London, March 24th, 1828.

Beloved Friend,

Among the most aristocratical parties are to be numbered the concerts of one of the most liberal members of the Opposition,—an anomaly often to be found here; where a certain vague general liberalism goes hand-in-hand with the narrowest pride and most arrogant conceit of class; and where the haughtiest man in his own house possesses the reputation of the most liberal in public life.

Very amusing parties are also given by a Duchess, whose brevet is so new that she is reckoned a plebeian by the exclusives:—such an one took place to-day. On the second floor there was an excellent concert, on the first a ball, and on the ground-floor constant eating.

At the dinner which preceded, the servants waited in white kid gloves, an imitation of another fashionable Duke. This almost disgusted me, for I could not get out of my head the lazaretto, and other disagreeable cutaneous associations.

More rich in intellectual enjoyment was my yesterday’s dinner at the Duke of Somerset’s, a man of very various accomplishments. At table, a celebrated parliamentary orator told some strange things: among others, he said that he had lately been a member of a Commission for investigating the connexion between the police and the thieves, about which so many complaints have been made. It came out, that a Society existed in London, completely organized with ‘bureaux,’ ‘clerks,’ &c., which directed thefts and coining on a large scale, supported those who were taken, and afforded powerful assistance both offensive and defensive, &c. He asserted, that at the head of this association were not only several people in respectable stations, and members of Parliament, but even a well-known Peer of the realm. The proofs were of a kind that left no room for doubt; but to avoid the dreadful scandal, the Ministry had determined to let the matter drop. One sees that in free countries things go forward which we don’t so much as dream of.

A lover of natural history afterwards read us a lecture on toads, which, in their sphere, seemed to me as odd sort of people as the foregoing.

March 27th.

I am just come back from the LevÉe, which was very numerously attended. The King was obliged to sit, on account of his gout, but looked very well. The Duke of Wellington returned thanks for his elevation to the Premiership by falling on both knees, whereas it is usual only to kneel on one. His gratitude was probably double, on account of his double quality of Prime Minister and former Commander-in-Chief, as the caricatures represent him,—the left half of his body dressed as a courtier, the right as field-marshal, but laughing on both sides of his face. As, with the exception of the ‘Grande entrÉe,’ almost everybody is admitted to these levÉes if they can but appear in the prescribed dress, there cannot be better sport for the lovers of caricatures. The unaccustomed dress, and no less unwonted splendour of royalty, raise the national awkwardness and embarrassment to their highest pitch. Our charming well drilled court-ladies would often distrust their own eyes.

As soon as I had changed my dress, I rode in the most delightful spring weather in the still solitary Regent’s Park, where hundred of almond-trees are in blossom; and visited the mÉnagÉrie lately established there, which presents a model worthy of imitation. There is nothing over-done, and at the same time a neatness, which assuredly can be attained nowhere but in England. Here I saw a tiger-cat, a creature which seemed to me a perfect model of beauty and elegance among quadrupeds.

I afterwards went to a grand dinner at the Marquis of Thomond’s, an Irish peer, at which I met one of the most conspicuous Tories in England, the Duke of N——. I must confess he has not much the look of a genius; and the whole party was so stiffly English, that I heartily rejoiced at being seated next to Princess P——, whose lively good-natured ultra prattle appeared to me, to-day, as agreeable as if it had been the most intellectual conversation in the world.

I concluded the evening with a ball at the Marquis of Beresford’s, in honour of the Marchioness de Louly, sister of Don Miguel, who however seemed not a little bored. She speaks only Portuguese, and therefore could converse with scarcely any body but the host.

The Marshal himself is a striking soldierlike-looking man, against whom party spirit has been very unjustly directed. He is a man of resolute character, as well as of attractive manners, such as many Governments, beside the Portuguese, might employ to advantage; strong as a lion, and prudent as a serpent. He considers Don Miguel’s claim to the throne of Portugal as better founded than that of his brother; and maintains, that in judging of persons and events in other countries, we must resort to a totally different standard from that which we employ in our own. He says that Don Miguel’s education was so neglected, that in his three-and-twentieth year he could not write; that much therefore could not be expected from such a prince; but that he had some brilliant natural qualities, and that the newspapers were not to be implicitly believed. This latter assertion, at least, I am not inclined to doubt.

