SOCIAL RELATIONS WITH THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN.

1825. ÆT. 22.

I FOUND my brother Henry at Paris. He had quitted Cambridge without taking a degree, and entered into the Life Guards, but soon sold out, meditating that diplomatic career in which he has since been so distinguished. He did not stay long at Paris, and while he was there we did not see much of each other.

I soon found admission into circles of French society not often open to foreigners of my age. I became intimate at some of the most brilliant houses of the old noblesse domiciled in the Faubourg St. Germain, and was received with marked courtesy at the select soirees of the principal members of the Administration. I owed some of my best introductions to a very remarkable man, who took a fancy both to Henry and myself, and expressed a warm interest in our future career. He was an Irishman and a priest, of the name of Kinsela, and bore the title of Abbé. He was, if I remember rightly, the confessor of Madame de Polignac, wife of Charles X.’s minister, and was held in great respect by the chiefs of the Legitimist party. He was a Jesuit; he had much of the learning which distinguishes that great fraternity, and still more of their knowledge of the world and savoir-vivre. He was a very busy, and, I should think, a very able, politician; but, so far as I could judge, free from all personal ambition or self - seeking. He appeared poor, and lived very modestly; but on one or two occasions, when I guessed that he was in want of money, I could not persuade him to accept it, whether as gift or loan. He had, however, an intense enthusiasm for the interests of his order, and made no secret of it.

Among the houses to me most agreeable, and always to me most kindly, at which the Abbé Kinsela’s introduction served to insure my welcome, was that of the Marquise de la Rochejacquelein, the heroine of La Vendee — a lady of imposing presence, but with that frank and almost homely good-nature, combined with high breeding, which constituted the charm of manner in the old regime. She had two daughters, both very pleasant, and one, to my taste, very good-looking. They spoke English perfectly, which was a great aid to our friendly intercourse, as I then spoke French very ill; and, indeed, to this day I express myself awkwardly in that language. There is no trace in English society of the peculiar bon ton which characterized the surviving representatives of that World before the Flood — the ancien regime. Once familiarly admitted into their society, and it seemed as if you were made one of the family. Their cordial sweetness of manner was irresistible; and whatever their political prejudices, there was that genuine elevation of sentiment in their familiar converse that could scarcely fail to exercise a favorable influence over young men not indisposed to recognize the obligations imposed on gentlemen. Courage, honor, truth — a high but not obtrusive self-respect, which allowed neither greed nor ambition to infringe on their pecuniary or their political independence — were qualities that came out in their talk as naturally as perfume comes out of a flower. Their misfortunes had no doubt served to correct many of their ancestral faults. They retained, indeed, the old French sprightliness and gallantry; but I think there were very few of their salons in which religion was ever turned into ridicule, or in which any immorality was paraded. Their ease of manner was always noble, their freedom of talk admitted wit and shunned indecorum.

Among these distinguished families there was a young lady who had passed her childhood in England; who had a marked preference for English ways and literature; who had a very good fortune, and boasted a very illustrious historical name. I soon discovered that it was the great desire of the Abbé Kinsela to form a matrimonial alliance between that young lady and myself. At last he fairly proposed it to me.

“Pooh!” said I, “a girl of so high a rank, and with such great pretensions of fortune and person, must look much higher than me. I appear richer than I am; I am but a younger son, living chiefly on an allowance from my mother. And though, I suppose, I am of a family old enough to satisfy a Frenchman’s pride of pedigree, I have neither inherited nor made a position in the world that would qualify my presuming to Mademoiselle— ‘s hand.”

“You know my footing in the family,” replied the Abbé, “and you will not disbelieve me when I say that, if you propose, you will be accepted both by the lady and her parents.”

“But she is Roman Catholic, and I am Protestant. Entre nous, I mean to remain Protestant.”

“That as you please; I don’t pretend to convert you. But the difference of religion will be no obstacle, unless you make it one.”

This conversation set me thinking. I was not in love with Mademoiselle — , but I felt that I could easily become so. Her person and manners were exceedingly attractive. I liked her conversation, and discovered in her turn of mind much that was congenial to my own. She had been admirably brought up, and belonged to a family in which all the women were chaste as all the men were brave. In a social and worldly point of view, Mademoiselle — would have been a suitable match for an English duke. After some reflection, I wrote to my mother fully on this subject; saying that if such a marriage would please her, I proposed to ascertain for myself how far the Abbé’s overtures were justified by the predisposition of the lady and her parents, and that, if so, I could be very happy in the union. But that, if she disliked the idea of my marrying a foreigner, my heart was not yet irrevocably gone; and, for fear it should be, I should discontinue my visits to the house. My mother’s reply decided me.

She had a great horror of Popery, and could not endure the thought of my marrying a Roman Catholic.

I found it required a stronger effort than I had first supposed to wrench my thoughts from the prospect that had been so alluringly held out to me. But I felt that honor and duty compelled me to persevere in the effort. I ceased to visit at the house where I had been so familiar a guest, and sought distraction of thought partly in the world, partly in literary occupation.

About this time one of those visitations of great melancholy to which I was subject during all my younger life — and from which to this day I am not wholly free — came upon me, and grew strong and stronger, deep and deeper. Gradually I withdrew myself much from the gayeties natural to my youth, and lived greatly alone. I wrote some poems, which I privately printed at Paris, under the name of Weeds and Wildflowers. They have never been published, and I do not think ten copies have been given away. I also recast and nearly completed the sombre tale of Falkland. Besides these achievements, I studied with critical attention the standard French authors. At last, finding that literary occupation of this nature only fed my melancholy, I made a determined resolve to wrestle with myself against it. I left Paris abruptly, took an apartment at Versailles, where I did not know a soul, and tried the effect of healthful physical exercise in restoring the mind to that cheerful view of life which is essential to its just equilibrium. I had with me my favourite Andalusian horse; and, rising early, I forced myself to ride out daily, in all weathers, for nine or ten hours, till it grew dark. I returned home sufficiently fatigued to insure a good appetite and a sound sleep. All my life through, I have found the necessity of intervals of complete solitude for the cure of the morbid symptoms which half solitude engenders.