Part 7

Leaving Paris in a dreadful diligence by way of Dijon and the golden grapes, I traversed the Jura range and entered Geneva. I stayed there too, for of course I had to set myself up in a musical box that played the “Parisienne” and the “Marseillaise,” as well as in a watch and chain, besides looking at Mont Blanc and sailing on the lake to see where the Rhone rushed in, and to visit Lausanne in memory of Gibbon. Nor did I fail to see the prison of Chillon in compliment to the poet Byron.

My jeweller at Geneva was a very earnest mechanic. He had studied the art of watchmaking in London and in Paris, he had made a chronometer to compete for some great prize and had failed, entirely to his own satisfaction, assuring himself that his work was of the best, but that it was impossible to make allowance for the wear and tear of the sun!

The journey from Geneva to the Simplon I found very romantic. The valley, in which lies Martigny, was marked by driftways that looked like roads excavated from solid snow, cut out from the heights to the level, and which, never traversed by travellers, appeared to lead to lands unknown.

At Martigny there had been a deluge, by which every house was dislocated with the exception of the church. The flood was caused by the bursting of a mountain lake; the clever priests, foreseeing what would one day happen, so constructed the church, with a prow towards the threatening lake, as to enable it to resist a torrent.

I passed over the Simplon; I saw the Borromean Islands on the other side, and, proceeding to Milan, paid their old owner, the great cardinal, a visit in the cathedral. He was lying, as so many have beheld him, in his comfortable coffin.

Milan even then was a most elegant city, and most tastefully paved. I was so fortunate as to have a letter from Sir James Clark to Dr. Ciceri, who showed me everything, and there is no guide like a native one; but I say now that all I care for in the Lombard capital is the fresco of Leonardo da Vinci.

XXVIII.

When a man begins to write and finds he can hardly spell his name, he looks at Bolingbroke for style, or at Goldsmith, and gets help from both; but woe to him if he falls in love with such rickety writers as were De Quincy, or Carlyle! Both had bandy pens. As a man gets older, if he has anything to say, he is contented with being himself, and covering his thoughts with words that exactly fit them, as the skin fits a race-horse. An affected style betrays an affected character, with its self-respect in abeyance. He finds that some long words contain his idea ready made, but he does better to shun them, and express it in his own way, and this I have done in writing these my memoirs.

Whatever my style was before visiting Italy, I cannot now say; probably the word did not then apply. I think that a man who is an agreeable companion should write as he would talk to himself; by such means only can he be what is called a stylist.

Macaulay wrote as he would have preached, had he been a parson; but, as a layman, he used stilts for a pulpit.

Thackeray spent a good deal of his time on stilts. He wrote, too, as he talked; but, then, he was a very disagreeable companion to those who did not want to boast that they knew him. In his society people had to do two things when one would have been quite enough; they had to smile titteringly as well as to listen.

Perhaps the reason why no author has hitherto described a perfect gentleman is, that it would require his being one himself; and some people think that no perfect gentleman ever lived except—not irreverently speaking—the Christian founder. Richardson’s Sir Charles was a muff, Bulwer’s Pelham a prig, Thackeray’s Major a fop, Dickens’s Mr. Dean an unfinished portrait.

Was the true gentleman ever meant to be? The only one accredited with that character—the only Lord—was not unacquainted with the use of irony, even with invective itself which served his end, and that with far greater effect than remonstrance.

I conceive the gentleman, like genius itself, to be fragmentary. How men differ in their conception of the character!

A lady whom I knew at one time very intimately, conceiving that her husband was on his death-bed, asked him to have his sons before him, and to give them some good advice before he died. The husband readily consented. “My sons,” he said, “your dear mother wishes me to say a few words that may be of benefit to you when I am gone, and I am most anxious to acquiesce in her desire. If there is anything that I can advise to your advantage, it would be this: never to repel the advances of women; it is not gentlemanly.”

But a perfect lady—has such a thing ever been? Who has described it?

No one; it is indescribable!

