Chapter III (1)

1801-1806.

My Mother returned to England in the spring of 1801, and
presently passed over to Ireland. Of the period, somewhat
more than a year, which elapsed before her next visit to the
Continent, I find few memoranda, and fewer still which need to
be published. I make an extract or two.

_Aug. 11, 1801._—Arrived at Mr. Alcock’s, Wilton, near Enniscorthy, an uncle of mine by marriage, and a worthy, valuable man. I find the Rebellion is the prominent object in the minds of his family, as it is, more or less, of most who have passed through it. It is their principal epoch, and seems to have divided time into two grand divisions, unmarked by any lesser periods; before, and after, the Rebellion. The first of these seems to resemble Paradise before the Fall. They had then good servants, fine flowers, fine fruit, fine horses, good beer, and plenty of barm—that indispensable requisite in rural economy. Since that period of perfect felicity, the servants have been unmanageable, the horses restive, the beer sour, the barm uncome-at-able, and all things scarce and dear. Great part of the evils complained of are undoubtedly felt; some are imaginary, and some arise from causes which are not so important or so pleasant to put forward as the word Rebellion.

* * * * *

_Aug. 13._—Went to visit my farms near Gorey, accompanied by Mr. Alcock. Mr. B——, my principal tenant, though a rich and thriving farmer, lives in a state of dirt which really shocked me. He attributed some part of it to the Rebellion—of the rest he seemed unconscious. His wife seems dawdling, indolent, and, like most of the lower and middling Irish, oppressed by either a real or affected melancholy. That it is sometimes the last, particularly in the presence of those they consider their superiors, my own observation has convinced me. A variety of causes operate to produce this effect. The chief of these seems to be an idea that the higher class have a sort of jealousy of the prosperity of their inferiors, and a fear, in some cases too well founded, that the increasing opulence and happiness of the tenant will excite unreasonable and disproportioned exactions on the part of the landlord. Mr. B. invited me to dinner, offering ‘to kill a sheep in a crack.’

* * * * *

_Oct. 31._—The latter part of the month I have passed with Mr. and Mrs. C——. They are good people from instinct and habit, and they have lived in the country, a situation most favourable to characters such as theirs.

* * * * *

_Nov. 12-17._—From Mr. C——’s came to Castleton on a visit to Mr. Cox. From Mr. Benjamin Cox, brother to the master of the house, I have received great instruction on a subject to which I had hitherto devoted so little time or thought, that I was perhaps more ignorant of it than of any other with which females are supposed to be conversant. He has talked to me of religion, of the God who created, the Saviour who redeemed, the Spirit who sanctifies; without affectation, without parade, he introduces this important topic; and, though lowly and meek to a degree I have seldom witnessed, no raillery or opposition ever drives him from his stronghold, or induces him to give up the defence of the saving truths of Christianity. His practice and his theory are in perfect harmony, and his life an excellent comment on his creed. Charitable to the extent of not only relieving, but seeking, objects of distress with whom to share his entire income—generous even to bestowing one-third of his fortune at three-and-twenty on a brother richer than himself; self-denying, humble, contented, devoted to retirement, not from incapacity to shine in the world or to enjoy its pleasures, but from an opinion that retirement is, with certain exceptions, favourable to virtue. This opinion has enabled him to conquer all those inducements to quit an obscure and monotonous life that arise from a pleasing appearance, an attractive address, a voice the most harmonious and persuasive, considerable knowledge, and favourable prospects of advancement and preferment in any profession he might have chosen. The Church alone, he declares, would have suited him; but from that he is excluded by the Thirty-nine Articles, to _all_ of which he thinks he cannot conscientiously subscribe.

* * * * *

I will abandon for once a rule which I have laid down for
myself in the present volume, which is, to let the writer
pourtray herself, and to introduce no other portraiture, my
own or others; and I will here quote some words of Mrs.
Leadbeater,[34] one of my mother’s most honoured friends, and
with whom she maintained the most frequent correspondence,
describing the beginnings of an acquaintance which presently
ripened into a friendship, only to be interrupted by death,
and ever esteemed by my mother a signal blessing of her life.
They occur in the _Annals of Ballitore_, a work which Mrs.
Leadbeater left behind her in manuscript, and which, when
published, as I believe it is on the point of being, will
be found to contain, with other matters of interest, a very
vivid description of social life in Ireland during the time
of the Rebellion. The reader will easily understand that,
had I felt at liberty to touch the passage, one or two words
might not have remained exactly as they are, and altogether
I would gladly have set the whole at a somewhat lower key of
admiration; but I must leave it as I find it. These are Mrs.
Leadbeater’s words:—