April 7th.

I thought it a real blessing to-day to dine in the country, quite ‘sans gÊne’ at H—— Lodge, the pretty villa of the Duchess of St. A——. In front of the house, which stands on the slope of a hill, bloomed a splendid star of crocuses and other early flowers, in the midst of the bright green turf, surrounding a marble fountain; while over the tops of the trees the giant city lay dimly seen in the valley, like a ‘fata montana’ of the New Jerusalem in a gauze mist. The dinner was, as usual, excellent; and after dinner we had a concert in a beautiful green-house filled with flowers and fruits. I sat at table next to a lineal descendant of Charles the Second, a relation of the Duke’s,—for about half a dozen English Peers spring from mistresses of the merry monarch, and bear the royal arms quartered with their own, of which they are not a little proud.

It is still very cold, but yet leaves and flowers break forth vigorously,—a sight that would enrapture me at home, but here gives me a heart sickness that is often hardly endurable. Nevertheless I do not choose to sit down again on the old golden seat of thorns, but will rather seek out a smooth and comfortable common stool, on which I may repose in freedom.

—— Park, April 9th.

I came here yesterday, and am with a large party at the house of a very ‘fashionable’ lady. The house is as tastefully and richly adorned as possible, but too stately and too portentous in its beauty to be truly agreeable, at least to me. Besides, there is a certain L—— here, a patent witling, whose every word the extremely good-natured company holds itself bound to admire: people affect great liking for him, from fear of his evil tongue. Such intellectual bullies are my mortal abhorrence; especially when, like this, to a repulsive exterior they unite all the gall and acrimony of satire, without any of its grace. They appear in human society like venomous insects, whom, from some pitiable weakness, we assist in feeding on the blood of others, so that they do not suck our own.

The still life about me speaks more to my heart than the human beings; especially the sweet flowers which are placed in pretty vases and receptacles of all sorts in all the apartments. Among the pictures, I admired a Joseph leading the little Jesus, by Morillo. In the beautiful child lies the germ of the future greatness and god-like nature of the Redeemer: as yet it slumbers dimly, but is wonderfully expressed in the prophetic beaming of the eye. Joseph appears a plain simple man, in the full vigour of middle age, betraying dignity of character though not of station:—the landscape is wild and original, and cherubs’ heads peep sweetly forth out of the dark clouds. The picture, the owner told me, cost him two thousand and five hundred pounds.

I was much pleased with a conservatory for palms, built almost entirely of glass,—so transparent that it looks like a house of ice.

The country life here is in some respects too social for my taste. If, for instance, you wish to read, you go into the library, where you are seldom alone:—if you have letters to write, you sit at a great common writing table just as much in public; they are then put into a box with holes, and taken by a servant to the Post. To do all this in your own room is not usual, and therefore surprises and annoys people. Many a foreigner would like to breakfast in his own room; but this he cannot well do, unless he pleads illness. With all the freedom and absence of useless ceremonies and tedious complimenting, there is yet, for a person accustomed to our habits, a considerable degree of constraint, which the continual necessity of speaking in a foreign tongue renders more oppressive.

London, April 12th.

I took my leave of —— Park this morning just as an April storm was clearing off, breathed the spring air with delight, and looked with ecstacy at the brilliant green and the bursting buds,—a sight of which I am never weary. Spring indemnifies our northern climes for all the discomfort of their winter; for this awakening of young Nature is accompanied with far less coquetry on her part in the South.

I was invited again to dinner at the Duchess of St. A——’s country-house, where a very agreeable surprise awaited me. I arrived late, and was placed between my hostess, and a tall very simple, but benevolent looking man of middle age, who spoke broad Scotch,—a dialect anything but agreeable; and would probably have struck me for nothing else, had I not soon discovered that I was sitting next to—the Great Unknown. It was not long ere many a sally of dry, poignant wit fell from his lips, and many an anecdote, told in the most unpretending manner, which, without seeming brilliant, was yet striking. His eye, too, glanced, whenever he was animated, with such a clear, good-natured lustre, and that with such an expression of true-hearted kindness and natural feeling, that it was impossible not to conceive a sort of love for him. Towards the end of dinner he and Sir Francis Burdett told ghost-stories, half-terrible, half-humorous, admirably, one against the other. This at last encouraged me to tell your famous key story, which I embelished a little in the ‘dÉnouement.’ It had great success; and it would be droll enough if you were to find it in the next romance of the prolific Scotchman.

