REMINISCENCES OF MADAME RECAMIER.

BY KATE TREVOR.

DESOLATION reigns in the old convent De l'Abbaye-aux-Bois, in in the Rue de Sèvres; the trees have put forth their leaves, and the birds warble merrily beneath their shade; but here, alas! there is no sympathy with the joyousness of summer, for the hand of death has passed over the monastery,-Madame Récamier has gone to her long home.

The Abbaye-aux-Bois became latterly a complete asylum for poets and beautiful women; here, after leading a life of ambition, excitement, and romance, they came to seek shelter for the remainder of their days. It was in one of the quiet apartments of this abbaye that the Duchesse d'Abrantès, who was utterly ruined by the fall of the Empire, began to write her spirited and fascinating memoirs. Want and labour killed this noble-minded woman. She, whose loss we are now mourning, died not of misery, but of old age; possibly the recollection and the sight of so many extraordinary events may have hurried her to her grave; but by whatever cause her death was occasioned, Madame Récamier will ever be remembered as one of the most beautiful and attractive women of our time. She formed the centre of all that was good, lovely, noble, and generous. Far happier than the Beatrix of Florence, the Beatrix of Paris had three Dantes at her feet, Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, and Ballanche. Her life was like a beautiful poem. She entered upon it in a Revolution, and in the midst of a Revolution she finished its course; yet she lost not a single ray of her glory. Heaven seems to have visited this bewitching woman most kindly; she was not denied the atmosphere for which she was created,-her existence seems to have been an eternal fête, an everlasting youth. Wherever she turned homage awaited her, and misfortune approached her only at a respectful distance.

There were three women under the Directory remarkable for their beauty and elegance,-according to the madrigals of the time they were the three Graces; they were Madame Tallien, Joséphine de Beauharnais, and Madame Récamier. These enchantresses were to be seen everywhere; at the concerts were Garat sang; at the balls where Trénitz danced-poor Trénitz! who afterwards died mad at Charenton. They appeared exactly at the same moment on the scene, like three flowers which had suddenly bloomed on the very edge of an extinguished volcano. Each had her separate political mission; they reigned and governed entirely through the influence of their grace and beauty. Joséphine, who was soon after to reign as empress, thus wrote to Madame Tallien to invite her to a brilliant fête at the Hôtel Thélusson,—

"Be sure to come in your peach-blossom slip. Our dresses must be exactly alike. I intend to wear a crimson handkerchief, fastened at the temples à la Créole. This style, which is decidedly becoming to you, it may be rather presumptuous for me to assume. You are young; perhaps not prettier, but infinitely fresher and more bloom

ing. We must endeavour to eclipse and to drive our rivals to despair. C'est un coup de partie."

Madame Récamier was the only one of the three who still wore, in her latter days, the handkerchief fastened à la Créole. At that time there were continual contests of taste and novelty; after the revolution of habits and manners, came a revolution in costume. Thérésia Cabarrus restored the taste for the Greek fashions, the coiffure à l'Athénienne, the transparent and tightly-fitting tunic. Joséphine was the first who was ambitious to wear the purest cameos, and the most magnificent onyx stones and agates; these sparkled either on her dress, or glittered in her hair. Madame Récamier, in her turn, introduced the veil, that chaste, and elegant adornment, which has the effect of agreeably piquing imagination, and casting over woman a charm almost mysterious.

In 1800, Madame Récamier, who was just eighteen, lived in the fine château of Clichy la Garenne, which was afterwards destroyed. It would be impossible to form an idea of her Hebe-like freshness, unless she had been seen. Her education contributed still more to her charms; she was an admirable pianiste, and danced divinely, accompanying herself with the tambourine, which was then all the rage. It was at this château of Clichy, and, a short time afterwards, in her magnificent salons in the Rue du Mont Blanc, that Madame Récamier received almost all the princes of Europe. Her husband was rich then, enormously rich. The architect, Berthaut, had transformed this hotel into a fairy palace; it seemed as if one of the tales of Galand had been realized.

