The Sun.
London, England, 1847-02-15 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME
D'ARBLAY. Vols. VI. and VII.

Many pleasant and sparkling books of gossip have
been written and published by contemporaries of the age
in which Oliver Goldsmith and Dr. Johnson made their
last appearance, and in which Lord Byron and Sir
Walter Scott made their first appearance. Actors and
dramatists, authors and artists, courtiers and petit maittes,
soldiers and statesmen, sailors and civilians of every
grade and distinction, have contributed volume upon
volume to the enormous library illustrative of the occur-
rences and personages of that extraordinary epoch.
Perhaps the century comprised between the middle of
the eighteenth and towards the middle of the nineteenth
must be regarded par exellence as the most extraordinary
epoch in the world's history. It was during that interval
that America achieved her independence, and that, up-
wards of two centuries after the new hemisphere had
been discovered by Columbus, a republic was founded
beyond the Atlantic by the plain homely sense of a jour-
neyman printer and the sword of a country gentleman.
It was during that interval that the deeds of the great
Julius and the young King of Macedon were exceeded
in civilised Europe by a Corsican adventurer. Then it
was that lived our English Cicero—Pitt; and our Irish
Demosthenes—Grattan: one of the greatest poets of
England—Byron : the greatest poet of France—Beranger.
It were hopeless, however, to enumerate even the mere
names of the remarkable characters of this generation,
without encroaching upon our columns to an extent
from which we are precluded by the sitting of Parlia-
ment. Besides, it would be altogether superfluous to the
vast majority, seeing that there is no other period with
the outlines of which the majority is so intimately and
naturally familiarised. Nevertheless the multitude is
not so far familiarised with the domestic lives of the men
and women in question that they can regard with little
curiosity the contents of such autobiographies as this
straggling diary of Madame D'Arblay. There is an in-
terest about volumes of this character altogether irre-
spective of the genius or idiosyncrasy of the narrator.
To the million, for example, it matters not the value of
twopence what were the compliments paid to Madame
D'Arblay, née Burney, or what were the peregrinations
of Madame D'Arblay, née Burney, considered in her in-
dividuality. Not that we by any means depreciate
the abilities of that deceased lady, but that, clever as we
perforce regard " Evelina," and humorous as we ac-
knowledge " Cecilia" to be, we are thoroughly convinced
that they have not sufficient genius to render them classics,
and thereby to obtain for their writer a place in the
thoughts and affections of posterity-. It would be an
absurdity to maintain otherwise. For the day—for the
hour—pour passer le temps, when afflicted with dyspepsia
or the headache, those fictions have proved agreeable
solaces to hundreds. But they have not the golden
stamp of perpetual attraction—they cannot rank even
with the smallest of the indestructable treasures of our
literature: and hence it is indisputable that the millions
care not the value of twopence for the individual opinions,
or the individual circumstances, of Madame D'Arblay,
née Burney. It is only as an intelligent spectator of
wonderful occurrences, and an observant companion of
much greater people thanherself, that the "author of Eve-
lina," as her editor delights to call her, is welcome to
the generality of readers now-a-days. Yet the most
delightful characteristic of this " Diary " is the imperti-
nent modesty with which Madame D'Arblay betrays her
own belief that she must continue the heroine through-
out, that her figure is most prominent in the different
scenes, that her name, and her observations, and her
frivolities, and her meditations, must prove the para-
mount attraction to every reader to the remotest bounds
of time, and the furthermost limits of space. Madame
D'Arblay is assuredly one of the greatest egotists that
ever breathed. Jean Jacques was nothing to her.
" Self " is the circumference in which all her ideas cir-
culate—it is like the " incorruptible concave "of Aris-
totle, embracing the whole universe of her mind, and al-
lowing every other sphere of intellect to revolve in it alone.