He afterwards recited a curious old inscription which he had recently discovered in the churchyard of Melrose Abbey. It was as follows:

When translated, something like this:

True enough; for earth we were, are, and shall be.

A little concert concluded the evening; in which the very pretty daughter of the great bard,—a healthy-looking Highland beauty,—took part; and Miss Stephens sang nothing but Scotch ballads. It was not till late in the night that I reached London and enriched my book of memoranda with a sketch of Sir Walter Scott—very like, for which I am indebted to the kindness of my hostess. As none of the engravings I have seen resemble him, I shall send you a copy with this letter.

April 27th.

The ‘trouble’ of this day was very monotonous; only a dinner at the Spanish ambassador’s furnished me with one agreeable recollection. A Spanish girl, full of fire and beauty, sang boleros in such a manner that they awakened a completely new musical sense in me. If I may judge from them, and from a fandango I once saw danced, Spanish society must be very different from ours, and far more ‘piquante.’

Yesterday I was invited ‘to meet the Dukes of Clarence and Sussex,’ declined the honour for the sake of meeting Mademoiselle H—— at our friend B——’s. I had not seen her, and great and small are now at her feet.

She is indeed an enchanting creature, and very dangerous to all who are either new in the world, or who have nothing to think of but their own pleasure. It is impossible to conceive a more unstudied and yet effective inborn coquetry, (if I may use the expression,) so child-like, so engaging, ‘et cependent le dÍable n’y perd rien.’

She seemed to seize my weak side as well as that of every other man, immediately, and talked to me, though without the slightest apparent design, only of what was likely to be appropriate and agreeable to me. The tones of my fatherland, too, fell from her pretty mouth in the stream of conversation, like pearls and diamonds, and the loveliest blue eyes lightened upon them like a spring sun behind a thin veil of clouds.

“To-morrow Kean plays Richard the Third,” said she carelessly. “The Duke of D—— has offered me his box;—would you like to accompany me?” That such an in invitation will supersede all others, follows of course.

April 28th.

Never did I see or hear less of a play than this evening, and yet I must confess never did one appear to me shorter. Spite of the presence of a ‘gouvernante,’ and a visit from Mr. Kemble between the acts, there was scarcely a pause in our conversation, which so many reminiscences of home rendered doubly interesting.

This agreeable ‘excitement,’ too, lasted, on my side, during the ball which followed at the fashionable Lady Tankerville’s; for I felt less ‘ennuyÉ’ than usual at these heartless wooden parties. Forgive me if I write only these few words, for Helios is leaving his bed, and I must go to mine.

April 29th.

Everything here is in colossal dimensions, even the workshop of my tailor, which is like a manufactory. You go to ask about the fate of a coat you have ordered; you find yourself surrounded by hundreds of bales of cloth; and as many workmen;—a secretary appears with great formality; and politely asks the day on which it was ordered. As soon as you have told him, he makes a sign for two folios to be brought, in which he pores for a short time. “Sir,” is at last the answer, “to-morrow at twenty minutes past eleven the ‘frac’ will be so far advanced that you can try it on in the dressing-room.” There are several of these rooms, decorated with large looking-glasses and ‘Psyches,’ continually occupied by fitters, where the wealthy tailor in person makes a dozen alterations without ever betraying the least impatience or ill-humour.

As soon as justice was done to the ‘frac,’ I continued my walk, and came to a butcher’s shop; where not only are the most beautiful garlands, pyramids, and other fanciful forms constructed of raw meat, and elegant vessels filled with ice give out the most delightful coolness, but a play-bill hangs behind every leg of mutton, and the favourite newspapers lie on the polished tables.

A few houses further on, a dealer in sea-monsters competes with him, and sits, like King Fish in the fairy tale, between the marble and the fountain. He would however find it difficult to rival his celebrated colleague Crockford, who understands how to catch something better than common fish.