‘The inn on the high road from Dublin to Cork was completed,
and was let to Thomas Glaizebrook. It attained a goodly
reputation. One night, just as we were retiring to rest, a
messenger came down from the landlord to say that a lady had
arrived late, that the house was full to overflowing, and there
was no room for her to take refreshment in, that she sate on
the settle in the kitchen reading, waiting until she could
obtain an apartment; that she would be glad of the meanest bed
in the house, being much fatigued; could we be so kind as to
assist our tenant in this strait? My husband went up at once
for her, and brought her down in a carriage here, when we found
from her attendants that she was a person of much consequence.
She retired to rest, after expressing grateful thanks, and
we thought would pass away with the morrow. But not so. Her
servants told us that she had an estate in the neighbourhood,
that she had appointed her agent to meet her at Ballitore inn,
proposing to take her tenants from under the middleman to her
own protection;—that she had been ten years the widow of a
Colonel, and had one son. I had seen but little of her the
night before; when she entered my parlour the next day, I was
greatly struck with her personal appearance. My heart entirely
acquits me of being influenced by what I had heard of her rank
and fortune. Far more prepossessing than these were the soft
lustre of her beautiful black eyes, and the sweetness of her
fascinating smile; her dress was simply elegant, and her fine
dark hair, dressed according to the present fashion, in rows
of curls over one another in front, appeared to me to be as
becoming as it was new. These particulars are not important,
except to myself; to me they are inexpressibly dear, because
they retrace the first impressions made on me by this most
charming woman, who afterwards gratified me by her friendship.
Melesina St. George, such was the name of the lovely stranger,
spent two weeks in our house. She asked permission, in the
most engaging manner, to remain here rather than return to the
inn. Providence had been liberal in granting to her talents
and dispositions calculated for the improvement and happiness
of all around her, while her meekness and humility prevented
the restraint of her superiority being felt, without taking
from the dignity of her character. I was surprised and affected
when I beheld her seated on one of the kitchen chairs in the
scullery, for coolness, hearing a tribe of little children of
her tenants _sing_ out their lessons to her. I wished for her
picture drawn in this situation, and for its companion I would
choose Edmund Burke making pills for the poor. It was with
difficulty I prevailed upon her to bring her little school
into our parlour, because, as she said, she would not bring
them into her own. Admiring her method of instructing, I told
her she would make an excellent schoolmistress; she modestly
replied, with her enchanting smile, not an _excellent_ one, but
she had no dislike to the employment, and had contemplated
it as a means of subsistence when the Rebellion threatened to
deprive her of her property. She came to Ballitore again, and
had apartments at the inn, where she entertained us with kind,
polite attention, and amused her leisure with taking sketches
of the views from thence with a pen and ink, not having her
pencils, &c. &c., with her, thus cheerfully entertaining
herself with what was attainable.’

The following letter is the firstfruits of a correspondence
which continued for a quarter of a century.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

1802.

Your prose _Ballitore_[35] resembles a highly finished Dutch painting; in which one of the best artists has represented village scenery and manners, and where one is not only struck by the general effect, but amused and interested by the details, which all bear to be separately examined. Your minutest touches have their value, and the whole wears the stamp of truth and nature. As a faithful portrait of the manners of a small but interesting circle, it is really curious, and will become more so every day, as those minute particulars, neglected by the historian, and exaggerated by the novelist, increase in value as they increase in years. They throw the strongest light on the progress of luxury, and the changes of modes and customs; so perhaps many of the most trifling circumstances you have recorded may furnish matter whence our great-grandchildren may draw important conclusions.

In the spring of 1802, France, after having been closed for
nine years, again became for a short period accessible, by the
Peace of Amiens, to English travellers. What my Mother intended
should be a short vacation ramble to Paris with her son, took a
shape altogether different, and in fact fixed the whole fashion
of her after life. Detained at Paris, first by indisposition,
then by her approaching marriage, and lastly, by her husband’s
captivity, her sojourn there continued, not for a few weeks
only, but for five years. Of the period anterior to her
detention I can find only the journal of the first three weeks;
from which I shall make some extracts. They differ little
from the observations of any other curious and intelligent
sight-seer; still, as the Paris of that day was to be so soon
shut up anew against English visitors, I may be excused for
finding room for them.

_July 5, 1802._—Landed at Calais, where, besides the pleasure of escaping from a ship, one feels at Dessein’s Hotel the satisfaction of treading classic ground, and sees Yorick, his interesting French widow, and his incomparable monk, gliding about in every apartment. While my imagination offered me these mild and gracious figures, my eyes presented me with Arthur O’Connor and a group of his associates. His features are regular and his person good. At the moment I saw him, he had a dark and scowling but sensible expression. He wore a green handkerchief as a neckcloth, and a tricoloured cockade. Before I could obtain leave to land my carriage, I was forced to sign a bond to bring it back to England within four months, under a penalty of twelve hundred francs—a testimony of the superior excellence of English carriages very inconvenient to travellers.

* * * * *

_July 7, Abbéville._—The appearance of the harvest during these two days’ journey exceeds every idea I had formed of plenty. Almost the whole country is under tillage, chiefly of wheat, intermixed, however, with other grain, with flax, and with vegetables. When I saw the peasant girls leading their lean cows by a rope to pick up a scanty meal on the edge of the road, I could have wished for the intermixture of meadow. There were no animals whatever grazing; but with the whole country thus under tillage, nothing but sour black bread was to be seen in the common post-houses, though they were kept by farmers; and at one village where I wished to buy a little white bread, it was searched for in vain.