Egotism, however, while being one of the most pro-
voking of the smaller vices, is at the same time one of
the most forgiveable. We readily forgive the egotism of
the illustrious, such as that of Horatius Flaccus, because
we are almost rejoiced to find them conscious of their
own immortality. We can forgive the egotism of those,
again, who are the least entitled to indulge in that
fashionable failing; (and, among such, Madame D'Arblay,
née Burney, is pre-eminent) because we are amused with
their extravagant and pitiable effrontery. The volumi-
nous diary of which these sixth and seventh volumes
form the conclusion, is rendered most amusing by this
very extravagance of effrontery. Such compliments as
Madame D'Arblay records about herself ! Such
panegyrics upon her writings ! Such egregious
goose - flattery from the mouths of shivering
imbeciles clad in ermine and crowned with diadems
And Madame D'Arblay swallows all these sickly condi-
ments with an avidity actually ridiculous, and exults in
the repast, as if 'these sugared words were food nutri-
tious to the mind, and astringent to the character ! 0
paradox of woman ! 0 large-witted " author of Eve-
lina 1" 0 small-witted writer of the Diary ! It is
amusing to observe the tremors and agitation with which
Madame D'Arblay always enters the presence of royalty,
whether it be the Duchess d'Angoulirne, George the
Third, or Louis le Desire. Her heart is always in a
nervous state of palpitation when a Royal Highness ad-
dresses her ; when a sovereign speaks to her on the
terrace at Windsor, she is ready to fall down "at his
feet" from emotion (vide Vol. VI., p. 221). It is all
very picturesque for her to affect a love for sylvan re-
treats, but her heart is only elated when beating in the
precincts of a court. She may, for a moment, appreciate
that beautiful verse of Metastasio-
1m "u palace.
ccheer e
that
" In quel rozzo angusto tetto,
Che ricetto a uoi dara,
thus
Con la gioja a col diletto
L'innocenza albergherae"
She may even appreciate it so far as to translate it into
words as beautiful as the following:—
Our simple narrow mansion
Will suit our station well ;
There's room for heart expansion,
And peace and joy to dwell.
But it is evident, from the whole colouring of her mind,
that she only enjoyed life in the salons of the creme de
depreciation
igocsnhf feel
es
character,
rr compelledthroughout
str e
ntgoue
tnsht,
tN:ovAhrhd,reeibrlpleawryer,ciwsit better still, in the drawing-rooms of a
l Ma-
deadmg sayao
sparkling,cf
acknow-
ledge r
ughwoeut keen,
and satirical. Wherever there is fun, there, be sure, is
sufficient cause for laughter, either on the lip, or in the
sleeve of :Sladatue D'Arblay. Her portraitures of Ma-
dame Duval, of the " vulgar cousins" of Evelina, of
Mister Briggs, and of Captain Mervyn are good proof
of this. Sly humour was her delight, and we would
wager that her features relaxed considerably at that
queer assurance with which the Chevalier D'Arblay con.
eluded his letter to her on the 16th of November, 1801.
Ile has been commenting upon the suppression of the
vicious practice of duelling by the First Consul, Bona-
parte, and asks bow could dishonour attach itself to his
brave soldiers, from refusing to fight with their com-
rades. Then, says he, -' Depuis ma conversation I ce
sujet, je n'en vois pas passer un sans etre ten. 6
d'aller, shape hand, avec lui." In this portion of the
correspondence Madame D'Arblay describes her first
impressions on beholding the youthful conqueror of
Italy and Egypt in his Consular Palace of the Tuileries.
For the satisfaction of the reader we transcribe this in-
teresting portion of the narrative. The English lady is
standing at one of the windows of the chateau, in expec-
tation of a review by the First Consul:—
wwaa"as Tlfpielenlysedeindell, but not now, with regard to all that was present,
full, gcaryosd
avhod, withdhighly
ffianciemrsatoithgra.
nkTihne roo l I
sump-
tuous rather than rich uniforms,o and exhibing a martial
air that became their attire, which, however, generally
speaking, was too gorgeous to be noble.
" Our window was that next to the consular apart-
ment, in which Bonaparte was holdtiongita levee,b and
it was close
asanw(tio
had
theall,;
theosptpeoprs ascending
formst
unit
opportunity
of
totheexav
waennaetdsar nahesi everygelehysle acnicountenanceamusing,
I thatmi
ght ps aa
ys s ehdi s at
on
rdi
cr ewp
mariiboeu;se
vecyxr)i.twshainehd
mdress
hassreedihelp'ahsist
history and the present office were knowL e
" Sundry footmen of the First Consul, in very fine
liveries, were attending to bring or arrange chairs for
whoever required them ; various p.ace-officers, superbly
begilt, paraded occasionally up and down the chamber,'
to keel) the ladies to their v:italeive, anti the geutitin,L
to their ranks, so as to preserve the passage or lane
through which the First Consul was to walk upon his
entrance, clear and open ; and several gentlemanlike
looking whom in former times I should have
supposed
s'
persons,
of the bank stairs, dressed in black,
with gold chains hanging round their necks, and medal-
lions pending from them, seemed to have the charge of
the door itself, leading immediately to the audience
chamber of the First Consul.
" But what was most prominent in commanding