This person is a man of genius, who has raised himself from the estate of a poor fishmonger, to that of the scourge, and at the same time the favourite, of the rich and fashionable world. He is a gambler, who has won millions,[86] and with them has built a gaming palace on the plan of the ‘salons’ at Paris, but with a truly Asiatic splendour almost surpassing that of royalty. Everything is in the now revived taste of the time of Louis the Fourteenth; decorated with tasteless excrescences, excess of gilding, confused mixture of stucco painting, &c.,—a turn of fashion very consistent in a country where the nobility grows more and more like that of the time of Louis the Fourteenth.

Crockford’s cook is the celebrated Ude, practically and theoretically the best in Europe. The table and attendance are in the highest perfection, combined with ‘un jeu d’enfer,’ at which twenty thousand pounds and more has often been lost in one evening, by one man. The company forms a club; admission is very difficult to obtain; and although games at hazard are illegal in England, most of the Ministers are members, and the Duke of Wellington, the Premier, one of the managers of this gaming club.

May 2nd.

Yesterday, the wedding day of the Duchess of St. A—-, was celebrated by a very pleasant rural fÊte at her villa. In the middle of the bowling-green was a Maypole decorated with garlands and ribands, and gaily-dressed peasants in the old English costume danced around it. The company wandered about in the house and garden as they liked; many shot with bows and arrows; others danced under tents, swung, or played all sorts of games, or wandered in the shade of thick shrubberies; till at five o’clock a few blasts of a trumpet announced a splendid breakfast, at which all the delicacies and costly viands that luxury could furnish, were served in the greatest profusion.

Many servants were dressed in fancy dresses as gardeners; and garlands of fresh flowers were hung upon all the bushes, which produced an indescribably rich effect. The day, too, was so singularly fine that I was able, for the first time, to see London quite clear from fog, and only slightly obscured by smoke.

As night drew on, the effect of the garlands of flowers was renewed by many-coloured lamps, tastefully distributed amid the trees, or half hidden among the thick shrubs. It was past midnight when breakfast ended.

There was a concert, and then a ball, at which the lovely German waltzer outshone all her rivals,—and with the most unpretending air, as if she did not perceive one of her conquests. Perhaps there never was a woman who had the art of appearing more innocent and childlike; and certainly this captivating sort of coquetry is the greatest charm, though not, perhaps, the greatest merit, of women.

May 8th.

For a week past two or three concerts have resounded in my ears every evening, or, as they here more properly say, every night. They are all on a sudden become a perfect rage, from the highest and most exclusive down to the herd of ‘nobodies.’ Mesdames Pasta, Caradori, Sontag, Brambilla, Messrs. Zuchelli, Pellegrini, and Curioni, sing for ever and ever the same airs and duets; which, however, people seem never tired of hearing. They often sing—doubtless tired themselves of the eternal monotony—very negligently, but that makes no difference whatever. The ears that hear them are seldom very musically organized, and are only awakened by ‘fashion;’ and those who are in the centre of the crowd certainly can often hardly distinguish whether the Bassist or the Prima Donna is singing, but must fall into extacies like the rest, notwithstanding. For the performers, this ‘furore’ is profitable enough. Sontag, for instance, in every party in which she is heard at all, receives forty pounds, sometimes a hundred; and occasionally she attends two or three in an evening. Pasta, whose singing is, to my taste, sweeter, grander, more tragic, rivals her; the others, though their merit is considerable, are in a subordinate rank.

Besides these, Moschelles, Pixis, the two Bohrers, ‘enfin’ a herd of virtuosi, are here, all flocking to English gold, like moths around a candle. Not that they burn themselves; on the contrary, the women, at least, kindle fresh flames, right and left, which are sometimes even more profitable than their art.

The concerts at Prince Leopold’s are generally the most agreeable, and the insufferable squeezing is somewhat avoided in his large rooms. This Prince is less popular than he deserves; for the English can’t forgive him for being a foreigner.

May 9th.

Riding with M——, we accidentally came through a charming country to Strawberry Hill,—the house built by Horace Walpole, which he mentions so often in his letters, and which has been wholly unaltered and little inhabited since his death. It is the first attempt at modern Gothic in England—quite in the ‘clinquant’ taste of that time; the stone-work imitated in wood, and a great deal more that glitters without being gold. There are, however, many real treasures of art and curiosities. Among them is a magnificent prayer-book set with jewels, filled with drawings by Raphael and his pupils; Cardinal Wolsey’s hat; a very expressive portrait of Madame du Deffant, Walpole’s blind and witty friend; and a picture of the celebrated Lady Mary Wortley Montague, in a Turkish dress.