The balls of Madame Récamier became the resort of fashion; the gavottes were danced on these occasions, and compositions for the harpsichord were performed, which were afterwards destined to be very popular. The ladies wore all kinds of costume, Egyptian, Spartan, Roman, Turkish, and French. It was a perfect scene of enchantment, of which it was impossible to form any conception. Madame Hamelin, who is still alive, was the heroine of these jêles. Madame Hamelin, with Cinderella's foot, is alone able to describe one of those magic evenings, which only required a painter like Wateau, and a poet like Lattaignant or Voïsenon, or the Abbé Fusée, to give an adequate idea of them. The habitués of her morning causeries, the persons who were intimate with her, and visited her every day, were Lucien Bonaparte, Fox, Madame Visconti, Mathieu Montmorency, General Moreau, that thin, pale, and fair Madame de Terüdnèr, and that joyous being, Ouvrard, a man full of energy, and very variously informed; he possessed all the stateliness of a courtier, as well as the cultivated mind of a literary man, and the money of a man who thoroughly understood business.

The third residence of Madame Récamier, and perhaps the one which she loved best, was St. Brice-St. Brice, with its sunny landscapes, its rippling streams, and its delicious shades; where she had the boldness and happiness of offering shelter to Madame de Staël when she was pursued by the Emperor. It has been said that this noble action of Madame Récamier drew upon her one of the most bitter remarks that Napoleon ever made. It is impossible to conceive that any one could hate Madame Récamier. She visited Madame de Staël in her exile, and willingly shared it with her; but on her return from Paris she discovered that her husband's fortune VOL. XXVI.

H

was crumbling away under the imperial despotism. She no longer found herself in possession of sumptuous hotels, nor of feudal châteaux; nothing but the mediocrity of the Latin poet was left to her, still gilded, however, by a ray of her glorious beauty. She was enjoying the delightful society of the author of " Atala," at Dieppe, when the Revolution of July broke out. Her efforts to detain M. de Chateaubriand were unsuccessful, and he set out for Paris. On reaching that city, he was soon recognised, at the entrance to the Journal des Débats, by some of the youths of the polytechnic school, and found himself suddenly lifted in their arms, and carried in triumph above the barricades.

Since that time Madame Récamier always lived in the Abbayeaux-Bois; that was her Versailles, her Trianon. She held her little court here, at her fireside. There was scarcely a distinguished person, whatever the nature or degree of his merits, who was not admitted to her côterie, from Luce de Lancival, professor of elocution at the Prytanée Française, down to Victor Hugo,-from the Baron Gérard, down to M. Ingres, the restless and misanthropical artist, from the author of "La Vestal," with his venerable white hair, and his numerous orders on his breast, down to the composer of the "Prophète," wild and strange, like a child of Germany. Stendhal was frequently there; he had just written his book called "De l'Amour," and had often mused opposite the bust of Madame Récamier by Canova, which was placed over the chimney-piece; there the young Merimée has elbowed the old Balanche; and the serious M. de Bonald has greeted the laughter-loving Rossini. In that blue and white salon might be seen at the same time the simar of M. Pasquier, the cordon of M. le Duc de Dondeauville, the tonsure of M. de Lamennais, the laurels of M. de Barante, the sword of M. de Vigny; in short, it might be remarked that she was visited by all the persons whose portraits had been placed in the gallery of Versailles in the course of fifty years.

There was also a gentle, nay, almost a maternal welcome at the Abbaye for those young muses who were just beginning to bloom, but who were timid and retiring, so that their beauties remained unseen, like wild flowers hid by the bushes, and only half-blown. The Abbaye seemed another Parnassus, with its choir of muses. The literary côterie at the Abbaye possessed quite as much influence, and was frequently more just in its decisions, than the University côterie, or that of the "Revue des Deux Mondes." Here honours were bestowed, and academicians were nominated; and among the number, M. Ampère, and the author of the Théâtre de Clara Gazul. But we must not forget Madame Récamier while we speak of the Abbaye; we are dwelling too much upon the house, instead of confining ourselves to its mistress, for there is still much to be said about this unrivalled woman, the pride of the French nation.

She dressed herself in a style singularly becoming to her, either in white gauze or muslin, or some other material of delicate texture. Her portrait, which is to be seen at the Louvre, has been many times engraved; it is a faithful representation of that lovely face, so full of candour. There was not the least formality about her features, and her countenance assumed every charming variety of expression; sometimes she was pensive, sometimes gay,-but there was always something distinguished about her. Madame de Tessé, in talking of