But even the temporary gentleman has a great charm; it is based on a model which may last for an hour, even a day; and then crumble. Amiability goes a long way in constructing this model; it is so conciliating, and sometimes so gentle, that it seems to purr. Henry VIII. no doubt handed Woburn Abbey over to Lord John’s ancestor in a most gentlemanly style; yet, what a wild beast he was; his mouth was always daubed with human blood.

It was amiable of Lord John to bring in the first Reform Bill, because one of its effects will ultimately be to make Henry-Eighths of the people, who will re-confiscate all the Woburns in the land, and all the Convent Gardens.

I was on intimate terms with a man who was private secretary to Lord John, and who obtained a baronetcy of him. That appreciative individual told me that no one knew, really, what a kind, amiable, and gentlemanly man the Lord John Russell was. No one knew it! Did he imply that he was himself no one?

But, happily for us, we have still George IV. left us as a study.

Is it true that the women are to have the franchise—will it come true? Is it true that they are to have cushions in the Houses of Commons and of Lords, because they are fitted for the highest offices of State;—will it come true? If so, it is to be hoped that the perfect lady will be evolved; one who even, for purposes of policy, will not exercise her charms; such a one might be trusted, because, in negotiating with a foreign plenipotentiary she would not use her eyes.

Until that happy evolution is achieved, one might certainly appoint ugly women; they would be obliged to rely on their intellectual gifts alone.

A woman’s style of speaking in private is often very pleasant; less so in public, unless she is a Siddons.

Everything will happen in turn, and awkward things will even come about. The Press might have to hint that Lady Mary, our minister for foreign affairs, has been much talked about of late, as giving too frequent interviews to the Home Secretary, Mr. Tristram Shandy; that it is even insinuated, at present only in private circles, that the husband of the right honourable lady contemplates taking law proceedings. This would prove a heavy blow to petticoat government: it would inevitably lead to the breaking up of the administration.

Thus demeanour has its peculiar style, as well as writing.

Women are often great stylists; they have the merit of writing as they would talk. Every one knows when a book is written by a woman; she is so good at drapery, still more at male beauty.

There are two styles of writing derived from anatomy—the nervous, and muscular. Trelawny, about whom I would say something, for his book has come out afresh, had both of these in one—he made them dramatic and pictorial.

Women are the best mistresses of the nervous style; they supply its instances at first hand, from flirting to hysterics; while men, like Borrow and Trelawney, are masters of the muscular style.

I could give a valuable hint to writers who would be effective, exact, and pleasing; let them master the methods followed in the scientific style, as in an article on “Light,” by Herschel in the “Encyclopædia Metropolitana.”

XXIX.

Before I went to Italy I could not write; after I had crossed the Simplon I could: the wonders I saw wholly revolutionized my soul. There was height above height of snow that disregarded the sun; or, if it yielded to its insinuations, it was only to drip into bayonets of ice. There were cataracts that had so far to fall, that the eyes reached the bottom of the gulph first, and seemed only overtaken by the waters with which they started.

I had nothing more to do with Bolingbroke or with Goldsmith, in style; I had seen Nature play the great idea and express herself. I learned that she was the true stylist, and that she was not inimitable.

I lingered at Florence and made acquaintance with many there—native, English, and foreign. Among these were Trelawny and Landor, whose names still continue remarkable. Of the last I saw little; he was preparing to drive himself to England in his gig. He had greatly offended the Government of Tuscany by the freedom of his speech, and he became intolerable. This resulted in his being served with an order to quit the country. When matters came to so serious a pass, he was taken by surprise. He called on the Grand Duke to remonstrate; he told that amiable prince that it was an honour to the country to have such a man as himself residing in it; on which subject the Grand Duke agreed with him, and the edict of expulsion was withdrawn.

He, too, was one of the artificial stylists.