As every thing is to be found in England, I met with an Englishman of rank, to-day, who has endeavoured to introduce German habits, German domestic arrangements, and a German tone of society into his house. This is Earl S——, who lived in our fatherland for a long time in rather narrow circumstances, and suddenly came into a very large fortune. The only thing in the English taste was the crimson liveries of his people, with canary-coloured inexpressibles and stockings;—all the rest was German; even the hour of dining was an approach to ours. The length of the dinner was in the highest degree wearisome to me; I sat upon thorns, especially as I was expected elsewhere.

In spite of my ill-humour, however, I could not help laughing at the Wienerisch (Vienna dialect) of my Austrian neighbour.

May 16th.

I have been spending some days in the country at the Epsom races. The scene was very lively; all the roads full of swiftly-rolling equipages; and a large green hill in the middle of the plain, around which the races are held, so thickly covered with a thousand unharnessed carriages, and a motley crowd of horsemen and foot-passengers, that I never saw a more picturesque popular festival.—Now set this picture in the frame of a pretty cultivated landscape, with a sky full of dark clouds, much rain, and rare but hot gleams of sunshine.

I returned yesterday, that I might not miss a party at the King’s to-day, to which I was invited—an event here looked upon as an extraordinary ‘bonne fortune.’—You must not associate any idea of Court with it: but it is certain that the Ideal of a fashionable house cannot be more completely realized. Every comfort and every elegance of a private gentleman is united in the most tasteful and substantial manner with royal magnificence; and the monarch himself is, as is well known, prouder of nothing than of the title of “the first gentleman in England.”

May 30th.

Though the everlasting whirl leaves little leisure, (and once drawn into the vortex it is not easy to extricate one’s-self, even though one may find no pleasure in it,) I yet find a moment, from time to time, for more quiet and more durable enjoyment.

In one such, I lately visited a most interesting collection of pictures;—all portraits of persons eminent in English history. It was remarkable how frequently most of them corresponded in features and expression with the picture history has left us of them. The celebrated Lord Burleigh had moreover a striking resemblance to the great State Chancellor (Staats Kanzler) of Prussia, though he is greatly disguised by his head-dress, which is like an old wife’s cap. James the First was divertingly true to his character; as was also his ambassador, the eccentric knight who so delightfully declares in his memoirs, that wherever he went, he charmed both men and women; and that his nature was like that of no other man, for that both he and all descended from him sent forth an atmosphere of the most agreeable natural fragrance.

I then went to another collection, consisting of modern paintings in water-colours, in which branch of art the English have certainly attained to a singular perfection. One is astonished at the glow and depth of colouring they produce. The Scotch landscapes were remarkably fine: there was a Sunset in the Highlands which rivalled Claude in truth; and a twilight on Loch Lomond, a poem full of romantic beauty. I had still time for a long ride, in the course of which, committing myself as usual to the guidance of chance, I came upon a most enchanting park, such as only the climate of England can produce. The gardens lay, in all their indescribable glow of beauty, in a narrow and fertile green valley full of high trees, under which three silver springs gushed forth, and flowing away in meandering brooks, took their course in all directions amid impervious thickets of blooming rhododendrons and azaleas.

My delight in such scenes is ever saddened by the regret that you cannot behold them with me: your fine and accurate taste would draw from them a thousand ideas of new and lovelier creations; either by the skilful grouping of colours, or by graceful forms, or by the distribution of light, the effect of which may be so greatly enhanced by judicious thinning or massing of the foliage.

The pleasant remembrance of this morning must diffuse itself over the rest of the day, which was filled by a dinner at Lady P——’s, distinguished for her love of good cheer; two balls at residences of British and foreign diplomacy; and a concert at Lord Grosvenor’s. This was given, it is true, in a gallery of fine pictures; but on such an occasion they hardly give one more pleasure than any other hangings.

June 6th.