* * * * *

_July 8, Breteuil._—Where is the gaiety we have heard of from our infancy as the distinguishing characteristic of this nation? Where is the original of Sterne’s picture of a French Sunday? I have seen to-day no cessation from toil, no intermixture of devotion, and repose, and pleasure. I have seen no dance, I have heard no song. But I have seen the pale labourer bending over the plentiful fields, of which he does not seem, if one may judge from his looks, ever to have enjoyed the produce; I have seen groups of men, women, and children, working under the influence of a burning sun (for the heat at present is extraordinary, such as has not been remembered since the year 1753), and others giving to toil the hours destined to repose, even so late as ten o’clock at night. Indeed, to judge from the extenuated appearance of the peasantry, one would conclude they were overworked and underfed. The children, however, give a promise of becoming a hardy race, and seem healthy, strong, and blooming.

* * * * *

_July 9, Paris._—A shocking accident took place at the close of my journey. My postilion, in spite of my repeated orders to the contrary, galloped through the streets with six horses, three abreast, and unfortunately threw down an elderly man and woman of the lower class, who were severely wounded by the horses. A crowd instantly gathered, but they behaved with the greatest moderation; and though I got out of the carriage to see what could be done, none among them blamed or insulted me as the cause of the accident; neither was anything pilfered in the general confusion, either from our persons or from the carriage. The police officers were sent for, who instantly exonerated me from all blame by saying I appeared _une dame timide_, who did not like to drive fast; and, after making the best arrangements I could think of in the confusion of the moment for the poor sufferers, we were allowed to proceed. I found the journey infinitely fatiguing from the heat of the weather, and the inns more expensive than in England, with much worse living and less civility. The journey from London to Paris cost me above fifty guineas. I travelled with a courier, a man servant, and my son.

* * * * *

_July 12._—In the evening walked in the garden of the Tuileries. The total want of verdure and the straightness of the stems of the trees, which rise without a leaf to a considerable height, made me fancy myself in a room where a number of lofty poles had been placed, and adorned with branches. Still, I acknowledge the walk to be magnificent, though not delicious.

* * * * *

_July 13._—Saw the manufacture of Gobelin tapestry. My guide first brought me into a long room well-lighted and well-aired, where about a dozen men were working at what is called _la haute lisse_. They sat behind their frames; the weft is perpendicular, and they weave it from the bottom upwards. The picture, thus growing from the ground, faces the spectator, and the artist has not the pleasure of seeing any but the mechanical progress of his work. All in this room were employed on fine historical paintings, either French originals or copies from good Italian masters. I then followed to another room, where were the workers _à la basse lisse_. These work on a frame placed horizontally, and remove each second thread by a pedal worked with their feet in the usual manner; whereas _à la haute lisse_ they remove the threads only with their hands. These persons, not above half a dozen in number, were copying flowers, game, &c., and working from pictures almost defaced by time. I suspect the _haute lisse_ has superior merits. I could not compare them, as the tapestry of _la basse lisse_ cannot be seen while working, its right side being turned down. The guide owned it was less healthful to the artists, and did not pretend it had any advantage to balance this defect.

‘_Mais pourquoi donc le continuer?_’

‘_Ah, c’est l’ancienne mode. On travailloit comme cela au temps de Louis XIV., quand les Gobelins furent premièrement établis._’ After this satisfactory explanation, he led me to the finished pieces, which are indeed very beautiful.

From the Gobelins we went to the Hameau de Chantilly, a tolerable little garden, fitted up by its proprietor with all that can attract such visitors as usually frequent these places—a hundred little dirty rooms by way of cottages, a swing, a place to ride in the ring, seats, tables, a green pond with three or four boats, and above all, every sort of _boire et manger_ at an instant’s warning, but at an exorbitant price.

* * * * *

_July 15._—The celebration of the anniversary of Buonaparte’s birth, and of the signature of the Concordat. Went to Nôtre Dame to see the consecration of the Archbishop of Lyons, uncle to the First Consul. The various branches of this ceremony, which was performed by Cardinal Caraffa, the Pope’s Legate, were so puerile and multifarious, that, being unsupported by fine music, which is an essential in the effect of the Catholic form of worship, it became extremely tiresome. There was nothing to remind one of praise or adoration, nor during the whole service did I see any appearance of devotion. In the Tribunes was a strange medley of persons, apparently of every rank. We went late, but were given front places by two good-natured women, who, in their plain but clean dresses, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, though made in the simplest form, gave me the idea of being still what the most valuable part of the class of _moyenne bourgeoisie_ once was. An immense crowd assembled outside, in the hope, which was not gratified, of seeing the First Consul. In the evening the hope of seeing Buonaparte brought me again. His canopy was prepared nearly opposite to that of the Archbishop of Paris, but somewhat nearer the sanctuary. However, he came not, nor did he leave the Tuileries the whole day. About nine o’clock we walked about the streets to see the illuminations. They were certainly more brilliant than those of London as to the quality of the light, lamps in the open air having a better effect than tallow candles behind glass. The whole area of the Place Vendôme was strewed with pyramids, which looked better than any other forms, possibly from being nearest to the natural shape assumed by fire. This spot, rendered extremely beautiful only by the adornment of this terrific element, seemed fit for the pleasure-garden of Satan, and reminded one of the noble description of the Hall of Eblis given in the _Caliph Vathek_. At ten in the evening, a single and very mediocre firework was let off; by which the people, who expected something finer, and had stood for hours to see it, were much dissatisfied.

