The Idler in France Part 20

Mine is the philosophy of ----, who, when his extreme hospitality to his countrymen was remarked on, answered, "I can't eat all my good dinners alone, and if I am lucky enough to find now and then a pleasant guest, it repays me for the many dull ones invited." I expect no grat.i.tude for our hospitality to our compatriots, and "Blessed are they who expect not, for they will not be disappointed."

Longchamps has not equalled my expectations. It is a dull affair after all, resembling the drive in Hyde Park on a Sunday in May, the promenade in the Cacina at Florence, in the Corso at Rome, or the Chaija at Naples, in all save the elegance of the dresses of the women, in which Longchamps has an immeasurable superiority.

It is at Longchamps that the Parisian spring fashions are first exhibited, and busy are the _modistes_ for many weeks previously in putting their powers of invention to the test, in order to bring out novelties, facsimiles of which are, the ensuing week, forwarded to England, Italy, Germany, Holland, and Russia. The coachmakers, saddlers, and horse-dealers, are also put in requisition for this epoch; and, though the exhibition is no longer comparable to what it was in former times, when a luxurious extravagance not only in dress, but in equipages, was displayed, some handsome and well-appointed carriages are still to be seen. Among the most remarkable for good taste, were those of the Princess Bagration, and Monsieur Schikler, whose very handsome wife attracted more admiration than the elegant vehicle in which she was seated, or the fine steeds that drew it.

Those who are disposed to question the beauty of French women, should have been at Longchamps to-day, when their scepticism would certainly have been vanquished, for I saw several women there whose beauty could admit of no doubt even by the most fastidious critic of female charms.

The d.u.c.h.esse de Guiche, however, bore off the bell from all compet.i.tors, and so the spectators who crowded the Champs-Elysees seemed to think. Of her may be said what Choissy stated of la d.u.c.h.esse de la Valliere, she has "_La grace plus belle encore que la beaute_."

The handsome d.u.c.h.esse d'Istrie and countless other _beautes a la mode_ were present, and well sustained the reputation for beauty of the Parisian ladies.

The men _caracoled_ between the carriages on their proud and prancing steeds, followed by grooms, _a l'Anglaise_, in smart liveries, and the people crowded the footpaths on each side of the drive, commenting aloud on the equipages and their owners that pa.s.sed before them.

The promenade at Longchamps, which takes place in the Holy Week, is said to owe its origin to a religious procession that went annually to a church so called, whence it by degrees changed its character, and became a scene of gaiety, in which the most extravagant exhibitions of luxury were displayed.

One example, out of many, of this extravagance, is furnished by a publication of the epoch at which Longchamps was in its most palmy state, when a certain Mademoiselle Duthe, whose means of indulging in inordinate expense were not solely derived from her ostensible profession as one of the performers attached to the Opera, figured in the promenade in a carriage of the most sumptuous kind, drawn by no less than six thorough-bred horses, the harness of which was of blue morocco, studded with polished steel ornaments, which produced the most dazzling effect.

That our times are improved in respect, at least, to appearances, may be fairly concluded from the fact that no example of a similar ostentatious display of luxury is ever now exhibited by persons in the same position as Mademoiselle Duthe; and that if the same folly that enabled her to indulge in such extravagance still prevails, a sense of decency prevents all public display of wealth so acquired. Modern morals censure not people so much for their vices as for the display of them, as Aleibiades was blamed not for loving Nemea, but for allowing himself to be painted reposing on her lap.

Finished the perusal of _Cinq Mars_, by Count Alfred de Vigny. It is an admirable production, and deeply interested me. The sentiments n.o.ble and elevated, without ever degenerating into aught approaching to bombast, and the pathos such as a manly heart might feel, without incurring the accusation of weakness. The author must be a man of fine feelings, as well as of genius,--but were they ever distinct? I like to think they cannot be, for my theory is, that the feelings are to genius what the chords are to a musical instrument--they must be touched to produce effect.

The style of Count Alfred de Vigny merits the eulogium pa.s.sed by Lord Shaftesbury on that of an author in his time, of which he wrote, "It is free from that affected obscurity and laboured pomp of language aiming at a false sublime, with crowded simile and mixed metaphor (the hobby-horse and rattle of the Muses.")

