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you my impressions of him. In person, sensual; like his brothers, full and florid, his voice alternating continually from a soprano to a deep barytone. He seems eminently intellectual, unaffected, and kind; he is also a thorough-bred gentleman, which is not what can be said of all princes." We cannot say whether her ladyship proposed to include in the latter category the first Gentleman in Europe.

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Of the royal bride, just discussed, somewhat uncavalierly-Adelaide, that should be Queen hereafter-the fair diarist gives her own "impressions" in a subsequent page. Speaking of the effect of a new chandelier at the Opera, about which, "in spite of its beauty and brilliancy, the women are outrageous," as they declare it makes them all look frights" -her ladyship maliciously goes on to say: "The Duchess of Clarence, in this respect, leaves all competitorship behind. We stood near her in the cloaking-room for five minutes, so that even Morgan could see her, who sees nothing. Her skin is yellow, her hair lemon-colour, her eyes pink, and her features sharp. She looked timid, poor thing, but curtseyed very gracefully when God save the King' was played à son intention, and applied to her honour by the audience. His handsome royal highness honoured me with a salute of recognition, in memory, I suppose, of our conversation at Harrington House, years ago. The duchess, an Albino in appearance, is an angel in character, although angels were not painted fair to look like her.'"

Jekyll is pronounced "certainly the most delightful creature I ever met, partly, perhaps, because he flatters me up to my bent, and partly because he is delightful." Jekyll's "rival wit, Luttrell, . . . made a mot the other night to Lady Cork, which was certainly one of the wittiest things ever said, but too broad to repeat. In the days of Swift, however, it would have been thought good fun at Lady Betty Germain's." Notions of what is good fun in good society are, happily, liable to change. And if between Lady Betty Germain's days and Lady Cork's, a great gulf was fixed, there is another of some depth and breadth between the Prince Regent's age and our Victorian era.

At a concert at Lady Charleville's, "one of the finest things given this year" [1818], Sir Charles Morgan enters the room "with Mrs. Opie on one arm and me on another [sic]. Conceive the formidable* sight." Here Sir George Smart presides at the piano; Crivelli is divine; and Ambrogetti sings all Leporello's songs with exquisite humour: "I think he is the finest buffo I ever heard. A young lady of fashion played the harp with one hand, and with the other the piano. The ladies of fashion were all ready de pâmer d'aise, and Sir George Smart and ourselves exchanged looks of disgust. It was execrable playing. I played a little, and sang 'Kate Kearney.' . . . The person that interested me most was Lady Sarah Bunbury, the king's first passion, and once the most beautiful woman in England: imagine a dignified though infirm old lady, stone blind, being led in !-Mrs. Fitzherbert sat next me; I never saw such lovely blue eyes. She appeared to me what I thought her when I was a little child and saw her picture-fat, fair, and forty."

But it is in French society that Lady Morgan finds herself best qualified to give and receive delight. In La Fayette's country house, and in the crowded salons of Paris, she is twice herself. Her own rooms are thronged

* Formidable it must have been, had Sir Charles yet an arm to spare.

by the fashionable, and she patronises a few thankful Britons. Miladi is deluged with compliments, in all the variegated phases of versatile French, from Dénon and Sebastiani, Ségur and Humboldt, Thierry and Scheffer, Benjamin Constant and Raoul Rochette. Of M. Charles Dupin an unfavourable story is told, about which we would hope there is a something misconceived or unexplained. The Duchesse de Broglie's is a pleasant presence. Her brother, "young De Staël," is repeatedly met with. “I was very desirous to know him," says her ladyship, as Madame de Staël's son, and favourite son. Of her elder one, who died young, she was wont to say, 'Pauvre garçon, il est imbécile comme son père!' Le cadet, on the contrary, might have walked out of a page of Mademoiselle Scudéri's sentimental romances. He perpetuates une grande passion for a fair dame, who can never be his, simply because she is another's. It is said he is conscience-struck as well as heart-struck, and consults his curé at Geneva on the mortal sin of his attachment. He is a pious Calvinist, and, for probity and honour, a worthy grandson of old Necker. So much for what I have been told." On acquaintance, she finds him a charmant jeune homme. He "speaks English with the accent and manner of our English men of fashion, whom he much resembles in his dress and address: he is full of all sorts of information, and a great musician." Of his sister we read: "The Duchesse de Broglie spent an hour with me the other day. She is reserved and simple, and not the least what you would suppose Madame de Staël's daughter to be."

Here again are other stray glimpses, through chinks that time has made. "Went to a soirée at Madame Sophie Gay's, a beautiful writer, and still a pretty woman, in spite of the rivalry of two beautiful daughters who were in attendance on her all the night, Madame O'Donnel and Delphine Gay, still in her teens, but promising to surpass her mother's full-blown talents"-which promise she is believed, as Mme. Emile de Girardin, to have fully kept. "Madame O'Donnel thanked me gracefully for illustrating the name of her husband, General O'Donnel, who begged permission to wait on me. These French women have such a peculiar grace in saying gracious things! a certain little twist about the mouth; a movement of good-will which is pleasant, but has not the affectation to faire la moue. I made the remark to a John Bull who was standing near me, and he replied, gruffly, 'Grimace, ma'am-all grimace;' a sentence which his wife-a piece of still-life with an implacable face, all Sternhold and Hopkins in every feature-endorsed.