* * * * *

_July 16._—Went to hear the Abbé Sicard’s lecture on the manner of teaching the deaf and dumb. The Abbé has a very animated and agreeable countenance; his pupils have more beauty than is usually seen in an equal number of children who possess all their senses; and they have in general a happy union of vivacity and calmness in their expression. He receives a pension from Government; and every Department has a right to send to him its deaf and dumb children.

* * * * *

_July 17._—The Louvre. When I walk among the best Grecian statues, I feel a sort of dignified calmness take possession of my soul. A secret influence seems to overshadow me, that keeps off all little and agitating ideas. Pictures please, statues both please and elevate.

* * * * *

_July 18._—The Louvre, again. The pictures which occupied me were two: 1. Rubens’ Descent from the Cross, taken from the Cathedral at Antwerp—a beautiful and tragical scene. The tenderness and grief of the Virgin, who seems to fear the body should be injured by too rough a seizure—the variety of the figures, which, without affecting contrast, all differ in age, expression, attitude, and situation—the exquisite posture of the dead Christ, and the charms of execution and colouring, which rob a subject in itself horrible of all that can inspire horror, entitle this picture to the unbounded applause it has received. 2. A Holy Family, by Raphael. The colouring of this picture is very purple. Whether this is owing to the _restauration_ and varnish of which the French are so liberal, I know not. It is a beautiful piece. As to _restauration_, it certainly requires great industry and knowledge; but it provokes me to see the French, when they have restored a picture, forget they have not painted it.

Saw _Andromaque_, that interesting piece which bears so imposing a character, that it deserves to occupy the evening of a day devoted to Grecian sculpture. We will not examine whether the characters possess real greatness; they wear that splendid counterfeit most fit for tragedy, and all possess it in different degrees. All are highly impassioned, all bear names we have lisped with respect from our infancy, and all are dignified by their misfortunes and those of their family. Orestes was performed by Talma, and with infinite skill. His face and figure are fine. He was incomparably dressed in a white robe, seemingly of the quality of a Turkish shawl, which fell in folds of very picturesque drapery: it was embroidered round the edge with a deep antique pattern in gold; and he perfectly realized the dress and attitudes of Grecian sculpture. His voice is deep and susceptible of variety. I cannot say he affected me, but the fault was probably my own. Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois, a _débutante_, played Hermione, and bids fair to be a favourite. Her ugliness resists all the art of dress and all the illusion of stage light. Her voice has no great power; her attitudes are forced and Etruscan; but she feels strongly, and has an _abandon_ in the expression of her feelings, which, though it appeared to me to ‘overstep the modesty of Nature,’ gave great satisfaction to the audience. When I thought her disgustingly violent, those about me cried out, ‘_Voilà ce que s’appelle sentir_;’ and a gentleman told me, that were she a pretty woman, ‘_elle embraserait la salle_.’

* * * * *

_July 19._—The Louvre. Guido’s sweet picture of the union of Design and Colouring pleased me much; but I know not why he makes both appear so melancholy. I must suppose they are going to paint the likeness of a lost friend. No picture I remarked to-day gave me more pleasure than a head by Raphael of a boy of fifteen. It is not ideal beauty, but it is the beauty of real life heightened with all the charms of sweet and sensible expression.

* * * * *

_July 22._—Saw David’s beautiful picture of the Sabine women reconciling their husbands and fathers. It is seen in an apartment of the Louvre, at thirty-six sous a-head. He is the first French painter, I believe, who has taken this method of reimbursing himself. The picture is very large. Romulus, a fine spirited figure, is in the act of lifting his spear to strike Tatius, who actually projects from the canvas. Hersilia throws herself between. She is standing, her arm extended, in the attitude of one breathless with haste and apprehension. Romulus, on the right, has his back to the spectators, and his face is seen in profile. I am not quite satisfied with his figure. Those of Tatius and Hersilia are admirable. These three form the foreground, combined with a group of lovely children; a graceful female figure embraces Tatius’ knees; another, on the ground, points to an infant scarcely six months old. The Roman leader of cavalry is seen sheathing his sword; some of the enemies are already disarmed, and you see that the rest will soon be so. David has admirably united the most attractive brilliancy of colouring with the appearance of the dust raised by the contending armies. The background is formed by the troops, through which the women have forced their way. Some of the soldiers are indistinctly seen holding up their helmets in sign of peace; and there are several females in different postures, who all excite a sufficient degree of subordinate interest to give life to the whole picture.