---- dined with us yesterday, and, clever as I admit him to be, he often displeases me by his severe strictures on mankind. I told him that he exposed himself to the suspicion of censuring it only because he had studied a bad specimen of it (self) more attentively than the good that fell in his way: a reproof that turned the current of his conversation into a more agreeable channel, though he did not seem to like the hint.

It is the fashion for people now-a-days to affect this cynicism, and to expend their wit at the expense of poor human nature, which is abused _en ma.s.se_ for the sins of those who abuse it from judging of all others by self. How different is ----, who thinks so well of his species, that, like our English laws, he disbelieves the existence of guilt until it is absolutely proved,--a charity originating in a superior nature, and a judgment formed from an involuntary consciousness of it!

---- suspects evil on all sides, and pa.s.ses his time in guarding against it. He dares not indulge friendship, because he doubts the possibility of its being disinterested, and feels no little self-complacency when the conduct of those with whom he comes in contact justifies his suspicions. ----, on the contrary, if sometimes deceived, feels no bitterness, because he believes that the instance may be a solitary one, and finds consolation in those whose truth he has yet had no room to question. His is the best philosophy, for though it cannot preclude occasional disappointment, it ensures much happiness, as the indulgence of good feelings invariably does, and he often creates the good qualities he gives credit for, as few persons are so bad as not to wish to justify the favourable opinion entertained of them, as few are so good as to resist the demoralising influence of unfounded suspicions.

A letter from Lord B----, announcing a majority of 105 on the bill of the Catholic question. Lord Grey made an admirable speech, with a happy allusion to the fact of Lord Howard of Effingham, who commanded the English fleet in the reign of Elizabeth, having, though a Roman Catholic, destroyed the Armada under the anointed banner of the Pope.

What a triumphant refutation of the notion that Roman Catholics dared not oppose the Pope! Lord B---- writes, that the brilliant and justly merited eulogium p.r.o.nounced by Lord Grey on the Duke of Wellington was rapturously received by the House. How honourable to both was the praise! I feel delighted that Lord Grey should have distinguished himself on this occasion, for he is one of the friends in England whom I most esteem.

---- dined here to-day. He reminds me of the larva, which is the first state of animal existence in the caterpillar, for his appet.i.te is voracious, and, as a French naturalist states in describing that insect, "Tout est estomac dans un larve." ---- is of the opinion of Aretaeus, that the stomach is the great source of pleasurable affections, and that as Nature "abhors a vacuum," the more filled it is the better.

Dining is a serious affair with ----. Soup, fish, flesh, and fowl, disappear from his plate with a rapidity that is really surprising; and while they are vanishing, not "into empty air," but into the yawning abyss of his ravenous jaws, his eyes wander around, seeking what next those same ravenous jaws may devour.

On beholding a person indulge in such gluttony, I feel a distaste to eating, as a certain double-refined lady of my acquaintance declared that witnessing the demonstrations of love between two persons of low and vulgar habits so disgusted her with the tender pa.s.sion, that she was sure she never could experience it herself.

I have been reading _la Chronique du Temps de Charles IX_, by Prosper Merimee, and a most interesting and admirably written book it is. Full of stirring scenes and incidents, it contains the most graphic pictures of the manners of the time in which the story is placed, and the interest progresses, never flagging from the commencement to the end.

This book will be greatly admired in England, where the romances of our great Northern Wizard have taught us to appreciate the peculiar merit in which this abounds. Sir Walter Scott will be one of the first to admire and render justice to this excellent book, and to welcome into the field of literature this highly gifted brother of the craft.

The French writers deserve justice from the English, for they invariably treat the works of the latter with indulgence. Scott is not more read or esteemed in his own country than here; and even the productions of our young writers are more kindly treated than those of their own youthful aspirants for fame.

French critics have much merit for this amenity, because the greater number of them possess a peculiar talent, for the exercise of their critical ac.u.men, which renders the indulgence of it, like that of the power of ridicule, very tempting. Among the most remarkable critics of the day Jules Janin, who though yet little more than a youth, evinces such talent as a reviewer as to be the terror of mediocrity. His style is pungent and vigorous, his satire searching and biting, and his tact in pointing ridicule unfailing. He bids fair to take a most distinguished place in his profession.

