him a visit, that I might have the satisfaction of seeing one of the most conspicuous characters that had flourished in the Revolution. The motive excused the intrusion, and he was flattered. He is short and fat, and in person very unlike a Frenchman, but the deficiency in figure to prove him one is amply made up the moment he speaks. He is full of vivacity, esprit, and agrément, expressing himself pointedly and even energetically; and he may be very justly placed among the best specimens that remain of the genuine character of a Frenchman under the Monarchy. His pecuniary circumstances are very narrow—he is going to publish a 4th edition of his works, from which he hopes to obtain a maintenance. I believe he heartily repents the unlucky adherence to the Constitution that causes him to be out of his country, and prevents his rivalling Hoche and Buonaparte, for he could not conceal the envy excited by their glories. He is a man of an enterprising genius and undaunted courage, and would never incur the satire of Mr. Burke’s application of the story of the two generals, one of whom used to say upon a service of danger, ‘Allez, mes amis,’ and the other, ‘Allons, mes amis.’ He would always be for the latter.
The unfortunate La Fayette and his family are just liberated from the dungeons of Olmutz, and mean to embark at Hamburg for that country from whence he imbibed those principles that have since deluged his country with a sea of blood.[162] Whatever his errors might have been by risking such a revolution merely to distinguish himself from the common crowd of courtiers, or to try to practise the theory of virtue and patriotism, his cruel captivity has extinguished rancour even in the breasts of his bitterest enemies. M. de Bouillé,[163] in his Memoirs just published, mentions his intentions as pernicious and his conduct as weak, but never represents him as meaning evil; and upon the whole the impression given is more that of pity than any other. Poor man! his faults are expiated in his sufferings. His character is that of a phlegmatic, cold-hearted man, with much vanity and slender abilities.
His cousin Bouillé is of a very different turn: he is quite the tête chaude of the Royalists, full of that fougue and courage peculiar to his nation. Misfortunes have softened his mind, and he allows his reason to conquer his passion; he is candid and impartial to others and himself. I believe him to be very zealous and honest. I first became acquainted with him amidst the noise and tumult of a camp. In ’93, returning from Italy to spend a few weeks in England, I went from Bruxelles to see Valenciennes, which had just fallen, and in that tour I made a visit to the Duke of York, who was then besieging Dunkirk.[164] After dining at headquarters I attended the funeral of General Dalton, who had been killed the day before on the very spot over which I passed. The melancholy scene and the noise of the artillery discharged upon those occasions quite overcame me, and I declined attending the funeral that followed, of Col. Elde. The D. of York very politely excused himself from returning to headquarters with me, on account of his duty requiring his presence, but gave me to the care of the Marquis de Bouillé, who accompanied me to the Duke’s tent. Our conversation naturally fell upon those events in France in which he had had the greatest share, and he gave me a very interesting narrative of the King’s flight to Varennes, and the whole scheme as conceived by him which he describes in his Memoirs. He finished with tears, showing me his cordon bleu, which was part of his ill-fated Sovereign’s wardrobe that had reached Luxembourg, and had been received by the Marquis. He said it was the last and only relic he had of a master from whom he had received favours that demanded his eternal gratitude and tenderness.
M. DE BOUILLÉ
I saw him once afterwards at the Drawing-room, and upon my asking him the name of a tall, gaunt, figure in the circle, he smiled at the singularity of a foreigner showing to a native the Prime Minister of the country: for the person was no less than Mr. Pitt himself. There was afterwards a scheme in the city among the West India planters and merchants for giving him a pension on account of his noble behaviour in the islands during the last war. My poor father promised to subscribe, but I left England, and by hearing no more of it I presume the affair dropped.
Just before the departure of Lord M. from Lisle,[165] the Trevors, my old friends, or rather intimate acquaintances, came through France. He is in a sort of way driven from his post of Minister at Turin, as that Court exhibited a curious jumble of bigotry and Jacobinism, which must make a residence there awkward to a punctilious courtier like Trevor. It was rather whimsical that the morning she visited me was the precise one chosen by Mr. Fox to come from St. Anne’s, so the first object that presented itself to her view upon entering the gallery was her old admirer. Save a little blushing and stammering the old lovers conducted themselves very ably. The malicious say nous autres femmes get out of a scrape of that sort with great ease; this instance confirmed the calumny, as she possessed the greatest portion of the sang froid of the two.
Mrs. Trevor’s life has been singularly passed, and the latter part judiciously, circumstanced as she was. She was the daughter of a rich canon, and was married partly for her beauty and a little for her wealth. Soon after her marriage she conceived a most insurmountable disgust towards her husband. She was admired by Mr. F., and, flattered by his preference, allowed great scandal. She detained him one night at Ranelagh, whilst the House was assembled and waiting for him to speak upon a motion he had made: this gave an éclat which perhaps she did not dislike. But the moment came that was to separate her from the fashion of London. Trevor’s foreign missions drew her upon the Continent, where she has remained mostly for these last eighteen years. The first thing she did was to live apart from him, and keep up a love correspondence with him; hence to the world they appeared enamoured of one another. She is a little mad, and parsimony is her chief turn. She is good-natured, and a little clever. Trevor has no judgment and slender talents. His foibles are very harmless, and his whole life has been insipidly good. His ridicules are a love of dress coats, volantes, and always speaking French. Au reste, he is very like other people, only better.