* * * * *

_July 25._—Again the Abbé Sicard.—‘Pour le pont qui conduit du monde visible au monde intellectuel, voici comme je le construis. J’ai un portrait de Mossieu, fort ressemblant, d’à peu près deux pieds de haut, que je fais descendre. Tous mes sourds-muets l’appellent Mossieu. Je l’appelle le faux Mossieu; ils font de même. Je l’appelle lui-même le vrai Mossieu; ils m’imitent. Je fais remonter le portrait, et je le dessine moi-même. Je leur dis, “Mais j’ai aussi un vrai Mossieu; _où est-il_, puisque je puis le copier?” Ils me répondent quelquefois, que je l’ai dans mes pieds, dans mes mains. Mais la plupart me répondent, que c’est dans ma tête; tant il est naturel à l’homme d’y placer le siège des opérations intellectuelles. Mais je leur demande, “Est-ce que je puis couper, plier ce vrai Mossieu qui est dans ma tête?” non; “Et puis qu’il a cinq pieds dix pouces de haut, comment puis je le placer dans ma tête?” Ils conviennent donc que j’ai dans la tête une espèce de toile, sur laquelle les objets se dessinent, absolument différente d’aucun être qu’ils connoissent déjà, puis qu’elle peut recevoir des objets beaucoup plus grands qu’elle-même, les retenir, et les reproduire à volonté. Ils avoient déjà soupçonné quelque chose de cette vérité. Ils désirent savoir la nature de cet être. Je souffle sur leur main, j’ouvre une porte, je leur fais sentir le vent; je leur explique que comme mon souffle, comme le vent, existent et produisent des effets, quoique nous ne pouvons les voir, les plier, ou les couper, de même manière existe cet être qui retient le portrait du vrai Mossieu—cet être auquel dès ce moment nous donnons le nom de souffle, de _spiritus_, d’_esprit_ enfin.’

In the evening, went to the garden of the Tuileries, where the trees are old and varied enough to rescue it from the class of French gardens in general, which are sandy flats, where straight poles, with bushes on their tops, are planted in straight lines.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Paris, March 8, 1803.

Nothing else [but ill health] should have detained me so long at Paris, a place which in cold weather I think excessively disagreeable and peculiarly unwholesome. In fine weather, when a stranger can visit the various works of art which the tempest has assembled here from every quarter of the globe, it is highly interesting; and it is encircled by so many delightful gardens, that one may pass the summer here without feeling one’s absence from the country. Yet I have never seen a spot where I should more grieve at fixing my residence, nor a nation with which I should find it so difficult to coalesce. A revolution does not seem to be favourable to the morals of a people. In the upper classes I have seen nothing but the most ardent pursuit after sensual or frivolous pleasures, and the most unqualified egotism, with a devotion to the shrines of luxury and vanity unknown at any former period. The lower ranks are chiefly marked by a total want of probity, and an earnestness for the gain of _to-day_, though purchased by the sacrifice of that character which might ensure them tenfold advantage on the morrow.[36] You must not think me infected with national prejudice. I speak from the narrow circle of my own observation and that of my friends; and I do not include the suffering part of the nation, who have little intercourse with strangers, and who form a society apart. I have been presented to Buonaparte and his wife, who receive with great state, ceremony, and magnificence. His manner is very good, but the expression of his countenance is not attractive. Curran says he has the face of ‘a gloomy tyrant.’ Another has compared him to a corpse with living eyes: and a painter remarked to me that the smile on his lips never seemed to accord with the rest of his features. I have the pleasure of sending you a little picture, very like him, which may enable you to form your own opinion.

And now let me thank you a thousand times for your most flattering and beautiful verses, in which you have decked me with merits that I owe entirely to your partial friendship and lively imagination. I do not, however, wish you to awaken from the illusion; on the contrary, I feel a pride and pleasure in reflecting that, strong as is your discernment, your affection for me is still stronger.

* * * * *

Mrs. Leadbeater, to whom this last letter was written, was
at this time comparatively a recent friend; this may perhaps
explain the absence in it of any reference to the writer’s
approaching marriage, which took place at the English Embassy
in Paris very shortly after the letter was written. She and my
father, who had not very long been called to the bar, were on
the point of returning to England, when they were overtaken
by the somewhat abrupt termination of the Peace of Amiens.
They, like so many other residents and travellers in France,
had been quieted in the near prospect of war, by the assurance
that, according to the universal rule in such cases, full
opportunity would be given for quitting the hostile soil. How
far the conduct of our Government palliated, or, as pleaded by
Napoleon, justified, the course which he took in detaining the
English whom he found in France at the moment when war broke
out, need not be entered upon here, and as little the general
story of their detention. How they in whom I have nearest
interest, found their way to Orleans, a brief memorandum of
my father’s will explain. ‘Aug. 7, 1803.—Left Paris with a
passport granted by Junot, for Tours; arrived at Orleans on
the 10th; waited on the Commandant, to obtain permission to
remain in case Mrs. T.’s health should require it. He seemed
much surprised we had not preferred Orleans to Tours: “_Il est
deux fois plus grand_.” I replied that Orleans seemed a very
charming town. He talked to me on politics, a subject I did not
wish to enter on—set out with a profession of impartiality,
and blaming both Governments for the war; but could not hold
it two sentences: “_Pourquoi est-ce que vous-autres Messieurs
veuillent garder la Malte?_” “_Je n’en sais rien, Monsieur,
je suis ici prisonnier de guerre._” It was with difficulty
I could persuade him of the indelicacy of pressing me on the
subject.’