People went little abroad in those days for want of travelling accommodation, and the English generally in Florence, were not of a kind to make a favourable impression; many of them were ill-disciplined in principle, and had become dregs who reached the bottom, though there were many who were quite as respectable at home as a thousand miles off, and were absent on business only, economy, or pleasure. Colonel Burdett, a friendly and agreeable man, heir to the prince of Radicals, Sir Francis, was a traveller on his way to Rome, and invited me to accompany him; but I desired to be stationary for a time, that I might acquire the lingua Toscana, which I was learning under the Abbé Caselli.

Landor was not a nice man; he was violent in his conversation: he thought it worth saying that his ancestors were statesmen when Lord Mulgrave’s were working in a ditch, forgetting that his descendants in the course of things might be working in a ditch while Lord Mulgrave’s were statesmen.

Then there was Dr. Bankhead, who was the newsman of the fashionable past in all instances where slander mostly fitted in. There was a divorced, re-married countess who, as the wife of a rich parson, was a leader, but whose story he ripped open for the delight of all comers, at the same time the nearer he might venture to England himself the worse he would have fared.

The relief in acquiring such companions is that one never expects to meet them again.

I am probably the only one living who was acquainted with Trelawny in his younger days. It was during my first residence in Florence in the years 1831-32. He was of a strong, noble build, of quiet, gentlemanly demeanour, and of a manner of conversation free from all display. He was much courted by the English residents. His adventures, his marriage with the maid whose father’s life, the Greek chief Ulysses, he had defended and saved, his connection with Byron, his cremation and burial of Shelley, were in every mouth, and he is undoubtedly one of the celebrities of our time. His likeness was taken by Kirkup, an English artist who lived and died at Florence, and who was the discoverer of Dante’s portrait, now universally known.

I knew Kirkup well. He was a pleasant companion in those early days, over sixty years ago; he afterwards became entangled in the superstitions of spiritualism, all through lack of that physiological training which should be given to all, and but few enjoy. These shocking errors of the mind, to which not even the cattle are liable, appear to gratify their slaves for a time; but they have no ultimate value, only encouraging the clear-sighted to look down on their fellow-creatures.

It is only due to the memory of Trelawny as a hero to record here that the English women, married or single, old or young, were crazed as Juliets about him, at the same time that they were gushing over with stories of his cruelty to his lovely wife, whose hair, trailing on the floor of Ulysses’ cave, he was said to have stripped off to the roots in a moment of anger.

There was a good anatomical school at Florence, of which I did not fail to profit.

On this my first visit to Florence I got to know many new things—the meaning of the fine arts, the beauties of Michael Angelo, Cellini, and Bruneleschi; the mysteries of Dante, Boccacio, Petrarch, Alfieri, Ariosto, Tasso; so I returned richer than I went. But of all the persons I remember, Madame Catalani is foremost in my memory; she is never to be forgotten. And till I returned to the city again, I lived within sight of the Palazzo Vicchio, the Duomo, and the Campanile.

Lord and Lady Holland occupied the British Ministry at Florence. Among other English families resident there were Lord Burghersh; Lord Mulgrave, a great musician; Sir Henry Floyd, Lady Peel’s brother; Dr. Bankhead; Kirkup, the artist; the Perrys, the Losacks, and several others with and without handles to their names; Mr. Hare among them, still guessing at Truth. Among natives was the incomparable Catalani. The English, or most of them there, were awaiting events, making pleasant homes, until future prospects came closer and within reach.

At Sir Henry and Lady Floyd’s I met with Colonel Burdett, the brother of our best lady, the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, whose estimable acquaintance I made more than half a century later.

The Marquis Spinelli was very fond of the English and a great favourite with them, acting as a medium between our countrymen and his own.

What an experience and toning a young man gets from a residence of this sort, in a favourite foreign city, at an age when his sap is rising, and has yet to burst out and congeal into full leafage!

I am not going to describe Florence; my love of it will come out better when I visit it again.

All was new to me then! Imagine only what it is for such sweet little cities as Piacenza, Parma, and Modena to be new; imagine Milan to be seen for the first time, after architectureless Brighton!