a literary woman, made the following remark :-" If I were king, I should command madame to speak to me forever;" but I would make some slight variation in this sentence, and would say, that, if I were king, I should command Madame Récamier to look at me unceasingly. She possessed all that amiable coquetry which is to beauty exactly what figures in relief are to a monument. I somewhat agree with the old author of the piece entitled "Thèse des dames," who observed,-"That if it were not for a pinch of the salt of coquetry in a woman's composition, she should become the most insipid ragout in the world." It is this spirit of coquetry which renders her so piquante, and lights up her eyes in so fascinating a manner, that it is impossible for the heart of man to withstand her influence. Women who are without this charm are of a very milkand-water nature. Mademoiselle Mars was, perhaps, the person who was most like Madame Récamier in the exquisite dignity of her manners. An evening passed at the Abbaye was more useful to an actress than ten years spent at the Conservatoire. Madame Récamier had pupils, without being aware of it. Mademoiselle Mante caught something of her manner; it was here that she learnt to act the part of Célimène so admirably. The Jewess Rachel was also among the number of visitors at the Abbaye, and, perhaps, in her performance of Adrienne Lecouvreur, some of the recollections which she must have brought away from the salon of the Rue de Sèvres may still be traced.

Madame Récamier related very interesting anecdotes of the Revolution. Her memory was like a curious book, which she only opened to a few friends, and from which she read with her eyes closed. One morning a great crowd was pushing its way through the Rue de Mont Blanc, opposite the Spanish ambassador's hotel; the king of Etruria was about to enter his carriage, and was standing at the entrance, talking to Madame Récamier and M. Beffroy de Reigny, that writer who earned such an eccentric reputation under the name of Cousin Jacques. The Prince was kissing Madame Récamier's hand very gallantly, when she heard a loud voice close by her ear. She, turned round, and perceived a soldier, who was shouting out at the top of his voice :-"Citoyen, votre voiture est préte quand votre majesté voudra monter."

The following anecdote is probably better known:-A gentleman who found himself upon one occasion placed between Madame de Staël and Madame Recamier, remarked very awkwardly that he had wit on one side of him, and beauty on the other." Without possessing either one or the other," observed Madame de Staël.

It has been hinted that Madame Récamier has left her memoirs ; we should be very glad if this were true, but we scarcely dare hope it. She has, however, left us the celebrated picture of Corinne, which ornamented her drawing-room; a bust of herself, by Canova; the original drawing of Girodet's "Atala ;" and several other remarkable things, which we do not call to mind.

MEMOIRS OF PRINCE RUPERT AND THE

CAVALIERS,

Including their Private Correspondence, now first published from the Original Manuscripts. By Eliot Warburton.

[WITH A PORTRAIT OF PRINCE RUPERT WHEN YOUNG, FROM A PAINTING BY HONTHORST AT WILTON.]

IT has seemed good to the writers who have written of late years upon the times of Charles I., to draw very largely upon their imaginations for matters wherewith to fill their pages,-to make numerous suppositions upon every fact and every character which every common history brought before them, and then to interweave their own fancies, and their paltry and party views, expressed in the choicest possible phrases, with such facts as were known of the several parties alluded to. Thus the little that was truth has been so garbled and distorted, so overshadowed by errors-so hidden by presumption-so mangled by misrepresentation, that history was becoming rather a representation of the party opinions and a defence of the political principles of the present day, than a faithful record of the transactions of past ages. In fact, we were in great danger of losing the knowledge altogether of the thoughts, motives, and principles which influenced the many able men who lived in the time of Charles I.; so many contradictory statements were put forth, so much misrepresentation was resorted to, so much sophistry was employed to make, in some cases, the worse appear the better reason, and to defame the characters, and to load with obloquy, some of the most honourable and highly-principled men that England ever nourished upon her soil.

But we have, at length, a history without sophistry; we have, at length, an historian sitting down to his work with honest intentions, and without the usual predetermination on his mind to smother every fact which tells against the political principles of the party with whom he is attached, and to magnify to some most gigantic proportions any minute fragment of a fact he can find that seems to give strength to his own cause.

Anything more refreshing, from their truthful character, than these Volumes we have never read. Here is the condensed substance of more than a thousand original letters from the leading Cavaliers that came, by the nature of his office, into the hands of Colonel Benett, Prince Rupert's secretary. They were transmitted from generation to generation to the present representative of the family, Mr. Benett, of Pyt House in Wiltshire, M.P. for the southern division of that county, and it is these letters that give the great value to the Memoirs before More faithful evidences we could not by possibility have, of what the gallant Cavaliers in their times of trial, and danger, and toil,-in their hours of hope or discouragement-in their day of victory or defeat, thought, and suffered, and did. The reader of these letters becomes at once" the confidant of kings, princes, statesmen, generals, patriots, traitors. He is the confessor of the noblest minds and the most villanous natures; he sees the very conscience of the war." The letters have, moreover, an interest in themselves apart from their

us.