"There were many celebrities present, literary and dramatic; one particularly struck me-a fragment of the supreme Beauty of the Directory: it was La Princesse de Chimie! Madame Tallien, a puissance of the Directory! A very fine young man stood beside her: it was her son, the present prince. I was presented to her, and had a few minutes' pleasant conversation. Another, a simple and elegant-looking woman, no longer young, and plainly dressed in white silk, without a single ornament, and only a bandeau binding her beautiful black hair; but such eyes! once seen they were never to be forgotten." When Lady Morgan inquires her name of the hostess, Mme. Gay hesitates before she replies "Eh bien, c'est Mademoiselle Mars"-and follows up this halting answer with an 66 A propos, I must not mislead you by letting you suppose actresses are received in society with us as they are with you;

but I take out my privilege as an auteur dramatique to receive a charming creature." We can imagine something of what passed in the mind of Mr. Owenson's daughter, in listening to this apologetic speech.

Elsewhere we meet with the Comte de la Rochefoucault, and Talma, and Prince Paul of Wurtemburg, and the Princesse Jablonowski, and "half-mad half-inspired" Boucher, and "the favourite pupil of David," Berthon, an engraving of whose portrait of Miladi adorns this volume. Towards the close, we have some graphic letters, in the veritable Morganesque style and spirit, descriptive of Geneva and its environs.-But why give further account of, or shreds and fragments from, a book which, the chances are, is even now lying on the reader's table, not uncut?

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138

THE HORRIBLE REVENGE.

A PROVERB.

BY HENRY SPICER, ESQ.

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SIR JOHN GABRIEL sat alone in his dismal library. Study" would be an entire misnomer. He never perused anything but the countenance of his beautiful young wife, and certain official reports and returns connected with the military district of D—, of which he was commandant, and on the outskirts of the city of which name he inhabited a huge old mansion of forbidding aspect, confined, like some dangerous monster, within two immense iron gates, which looked as if they might have defied artillery.

The lord of this castle was accustomed to use the apartment in which we find him simply as a meditation-room, and in it he had passed some of the most wretched hours that ever fell to the lot of man.

Sir John was fifty-six. He had married-a year since-the lovely Grace Featherstonhaugh (aged twenty-one), defeating at least a dozen competitors, and winning, as he pleased, by a heart, if not a head. For a month his happiness was perfect. At the end of that brief period the snake glided into his paradise in one of his most common disguises, and probably with the exception of that of the unlucky Lord Scrope

never won

A soul so easy as that Englishman's!

Sir John Gabriel became suddenly impressed with the idea that he could not retain his lovely wife's affection. He became darkly and vaguely jealous. He watched her with a questioning vigilance that almost seemed to create for itself the object it had learned to dread, while, less happy than the renowned Tom Thumb, Sir John, though he could make his giants, could not kill them. Some slight traits, which to a man of different stamp would have had no significance but as belonging to a naturally gay, perhaps thoughtless temperament, contributed to give that most tormenting passion which can afflict our feeble nature a lasting hold upon his heart; and, not to dwell at needless length upon a painful topic, I will only add that this gallant gentleman, who had shared with calm unshaken courage the toils and perils of more than one desperate day of England's strife, yielded himself up, like the veriest coward, at the first summons of an ignoble suspicion that knocked at his soldier-heart and told him he was betrayed.

One might imagine he would, at least, have waited to ascertain the name of the supposed destroyer of his peace. He did not. He did worse, however. He tamed a pert domestic who waited on his lady, made her his confidante and counsellor, and established through her a regular espionage upon the movements, conversation, the very looks of her mistress! The individual who executed this highly honourable duty was called, not inappropriately, Mrs. Stalker. Her gifts were a sly and monkey-like love of mischief, a peculiarly feline tread, a soft, purring voice, and a remarkable knack of being suddenly found in the room when you least expected her.

Sir John, as I before observed, sat alone in his dismal library. The handle of the door was slightly moved. He seemed to recognise the signal.

"Come in."

The door, with its shelves of painted volumes, swung noiselessly back, and Mrs. Stalker, as though propelled upon a slide, swam in, and stopped.

"Anything to-to tell?" asked Sir John, averting his eyes. He never looked twice at her in one interview.

"Nothing, Sir John."

"What do you want, then?" was his rather impatient question. Only my lady's desk, sir."

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"It is not here."

Mrs. Stalker extended a silent finger towards the object in question, which, in effect, stood upon a little table in the corner.

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My lady come here to write," said Mrs. Stalker, whose English was not of the purest strain, "which she was much pestered with visitors in the droring-room. Her ladyship forget to take it away again, seeing she was in a hurry to dress for Lady Dacres's, and all behind.”

"Take it, then, and go."

Mrs. Stalker glided forward and seized the desk with a sort of much as a cat would spring upon an unwary sparrow.

pounce,

"Them Bramages is very safe things," said Mrs. Stalker, thoughtfully; "but I prefers a Chubb."

Sir John, feeling it unnecessary to join issue with Mrs. Stalker's predilections on the subject, merely signed to her to leave him.

"Poor creetur!" sighed the lady, in a stage aside, making a feint to withdraw. The words reached her master's ear, as she intended. He stopped her.

"What is the matter, Stalker?-you have something to communicate."

Mrs. Stalker glided up to her master, put her mouth close to his ear, and muttered with terrible emphasis,

"There's something-in it!"

"Something?" "Billys in it!"

"Billy's in it? In what? Billy? Speak, woman!" cried Sir John, seizing her arm.

"There's all his letters, and his Walentine, and his songs, and his flowers, and his fallals, and, my stars, a lock of his hair!" ejaculated Mrs. Stalker, apparently overwhelmed at the idea of bearing in her very hands such an accumulation of guilt.

"Fool!" cried poor Sir John, turning positively pale as the first actual proof of his wife's levity he had ever received seemed about to reveal itself. "It cannot be !"

"It ayre, and is," replied his confidante, with decision, laying her finger upon the fatal desk. "If it wasn't for the Bramage, we might

humph!"

We! Sir John felt the strongest inclination to strike her down. "My gracious goodness-oh!" cried Mrs. Stalker, with a start, "it's open!"

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