I remained at Florence, a voluntary seeker after knowledge, a great part of 1831 and 1832. I then went into Switzerland by way of Milan, Como, Lugano, Bellinzona, Zug, Zurich, Schaffhausen; made acquaintance with Strasburg, Stutgard, and several other German cities, not omitting the Rhenish and other German towns, ultimately reaching Brussels and home.

Before long I was at Brighton again on a visit to the widow Wallinger, my faithful and generous aunt.

XXX.

I once was spoken to by a king; I had great anticipations. When I saw him, I found, to my astonishment, that he was only a man. I had to go on a knee and show my affection for him, which I did not feel, by kissing his hand, which was large and flabby. This gentleman was named William; there had only been three of that name before him.

The next day I saw a queen; her name was Adelaide. This lady bowed to me, smiled at me.

This introduction did not lead to any intimacy, as may be supposed, but it entitled me to the acquaintance of our ambassadors abroad, and to the _entrée_ at foreign courts.

On the evening of the Drawing-Room, my friend Mr. Nussey took me to dine with Sir William Martens, at St. James’s Palace. He belonged to the Court, and on the subject of royalty was emotional.

The conversation turned on the ladies at the Drawing-Room. I spoke of a daughter of Lord Stewart de Rothsay as the one great object of admiration. He went into raptures over the name, and congratulated me on having seen the most beautiful woman of the day.

This lady married the Marquis of Waterford, and is the mother of our naval hero, Lord Charles Beresford.

An old friend of mine, Madame Gandillot, whom I knew at the late Lady Ripon’s, was brought up by Sir Herbert, the Privy Purse, and Lady Taylor. I heard from her many amusing anecdotes of the king and queen, one of which I may relate. Sir Andrew Buchanan had just returned to England, and was at Brighton, where the Court was staying. It was suggested by Queen Adelaide to dress Sir Andrew as a Turk, and to inform the king that the Turkish ambassador, whom he expected, but did not then know, desired an audience of him. This, by the assistance of the Taylors, was fully carried out, and Sir Andrew, fully disguised, was introduced by Sir Herbert; the queen, Lady Taylor, and my friend being the only persons present.

The king received the supposed ambassador graciously, but looked puzzled; he received his message in due form, but still had a puzzled look, as if, as was surmised, the face of the envoy was not new to him. So the interview passed off, to the great amusement of the queen, followed by no remark from the king either then or after.

XXXI.

Again at Brighton. I may here say, the delight of myself and brother to this day is the recollection of Mrs. Wallinger, our aunt, long gone, and of the eccentricity of her mental powers, increasing as time went on.

I have spoken of her often in an earlier page, but her sayings were really droll enough to be put on record. I often make the new generation laugh by repeating them.

When she had done anything that gave her a triumph, she would say to one of us, “Did I not, my dear, show my great good sense? Am I not always right?” Of course we assented with a smile of mental reservation.

As she grew old and less capable, and ceased to feed her friends, she dropped into a more melancholy mood, and, looking upwards with her fine large eyes, and a sigh, would say, “What a world it is, isn’t it, my dear? Here we are, my dear, all alone, one with another.”

She did everything in her power for her relations with kindness of heart and ample means, but it only made her feel that she was everybody’s victim, so all her good deeds made her sorrowful.

She reached to a very advanced age, when her decay of memory showed itself in a curious manner; she would forget, in part, the very subject she was dwelling upon. Thus, when the sad story of Sir Thomas Troubridge was made public, that he lost both arms and legs in the Crimea; that the lady he was engaged to marry before the war did not shrink from her pledge on his return, she was greatly impressed by the circumstance, and would say, “If it had been me, my dear, I could not have married him. I know it would have been very dishonourable of me, but I should have said, ‘Sir, I can’t!’ Only think, my dear, how dreadful it would have been, he in so helpless a condition, not able even to wash his own hands!”

Some in this mental state will in speaking forget even their last word, when it has served as a clue to the one that comes next. Thus, such a person repeating Lord Lytton’s earlier names, Sir Edward _Lytton Bulwer Lytton_, would never stop, because after Lytton he is necessitated to say Bulwer, after Bulwer, Lytton, after Lytton, Bulwer again, and so on for ever.