My Mother, as I perceive from letters addressed _to her_,
maintained a tolerably active correspondence with England
during the time of this her constrained residence in France,
which endured for four years, till the spring of 1807; but
with one or two exceptions, the only letters of hers during
this period which have reached my hands, are written to her
husband, whose detention she shared; and selections from
these will follow. A word or two may be necessary to explain
the circumstances under which they were written, and some of
the references which they contain. While my father was, so
to speak,’ascriptus glebæ,’ and confined by his _parole_ to
Orleans and its immediate vicinity, she was at liberty to move
freely in the interior of the country, with no other restraints
than those which she shared with the French themselves; indeed,
could at any moment have obtained with little difficulty a
passport allowing her to return to England. More than once
she had actually obtained one, although when it came to the
point, and under the doubt whether she would be permitted
to rejoin her husband, she never could bring herself to use
it. Every year during their detention at Orleans she paid a
visit of several weeks to Paris, and in 1804 two visits—having
always on these occasions the same object in view—namely, to
make the most of what little interest it was possible there
to command, either for the mitigation of the character of
his detention, or the bringing of it to an end altogether.
Sometimes it was necessary to employ all interest to prevent
his being sent to Verdun, where the great body of the English
were detained. It was accounted no little favour to be allowed
to remain at Orleans, and more than once a relegation to the
remoter depot, in all respects a most undesirable residence,
seemed imminent. At other times the object was not so much
that his position might not be made worse, but that it might
be amended, and that he might be permitted to reside, as a few
of the more favoured English were, at Paris, instead of in a
dull country town—or, if this could not be granted, that he
might be allowed to visit Paris for a few weeks, in the hope
that, this once permitted, he would not be again sent away. Or
if friends seemed willing to exert themselves, and the French
Government appeared more favourably disposed, as it was during
Fox’s negotiation for peace immediately after his advent to
power, a bolder request would be urged; namely, that he might
have leave to return to Ireland for six months on his _parole_,
his interests there suffering much through his absence; or even
that he might be permitted to return definitively home, with
no obligation to replace himself in his captivity. This, as is
well known, not a few of the English, one by one, obtained; and
at length, early in the year 1807, by exactly what interest I
know not, he obtained, after a captivity of four years, such a
permission of unconditional return; in this more fortunate than
many of his countrymen, whose detention was only brought to an
end by the advance of the allied armies into France in 1814.

My Mother’s letters during this period touch very seldom on
public matters. The notices of Consular and Imperial France
are slight and of no great interest. There is, moreover, about
all such notices a visible caution, an evident sense that what
was written might very possibly come under other eyes besides
those for which it was intended. But in addition to this,
she was, in the nature of things, remote from the centres
of intelligence. The society in which the detained English
could move was of necessity very limited. Attentions to them
were not supposed to be favourably regarded by the Emperor.
The good French houses which were open to them, were a very
few of the old _régime_; and many circumstances combined to
throw the English together, while yet the number of them was
too small to allow much selection among them of congenial
society. But for all this, the letters do contain glimpses
of some of the French celebrities of this time, as the Abbé
Delille, Isabey the miniature painter, Mad. Récamier, Mˡˡᵉ
Raucourt, Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois, Berthier, and others; and a lively,
though not always a very flattering, picture of those our
English compatriots and their way of living among themselves.
If it should seem to any that they retail too many of the
trivialities of social life, it must be remembered that they
were written to cheer and enliven, if possible, a very dull
captivity, made at the moment far more cheerless by her own
absence; and that everything was welcome which might contribute
to this end. The letters are unfortunately—unfortunately that
is, for me, who would otherwise have been spared no little
trouble—for the most part without their dates, nor have they
postmarks to supply this want. Knowing the exact _months_ of
each year, during which they must have been written, I have, by
one help or another, put most of those which I publish in their
right order; but I am not confident that I have done this with
all.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Paris, April, 1804.

I think I live here as if I was under the ban of the Holy Roman Empire. Is not that the phrase? No mortal comes near me. I wish the interdict was raised. I shall expect to be denied fire and water. Indeed, the last is so scarce in this house, and the first is so dear at Paris, that it is almost the same thing. I wish the sentence of excommunication was recalled.

I have read _Werther_, _faute de mieux_. I still admire it as an eloquent picture of love, which must always enchant those who have not drank at the fountain-head; but I find that the vivid colouring of a great attachment makes all shadows and representations appear at once faint and affected. ‘I have heard the nightingale,’ as the Athenian answered, when he was invited to hear an actor imitate her notes; and for the rest of my life I can never be extremely delighted at what my imagination used formerly to embrace as the height of perfection. I regret the sensibility I wasted on _Werther_, as a girl, and shall never let it appear in my house now I am a mother of a family. I picked it up at an old lady’s, where my grandfather took me to sit at the corner of the table, while he played his rubber. I borrowed it, brought it home, got it by heart, thought every one who did not admire it enthusiastically had a ‘flinty heart,’ shed torrents of tears over it, adopted its opinions, and laid the first stone of that false taste by which I was for some years subjugated.

I am delighted you went to the Marets. It is of consequence that you, as a prisoner, should be liked; and I wish them to lay all the _sauvagerie_ of our life upon me. Nothing I should like more than their saying, ‘_Il est très aimable, et il le seroit encore plus sans sa femme, qui est bien bizarre_.’ I wish I could _soufflé_ this to Mad. d’Oisonville for one society, and Mad. Baudot for another, and it would soon be echoed about and be received as one of the dozen established phrases which form the whole conversation of Orleans.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, April, 1804.