Spent last evening in the Rue d'Anjou, where I met the usual circle and ----. He bepraised every one that was named during the evening, and so injudiciously, that it was palpable he knew little of those upon whom he expended his eulogiums; nay, he lauded some whom he acknowledged he had never seen, on the same principle that actuated the Romans of old who, having deified every body they knew, erected at last an altar to the unknown G.o.ds, lest any should by chance be omitted.

This habit of indiscriminate praise is almost as faulty as that of general censure, and is, in my opinion, more injurious to the praised than the censure is to the abused, because people are p.r.o.ne to indulge a greater degree of sympathy towards those attacked than towards those who are commended. No one said "Amen" to the praises heaped on some really deserving people by ----, but several put in a palliating "_pourtant_" to the ill-natured remarks made by ----, whose habit of abusing all who chance to be named is quite as remarkable as the other's habit of praising. I would prefer being attacked by ---- to being lauded by ----, for the extravagance of the eulogiums of the latter would excite more ill-will towards me than the censures of the other, as the self-love of the listeners disposes them to feel more kindly to the one they can pity, than to the person they are disposed to envy.

I never look at dear, good Madame C---, without thinking how soon we may,--nay, we must lose her. At her very advanced age we cannot hope that she will be long spared to us; yet her freshness of heart and wonderful vivacity of mind would almost cheat one into a hope of her long continuing amongst us.

She drove out with me yesterday to the Bois de Boulogne, and, when remarking how verdant and beautiful all around was looking, exclaimed, "Ah! why is no second spring allowed to us? I hear," continued she, "people say they would not like to renew their youth, but I cannot believe them. There are times--would you believe it?--that I forget my age, and feel so young in imagination that I can scarcely bring myself to think this heart, which is still so youthful, can appertain to the same frame to which is attached this faded and wrinkled face," and she raised her hand to her cheek. "Ah! my dear friend, it is a sad, sad thing to mark this fearful change, and I never look in my mirror without being shocked. The feelings ought to change with the person, and the heart should become as insensible as the face becomes withered."

"The change in the face is so gradual, too," continued Madame C----.

"We see ourselves after thirty-five, each day looking a little less well (we are loath to think it ugly), and we attribute it not to the true cause, the approach of that enemy to beauty--age,--but to some temporary indisposition, a bad night's rest, or an unbecoming cap. We thus go on cheating ourselves, but not cheating others, until some day when the light falls more clearly on our faces, and the fearful truth stands revealed. Wrinkles have usurped the place of dimples; horrid lines, traced by Time, have encircled the eyelids; the eyes, too, no longer bright and pellucid, become dim; the lips dry and colourless, the teeth yellow, and the cheeks pale and faded, as a dried rose-leaf long pressed in a _hortus siccus_."

"Alas, alas! who can help thinking of all this when one sees the trees opening into their rich foliage, the earth putting forth its bright verdure, and the flowers budding into bloom, while we resemble the h.o.a.r and dreary winter, and scarcely retain a trace of the genial summer we once knew."

This conversation suggested the following lines, which I wish I could translate into French verse to give to Madame C----:

GRAY HAIRS.

Snowy blossoms of the grave That now o'er care-worn temples wave, Oh! what change hath pa.s.s'd since ye O'er youthful brows fell carelessly!

In silken curls of ebon hue That with such wild luxuriance grew, The raven's dark and glossy wing A richer shadow scarce could fling.

The brow that tells a tale of Care That Sorrow's pen hath written there, In characters too deeply traced Ever on earth to be effaced, Was then a page of spotless white, Where Love himself might wish to write.

The jetty arches that did rise, As if to guard the brilliant eyes, Have lost their smoothness;--and no more The eyes can sparkle as of yore: They look like fountains form'd by tears, Where perish'd Hope in by-gone years.

The nose that served as bridge between The brow and mouth--for Love, I ween, To pa.s.s--hath lost its sculptured air.

For Time, the spoiler, hath been there.

The mouth--ah! where's the crimson dye That youth and health did erst supply?

Are these pale lips that seldom smile, The same that laugh'd, devoid of guile.

Shewing within their coral cell The shining pearls that there did dwell, But dwell no more? The pearls are fled, And homely teeth are in their stead.

The cheeks have lost the blushing rose That once their surface could disclose; A dull, pale tint has spread around, Where rose and lily erst were found.