One of the most interesting houses to me is that of a noble Scot, the Earl of W——, a lineal descendant of Macduff. In his armoury is a branch of a tree said to be of Birnam Wood; probably a relic of the same quality as most others. Blessed is he who can believe in them! The family is most accomplished, and the Scotch mind is more nearly akin to the German than the English is. The amiable daughters taught me a new manner of preserving faithful and lasting portraits of feathered favourites:—the feathers are pulled off, and pasted on card-board or varnished wood, together with the legs and beak; this produces a bas-relief of great truth, and not exposed to destruction.

Charles the Tenth spent some time in Scotland, at Lord W——’s and left him an old maitre d’hotel, who, drolly enough, is called Bonneau, like him of the Pucelle; and is one of that nearly extinct domestic race of ‘hommes de confiance’ who are now never seen but on the stage, and hardly there. As such, and having been twenty-five years ‘en fonction,’ he is allowed occasionally to put in a word,—quite contrary to English manners, which do not permit servants to make the slightest approach to their masters, except in the way of their service. I have really found few things more amusing than this old Frenchman’s stories about Court and society; his world, in fact, terminated with those times of which we can now scarcely form an idea. That the singular old man is only a ‘a maitre d’hotel’ detracts nothing from the interest; for he has seen more of the great world, and observed it better, than many of higher rank.

When I paid my visit to Lady W—— this morning, she had just received a great cargo of curiosities from one of her sons, who is travelling in South America. Among them was a lion-monkey, with a tail and mane like those of the king of beasts, on a body not larger than that of a rat. Instead of the disagreeable smell of most of his tribe, this little fellow exhales musk and cinnamon; and, like the knight I lately mentioned, perfumed the room like a pastile. A very complete collection of serpents, and another of butterflies, exhibited colours such as are only painted by the rising and setting sun.

I dined at Lady F——’s, where a curious incident occurred. Her husband was formerly Governor of the Isle of France, where a black-woman sold her a fortune-telling book, which, as she asserted, had belonged to the Empress Josephine before her departure for France, and in which she had read her future greatness and subsequent fall. Lady F—— produced it at tea, and invited the company to interrogate Destiny according to the prescribed method.—Now listen to the answers it gave, which are really remarkable. Madame de Rothschild was the first: she asked, whether her wishes would be fulfilled? She received for answer, “Weary not Fate with wishes; one who has received so much ought to be satisfied.”

Mr. Spring Rice, a distinguished member of Parliament, and one of the most zealous champions of Catholic emancipation, (a subject in which everybody here takes a strong interest, either for or against,) next asked if this Bill would pass the Upper House, in which it was to be finally debated on the morrow?—I must interrupt my narrative to tell you that it is well known that it will not pass, but it is as universally believed that next session the desired object must be attained. “You will have no success this time,” was the laconic reply. A young American lady was now urged to inquire whether she would soon be married. The answer was, “Not in this hemisphere.” Next came my turn, and I asked whether what now so strongly agitated my heart were for my happiness. “Let the inclination drop,” replied the magic book, “for you will find it is neither real nor permanent.” The company who of course had no guess at my real meaning in this question, made themselves very merry about the answer I had received, and insisted upon my proposing another. I therefore asked, “Will Fortune be more favourable to me in more serious projects?” “Seek,” was the reply, “and you will find; persevere, and you will obtain.”

Without seeking, I found this evening something very agreeable; for I was presented by the Duchess of Clarence to her mother, the Duchess of Meiningen; a most amiable woman, of true German character; whom neither years nor rank have been able to rob of her ‘naÏf’ natural manners,—perhaps the surest proof of a pure and lovely mind. This worthy mother of an honoured daughter must be a welcome guest to the English, who are much attached to their future Queen, and accordingly they pay her the greatest attentions. Pity, that high as well as low are generally too deficient in grace of manners, or felicity of address, to be able to act the drama of society on such occasions, so as to render the whole a pleasing or elegant spectacle! a drawing-room and a presentation at Court here are as ludicrous as the levÉe of a BÜrgermeister of the ancient Free Imperial cities of our fatherland; and all the pride and pomp of aristocracy disappears in the childish ‘embarras’ of these ‘ladies,’ loaded,—not adorned,—with diamonds and fine clothes. In ‘negligÉ,’ and when they move at ease in their own houses and their accustomed circle, young Englishwomen often appear to great advantage: in ‘parure’ and large parties, scarcely ever; for an uncontrollable timidity, destructive of all grace, so paralyses even their intellectual powers, that a rational conversation with them would certainly be a most difficult matter to obtain.