After much driving about after General Hardy’s address, I at last obtained it, and drove to his lodgings, with my letter to him in my hand, enclosing a copy of the memorial to General Berthier. I deliberated, should I send up the letter, or see him, when I found he was visible. I recollected your advice to speak, and it decided me. It was dusk, for I could not get the address till late. I walked under a dark and dirty _porte cocher_, where the carriage could not turn in, and up a very narrow staircase _au second_. The variety of my thoughts while walking upstairs would fill a page. Will he think me very forward? Shall I be too much embarrassed to speak? Shall I find a levée of young officers? Is General Hardy an impudent dashing young Irishman (for I knew he was our countryman), and will he think it civil to make love to me? I was a little reassured in passing through an ante-room, and seeing a very domestic-looking _couvert bourgeois_ for four people. I walked into the inner room with trepidation, and there, to my comfort, saw two quiet-looking women, a modest and pretty girl, and a tall, fair, pleasing-countenanced man of about fifty, with a very gentle, civil address. He read my letter, looked at my memorial, and from what he promised, and the certainty he seemed to have that he would be the judge of our petition (unless Berthier had some private reason for or against it), I have little, I may say almost no doubt, that our affair is nearly done. Nothing could exceed the civility and appearance of interest I received from the whole party. I trembled so at the beginning I could hardly speak; but, like all constitutionally timid and morally courageous people, after the first instant I was bold as a lion.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, April, 1804.

I went last night to see Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt[37] in _Semiramis_ with the lady I mentioned in my last. No one sees me. I go dressed like a housekeeper, with my prodigious large old brown Orleans bonnet, get into a shut-up _loge_, and bribe the box-keeper to let no one else in. _Semiramis_ gave me no pleasure. A woman who has coolly assassinated her husband, merely to reign alone, cannot be made interesting by any subsequent events; and her inflated grandeur, though not in my opinion imposing, throws all the other characters so much into shade that you care little what becomes of them. It was prodigiously applauded, being a piece of great pomp and show, and the heroine having so much of what is now called _caractère_. But what was most curious, was the frantic manner in which the women applauded Lafont. Several of these were like so many Bacchantes. He is good-looking, without _noblesse_; but does not affect me in the least.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, April 18, 1804.

I was at a _largish_ party last night at the Baroness’s. Through some mistake I did not receive her invitation till the same morning, so conceived it was a little English society, and went in my morning dress. I felt a little awkward amongst the long trains, feathers, _bijous_, and laces of about a dozen women who were very _magnifique_, among whom not the least so was Lady Clavering; but I did not _suffer_ so much as poor Lady I——, who, though much more dressed than me, was not prepared for strangers, and did nothing but look down on herself, and examine her dress with an air of mortification and humility, which struck me as so great a _ridicule_, that it made me ashamed of being at all disconcerted.

I have just been with Lady ——. She received me as women usually do visitors sent by their husbands—_c’est tout dire_—civil and icy; _she never asked a single question about him_, whether he looked well or ill, whether we saw much of him, in short, not one token of interest.... Remember not to let Lord —— think I was otherwise than very civilly and properly received. I dread your excessive sincerity and impossibility of disguising any feeling; but I love, and above all _respect_, you for it.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, April, 1804.

My child is asleep in his cradle. Kitty is _boudé_-ing in the little street room, and Antoine extremely woful, as he always is now when she _boudés_. Sally is pert, active, and _very happy_ because I scolded Kitty last night. Pierre is asleep, and the horses are, I believe, very uncomfortable, if I may judge by the way in which they crawl, and the miserable look they have, so different from their sleek dowager trot of Orleans. Certainly a woman has no business with horses; and the lady who married because her carriage never was at the door in time, had as good a reason as many very wise people who seem to have taken those who afford no excuse whatever. However, no woman has a right in France to rail against matrimony, for certainly, in the Anglo-Parisian set, every fault seems on the side of the wives. I went to choose Mrs. F——’s veil for her, and she was as worrying as any one could be about such a trifle. I have a sort of delicacy about those who seem subservient, that extends itself to shopkeepers, though I know that in most places they make one pay for the trouble one gives; and I really felt ashamed of the way she pulled about, and tumbled, and tried on the most valuable laces. The struggle between Sueur’s civility and her alarm was very comical.

It would have been a stiff holding back not to have called on Lady —— after what _he_ had said. I told you she was _icily civil_; but I am always amused by hearing Mrs. F., to whom she was _icily rude_, say what a charming creature she has been to _her_, how fond they are of one another, and how much better she loves Lady —— than any creature in the world, &c. &c. There certainly is this convenience in rank, that it seems to save the trouble of being civil to nine-tenths of those who have none; and who think if a titled person does not turn them out of the room, they are remarkably kind.

The lady’s wearing Lady T——’s clothes cannot surprise _me_, as I know one here, who told me she was commissioned to send a supply of millinery to a friend in the country, and that she wore it all a few times; also that she sold her some of her own old things, putting new ribbon, &c., on the wearing points. She told me this, _apropos_ of nothing, in a way that showed she was so far from thinking it dishonest, it did not even strike her as shabby, or cunning, but what every one would do in the same case.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, May, 1804.