When the memory begins to fade, the ghost of a word sought still haunts the mind, and by dwelling on it for some time, the substance will return to the shadow, and the word again lives. The memory must be far gone to encounter total obliteration—threads to every subject long remain; but the difficulty, then the impossibility of finding and taking up the thread at last follows. The lady of whom I have spoken, the kindly aunt, was brought up at Exeter. I once asked her if she remembered Northern-hay. Her reply was, she had never heard the name. I spoke of other places, beginning with St. Bartholomew’s. We lived there, she said, after we left Bowhill House, and we used to walk up Fore Street to St. Sidwell’s, and then across Northern-hay Hill.

I have mentioned how in her better days this generous, kind-hearted lady felt herself the victim of her family, spontaneous as was her interest in all that concerned them. My mother, while we were at Brighton, had a fall on the stairs, which produced a severe dislocation of the hip-joint. I hastened to Mrs. Wallinger’s house to acquaint her with the distressful news. She evidently took in all at a glance, with the weeks of kindness she would be compelled to bestow on the sufferer, and her first remark, accompanied with a sigh and upturned, pathetic eyes, was, “Is it not very hard on me, my dear? To think of my family!”

I must not omit a very frequent saying of this lady. Her house was a model of cleanliness, and to that virtue she would allude with pride. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she would say; “for what else is there, my dear?”

I cannot resist noting another favourite exclamation of hers, always uttered when any event, serious and unexpected, transpired. On such occasions, she would look piously upwards, and say, “Does it not show how true everything is, my dear?” just as if the whole of the holy Scriptures had suddenly flashed across her mind.

XXXII.

In my earlier days I was intimately acquainted with the Earl of Elgin, whose name is co-immortal with the marbles of ancient Greece. It shows what an amiable man he was to have taken so much notice as he did of a young man so insignificant as myself, and to have introduced me on equal terms to his wife and family.

How fortunate is London to contain the Elgin Marbles and the Raphael Cartoons, which, exclusive of the Venus of Milo, and the Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, are of greater worth than all the other sculptures and paintings in Europe.

I knew Lord Elgin in London and Paris; it was when his great diplomatic career was ended. He was a patient sufferer from facial neuralgia, and was under the treatment of Hahnneman. He was unable to speak, for the motion of his lips left a new paroxysm of pain. So he wrote what he would have said, and on one occasion he placed the words on paper that violent as his suffering was it was due no longer to the disease, but to the medicine that was administered. A remedy in homœopathic hands is thought to occupy the disease, and by slightly exaggerating it to effect its cure.

Lord Elgin would have liked to see me one of Hahnneman’s party; he introduced me to the physician. I saw some of the practice, but always left in exactly the same state of mind as I went.

I sometimes joined the family party at dinner in Paris, so I knew Lady Elgin and her two daughters who were then single. I think the eldest was called Lady Charlotte, the youngest was Lady Augusta, who became the wife of Dean Stanley.

The manner and ways of this family were of the simplest; there was not the slightest show of rank in anything they did or said.

Afterwards, in London, the earl brought his son, Mr. Frederick Bruce, to see me, and this visit afforded me a pleasant recollection; for Mr. Bruce, Sir Frederick afterwards, became a distinguished public servant, and, when ambassador in China, took a keen interest in Charles Gordon, and assisted him in every manner in his power. He was tall of stature, and a much finer looking man than his eminent eldest brother.

Lady Matilda Bruce, afterwards Maxwell, through her marriage, was the eldest daughter of Lord Elgin by his first wife, and was the heiress of her mother’s large fortune. I did not meet her, but she showed me kindness through a common friend, and when I visited Canada she gave me a cordial introduction to her brother who was Governor-General of that colony at the time.

There was a drama published by me in 1839, called the “Piromides,” which many members of this noble family took a pleasure in reading. It was my first serious work, and was inscribed to the Earl of Elgin, the late ambassador at the court of the Sultan.

XXXIII.