Of all the women of Europe, I therefore hold them to be the most agreeable and ‘comfortable’ wives; and at the same time the most incapable of presenting themselves with grace, address, or presence of mind; and the least fitted to embellish society. In this judgment the praise manifestly far outweighs the censure.

June 16th.

To-day I was present at an interesting breakfast, given by the Pigeon Club. This title by no means implies that the members are gentle and harmless as doves:[87]—on the contrary, they are the wildest young fellows in England, and the poor pigeons have nothing to do with the matter but to be shot at. The arena was a large grass-plat surrounded by a wall. On one side was a row of tents; in the largest of which a table was spread with viands, from one o’clock till six, and furnished with a constant supply of iced moselle and champagne. About a hundred members and some guests were present; and they shot, ate and drank, by turns. The pigeons were placed in a row, eight at a time. Cords are fastened to the doors of their houses, which meet at the shooting-stand; when one is pulled it opens the door, and the pigeon flies out. The man who shot last pulls for his successor,—but standing behind him, so that the latter cannot see which cord he pulls, and is therefore uncertain which of the eight pigeons will fly out: if the pigeon falls within the wall after his fire, it is reckoned his; if not, it does not count. Every man has a double-barrelled gun, and may use both barrels.

The two most famous shots in England, are Captain de Roos and Mr Osbaldistone. They shot for a wager of a thousand pounds which is not yet decided. Neither missed once; and Captain de Roos’s birds never fell twelve paces from the spot, and scarcely fluttered, but dropped like stones almost the moment he fired. Never did I see such admirable shooting. A pretty little spaniel belonging to the Club fetched every pigeon, and performed his duty like a machine, without either delay, neglect or hurry. At last the whole party shot for a golden vase of two hundred pounds value, (the annual prize of the Club,) which was won by Captain de Roos.

I did not get away from this jolly breakfast till seven o’clock, when I went to a little theatre, as yet unknown to me, called Sadler’s Wells, which is a good three-quarters of a mile (German) from my dwelling. I went in a hackney coach. When I wanted to go home, towards one o’clock, I could find no coach in this out-of-the-way place, and all the houses were shut. This was the more disagreeable, as I had really not the least idea in what part of the town I was.

After wandering about the streets in vain for half an hour in search of a coach, I resigned myself to the idea of finding my way home on foot, with the aid of a watchman, when a stage coach came by which was going my way, and with which I happily regained my Penates about two o’clock.—The peculiarity of this theatre is that it contains real water, in which element the actors splash and dabble about by the hour together, like ducks or water rats: ‘au reste,’ nothing can surpass the nonsense of the melodrame, nor the horror of the singing by which it was accompanied.

June 20th.

I have been to another fancy ball, which has left only a melancholy impression on my mind. I remarked a pale man wrapped in a plain black domino, on whose countenance indescribable traces of the bitterest mental suffering were imprinted. It was not long before I asked L—— about him, and he told me as follows:

“This truly pitiable man might serve as the hero of a fearful romance. If it can be said of any one that he was born to misfortune, that is the man. Early in life he lost his large property by the fraudulent bankruptcy of a friend. A hundred times since has Fortune approached him, but only to mock him with hopes which were invariably dashed from him at the decisive moment: in almost every case it was some insignificant trifle—the delay of a letter—some easy mistake—some indisposition, slight in itself but disastrous in its consequences, that wrecked everything; apparently, always by his own fault, and yet, in fact, a tissue woven by mocking, malignant spirits.