The throat, and bust--but, ah! forbear, Let's draw a veil for ever there; Too fearful is 't to put in rhyme The changes wrought by cruel Time, The faithful mirror well reveals The truth that flattery conceals; The charms once boasted, now are flown, But mind and heart are still thine own; And thou canst see the wreck of years, And ghost of beauty, without tears.

No outward change thy soul shouldst wring, Oh! mourn but for the change within; Grieve over bright illusions fled, O'er fondly cherish'd hope, now dead, O'er errors of the days of youth, Ere wisdom taught the path of truth.

Then hail, ye blossoms of the grave, That o'er the care-worn temples wave-- Sent to remind us of "that bourn, Whence traveller can ne'er return;"

The harbingers of peace and rest, Where only mortals can be blest.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Read Victor Hugo's _Dernier Jour d'un Cond.a.m.ne!_ It is powerfully written, and the author identifies his feelings so strongly with the condemned, that he must, while writing the book, have experienced similar emotions to those which a person in the same terrible position would have felt. Wonderful power of genius, that can thus excite sympathy for the erring and the wretched, and awaken attention to a subject but too little thought of in our selfish times, namely, the expediency of the abolition of capital punishment! A perusal of Victor Hugo's graphic book will do more to lead men's minds to reflect on this point than all the dull essays; or as dull speeches, that may be written or made on it.

Talking of ---- to-day with ---- ----, she remarked that he had every sense but common sense, and made light of this deficiency. How frequently do we hear people do this, as if the possession of talents or various fine qualities can atone for its absence! Common sense is not only positively necessary to render talent available by directing its proper application, but is indispensable as a monitor to warn men against error. Without this guide the pa.s.sions and feelings will be ever leading men astray, and even those with the best natural dispositions will fall into error.

Common sense is to the individual what the compa.s.s is to the mariner--it enables him to steer safely through the rocks, shoals, and whirlpools that intersect his way. Were the lives of criminals accurately known, I am persuaded that it would be found that from a want of common sense had proceeded their guilt; for a clear perception of crime would do more to check its perpetration, than the goodness of heart which is so frequently urged as a preventive against it.

Conscience is the only subst.i.tute for common sense, but even this will not supply its place in all cases. Conscience will lead a man to repent or atone for crime, but common sense will preclude his committing it by enabling him to judge of the result. I frequently hear people say, "So and so are very clever," or "very cunning, and are well calculated to make their way in the world." This opinion seems to me to be a severe satire on the world, for as cunning can only appertain to a mean intellect, to which it serves as a poor subst.i.tute for sense, it argues ill for the world to suppose it can be taken in by it.

I never knew a sensible, or a good person, who was cunning; and I have known so many weak and wicked ones who possessed this despicable quality, that I hold it in abhorrence, except in very young children, to whom Providence gives it before they arrive at good sense.

Went a round of the curiosity shops on the Quai d'Orsay, and bought an amber vase of rare beauty, said to have once belonged to the Empress Josephine. When I see the beautiful objects collected together in these shops, I often think of their probable histories, and of those to whom they once belonged. Each seems to identify itself with the former owner, and conjures up in my mind a little romance.

A vase of rock crystal, set in precious stones, seen today, could never have belonged to aught but some beauty, for whom it was selected by an adoring lover or husband, ere yet the honeymoon had pa.s.sed. A chased gold _etui_, enriched with oriental agates and brilliants, must have appertained to some _grande dame_, on whose table it rested in a richly-decorated _salon_; and could it speak, what piquant disclosures might it not make!

The fine old watch, around the dial of which sparkle diamonds, and on the back the motto, executed in the same precious stones, "_Vous me faites...o...b..ier les heures_," once adorned the slender waist of some dainty dame,--a nuptial gift. The silvery sound of its bell often reminded her of the flight of Time, and her _caro sposo_ of the effects of it on his inconstant heart, long before her mirror told her of the ravages of the tyrant. The _flacon_ so tastefully ornamented, has been held to delicate nostrils when the megrim--that malady peculiar to refined organisations and susceptible nerves--has a.s.sailed its fair owner; and the heart-shaped pincushion of crimson velvet, inclosed in its golden case and stuck with pins, has been likened by the giver to his own heart, pierced by the darts of Love--a simile that probably displeased not the fair creature to whom it was addressed.

Here are the expensive and tasteful gifts, the _gages d'amour_, not often disinterested, as bright and beautiful as when they left the hands of the jeweller; but the givers and the receivers where are they?