It is certain the Captain[38] is _au secret_, it is _said_ in irons, but this I doubt. The precautions _pour l’époque du couronnement_ are infinite; no persons to have passports from any town but such as are _mandé_, except on the most urgent business, and of them a weekly list to be sent to Paris; the name of every individual to whom a place in a window is let or given, to be sent to the police; the Departments to come at different times, and not to meet till the ceremony, lest they should cabal. It is rather provoking that I refused Mrs. F——’s offer of a place in a window that gives on the Pont Neuf, where I should have seen the cortège _going_, better than from any other spot in Paris; and she has since given it away. Forty-two louis are now paid for a window, eighteen francs for places at the risk of people’s lives, on scaffolding; such a crowd to see the crown of the Empress at Foncier’s, that it was a service of danger. I went at a moment when she had sent for it to try on, and did not repeat the attempt.

Some say Mad. de Montmorenci _asked_ for her place of _Dame de Palais_, and has _projets de conquérir_ the Unconquered. She is about thirty-six—a plain face, fine figure, _beaucoup de tournure_, infinite taste in dress, _médiocrement d’esprit_, but great _enjouement_, mixed with languor and perfect _usage du monde_. Such, at least, is what she appeared to me in my short burst of dissipation in Paris. She was presented in a robe of velvet, _couleur de cérise_ (the colour of mine), covered with stars, and richly embroidered all round with gold. Her curtsey on presentation was said to be the most graceful possible, &c. &c. &c.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, May, 1804.

I have just opened a book in which I find a paragraph so suitable to our detention, and the close intimacy and dependence on each other which have followed it, that I cannot help transcribing—‘_Quand on est parfaitement heureuse par ses affections, c’est peut-être une faveur de la Providence que certains revers resserrent encore vos liens par la force même des choses_.’ This struck me as very just, and what ought to silence all our murmurs on the subject of our detention. It is really gratifying to find we have been happy without any of the usual interests of life, without society, without plan, without fixed occupation, without enjoying either the beauties of nature or the refined accommodations and luxuries of art, and, on my part, without even health. It seems a hint to us not to confide that happiness of which we are already sure in each other, to any other projects but those which arise from affection, and tend to make our children capable of the same species of enjoyment as ourselves. For my own part, I feel so strongly _qu’il faut respecter le bonheur_, that I never will again form a wish that you should pursue any scheme of ambition or advancement. _A quoi bon?_ In living for ourselves position would be useless, and our fortune is already equal to our wishes, and of a nature which, without effort, will, in the common course of things, insensibly and moderately increase, so as to keep pace with the increasing advance around us. When absent from you, I exist only in my reflections, and all those I have made since we parted are of this stamp.

I have been asked for every evening to Mrs. Latten’s, and have never gone yet, which I mention to show you how little you need regret my retirement; for I am convinced that if I had opportunities of going out, I should not use them; yet I like the Lattens. She is pretty and civil, and he has the sort of animal spirits which always excite mine, and I think him remarkably clever, till he leaves the room, and then I find I cannot recollect one thing he has said which might not have come from any other person.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, May, 1804.

I have got an _Annual Register_ for 1803, through Sir M. C., and am blinding myself over it day and night. I wish it was to be had, and I would send it to you. This is the night of the _fête_ for the Emperor at the opera. I have been too miserly to take a box, and have been a little tempted to go to the orchestra, which is the resource of those who have not boxes; but I feel so strongly that it is not my place, that nothing I could see from thence would make up to me for that idea. So between my avarice and my pride I shall lose the only brilliant _fête_ open to a stranger; but I have been formerly so used to find my pleasures come unsought, that when I am to purchase and look for them, I feel myself ill-used and inclined to _bouder_ at home. I went muffled up last night with Mrs. Sheldon to see Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois in _Esther_. The house very thin, though almost all the good actors appeared in tragedy or comedy. Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois is the sweetest creature in _Esther_ I can conceive—so innocent, so harmonious, so _touchante_, so timid, so animated, so _young_ in mind as well as appearance. She gives me in that part the idea of a little white dove, and I have an extraordinary respect for talents which can so represent the flames of Phèdre and the purity of Esther.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, May, 1804.

My angel child being comfortable and quiet at five this day, I ventured to dine with the Lattens to meet the Abbé Delille. I found him much changed, as it is many years since I saw him. But he, being now almost blind and always _très galant_, addressed several compliments to the favourable recollection he retained of me, which would have been then within the pale of that exaggeration authorized by the habits of society, but were now ridiculous. This little foolish circumstance took off from the pleasure I should otherwise have felt in being next to him, and in finding he remembered every trifle relative to our former meeting (mem.—he is sixty-four[39]). He was very entertaining; but as an _old_ man, repeating anecdote on anecdote, whereas formerly he _conversed_; and from loss of teeth he no longer recites with that exquisite charm which once gave me so much pleasure. My first thought was, when he began, that now you would never hear him recite as I did formerly. He gave some beautiful lines on Ariosto, sparkling, close, and like a firework. He makes him ‘_l’enfant du goût et de la folie_.’[40] Altogether, it was the pleasantest day I have had in Paris. A French gentleman, on finding the Abbé could not recollect some lines I had asked for on Rousseau, drew his chair close to mine, saying, ‘_Eh bien, Madame, puisque Monsieur l’Abbé ne veut pas réciter ses vers, je vous en dirai des miens_,’ and set out immediately.

TO THE SAME.

Estampes, Oct., 1804.