“For a long time past he has made no more attempts to alter his condition; he seeks no improvement of his lot, persuaded beforehand, by long and cruel experience, that nothing can ever succeed with him. I have known him from youth up. Though guileless and unoffending as a child, the world in general deems him malignant; though one of the most upright of men, false and intriguing; he is shunned and dreaded, though never did a heart beat more warmly for the weal of others. The girl he adored committed suicide in consequence of his suspected infidelity. He found himself, by a series of unheard-of circumstances, accused of the murder of his brother, near whom he was found bleeding, having risked his life in his defence:—he was saved from an ignominious death only by the King’s pardon; and it was not till some time afterwards that the proofs of his innocence came to light. Lastly, a woman with whom he was betrayed into marriage by an infamous and long protracted system of deceit, ran away with another man, and artfully contrived that, in the eyes of the world, the greater portion of the blame should rest with him.—All confidence in himself thus utterly crushed and blighted, every hope in destiny or in men annihilated, he lives among them like an unsympathizing, unconnected ghost,—a heart-rending example that there are beings who (as far as this life is concerned) seem to be sold to the Devil before their birth; for when the curse of destiny has once scathed a man, it not only raises up to him enemies at every step, but robs him of the confidence and, in time, of the hearts of his friends; till at length the unhappy one, crushed, rejected, and trodden under foot on every side, lays down his weary, wounded head, and dies; while his last sigh appears to the pitiless crowd an assumption and an intolerable discord. Wo to the unlucky! Threefold wo to them. For to them there is neither virtue, nor wisdom, nor skill, nor joy! There is but one good for them; and that is—death.”

June 25th.

There is certainly something pleasant in having so many invitations at your disposal every day; and, if you are not pleased in one place, in being able immediately to seek out company that suits you better. Here and there, too, one finds something new, piquant, and interesting. Yesterday, at Prince L——’s, for instance, I met with a second Ninon de l’Enclos. Certainly nobody would take Lady A——, to be more than forty, and yet I was assured she is near eighty. Nothing in her appears forced or unnatural, but every thing youthful; figure, dress, air, vivacity of manners, grace and elasticity of limb, as far as this is discernible at a party,—all about her is perfectly young, and scarcely a wrinkle in her face. She has never made herself anxious, and has lived a very gay life from her youth up: she ran away from her husband twice, on which account she quitted England for a long time, and spent her large fortune in Paris. Altogether she is a very ‘amiable’ person, more French than English in her deportment, and quite ‘du grand monde.’ The science of the toilet she has studied profoundly, and has made some important discoveries in it. From all I could see of the results, I should be very glad to impart them to you and my other fair friends.

Next day the Duke of S—— gave a ‘dÉjeunÉ champÊtre’ at his villa, at which invention was racked for something new in an entertainment of the kind. His whole house was hung with beautiful ‘hautelisse’ and gay Chinese hangings;—a multitude of sofas, easy chairs, ‘chaises longues,’ mirrors, &c., in all parts of the garden as well as of the rooms; besides a little encampment of tents of white and rose-coloured muslin, which had a beautiful effect, set in the emerald-green of the grounds.

In the evening, followed, as usual, an illumination, consisting chiefly of single lamps, half-hidden in tree and bush, like so many ruddy fruits or bright-glow worms, enticing the loving or the lonely. Those who preferred noisy to quiet pleasures also found their heart’s desire. Here, a large part of the company was dancing in a wide tent, the way to which lay under a bowery archway of roses, brilliantly illuminated;—there, resounded a delightful concert, executed by the best performers from the Italian Opera. Italian weather, too, happily shone on this fÊte from beginning to end; any little mischievous spirit of air might have totally ruined it.

I have now so disposed my affairs that I shall be able to quit England in a month at furthest, to make a longer tour in Wales, and more especially in Ireland; which latter country, according to all I hear of it, excites my interest much more than even Scotland. Yet I am sorry that illness first, and the distractions of the metropolis afterwards, have robbed me of the sight of that country. It is an omission I must enter in my book of sins, which, alas! contains so many under the same head—Indolence—that terrible foe of man! Certainly that French Marshal in Louis the fourteenth’s time,—a time so unfavourable to ‘parvenus,’ answered rightly, when he was asked, how it was possible that he could have raised himself to the highest dignities of his profession from the condition of a common soldier, “Only by this means,” said he; “I never deferred till to-morrow what I could do to-day.”

Almost under the same head may be classed Indecision, that other hereditary foe of the species, which another celebrated Marshal, Suvaroff, hated so much, that, with the usual exaggerations of his character, he instantly withdrew all favour from a man who replied to any question he asked him, “I don’t know.”

‘Non mi ricordo’ does better; and according to my principles I apply this to all the above-named sins, when once they are committed. We ought daily to repeat to ourselves, The past is dead, the future only lives. May it smile upon us, dearest Julia!

Your faithful L——.