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dear, has he stopped beating. If he hasn't, I shall scream again."

On Sundays she went regularly to church in the morning, and listened attentively to the sermon, sitting on the edge of her seat, her mouth pursed up and rocking herself to and fro. In the afternoon she would lie on her bed, putting on her nightgown over her dress so that she might not be disturbed, and writing her innumerable letters.

In spite of her extraordinary vitality she suffered very much from weak health. Over-fatigue, worry, distress, or cold, would bring on an attack of internal catarrh, which was very painful and laid her up for days. She had one of these attacks in England in the autumn of 1853, and writes thus after her return to Paris :

Paris, October, 1853.

DEAR HILLY,

I am certainly much better, though not well yet. Oh that I had followed your beneficent advice, and taken the second blessed, little lovely black bottle! I should not have got soaked in the rain yesterday, nor wetted shoes and stockings, nor had a grey border of mud to my gown, nor caught a stomach-ache and a toothache, and I should, moreover, have written three letters. D'abord, I forgot my caoutchoucs, which was a great help to all these disasters; and for why? 'Cause I lost my heart to a charming creature with a very black beard, a short upper lip, an elegant figure, and such manners! We talked almost all the way from London to Paris (such a lovely face!), and how do you suppose that I could look after such low things as caoutchoucs? So I didn't; and not being able to exist without Pale Ale, went in such weather as I almost never saw in Paris to the Faubourg St. Honoré, to three places, before I got the right sort. This charmer of mine was just opposite; I'm afraid you did not see him. When I got settled I pulled out Greg to cut open; he was curious to see the book, put his head this way and that, and at last could not help asking about it. I immediately handed one volume which he offered to cut open. This soon established conversation. He was along with two Americans, had

no twang whatever, and did not say "my country; thought him American-why, I don't know.

but still I

Ten days ago did I begin this letter, and a sort of listlessness came over me as if I had taken a narcotic. I was going to tell you in my first page all the emotions of my soul about my beautiful American, and what a marvel he was, and how I cogitated how I should entrap him to come and see me, and how I succeeded, and how he told me he had lived three years at Toulouse; and the more I talked the more I liked him, and one of the Englishmen and I agreed we never had seen such a gentleman from the other side, he being as much persuaded as I was that he was an American. To tell you the truth, I had already invited him to dinner, and made a romance. Nothing could exceed his elegant attention; he would lug part of my baggage, leaving his own valuables and cigars to the mercy of the douaniers at Paris. Ass that I was, I might have guessed no American could have done that. Just before we parted, and I had given him my address, he said in rather a melancholy tone he wished I had not such a distaste to his countrymen. I said, "I have said nothing against Americans." "I am not American, but Irish." I bore up pretty well, considering. I said, "I never said distaste; disapproval-yes." However, we had not time to enter into delicate disquisitions; the commissioner was running away with some of my luggage, and he with some other. Out we came and found Mr. Mohl. We bade adieu, and home I came. I wondered and hoped I should see him, and he came Thursday. I was very poorly, but he sent word he was leaving Paris. This was a death-blow, but I then had him in. After a little conversation he told me he had followed my advice; he had gone to Sichel for his eyes, and he should come back very soon. (I revived.) I said something. He answered, "I shall only take time to embrace my children" (oh, for help! he was married); and something made him say, "My wife" (confound her, etc.). I did not cry "D!” but said in a sweet tone, "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing her." What were those Spartans compared to me, I should like to know? All my plans squashed. However, he's a delightful man, and I hope I shall see him again. One comfort is our fancy was mutual, therefore I hope I shall.

She even derived some enjoyment from this illness.

December 31, 1853.

Many a happy new year to all you at Embley, for I hope you are still there. I am quite cocky; have put on my stays for the first time; am always hungry; enjoy everything as if I was just born grown up like Adam-but eating is a pleasure which is beyond all comparison the greatest, and I understand the apple story. Receiving visits, gossiping, and all the things which pass for bores, are delightful. I could not have supposed it possible that a fit of illness could make life so enjoyable. Many years ago I was intimate with a charming young American; she was about eighteen or nineteen. She had many troubles here. Her father gambled away all they had. A very interesting young Englishman got her partly out of her troubles. They could not marry (no money), and she went back to America with a heart like a deer stricken with a poisoned arrow. She fell into a consumption, was ill, and dying for months. A year later, I believe, after being given up over and over, she actually came to life again. She wrote to me that as she was getting better life seemed delicious to her; every trifle was a pleasure. She had wished to die over and over before; is not that curious? I fear I have burnt her letters long ago; I am sorry for it. I wish I could find her out. She must be between forty and fifty now. She was of the Especies. Oh dear! what shall I do if I never see E-- again? I shall go into my parlour to-morrow night and have the family to tea, and make toast myself, and that's a great pleasure. Tell the N-—s to get "Villemain's Souvenirs Contemporains d'Histoire et de Littérature;" it is all the fashion. It is amusing; but what adds greatly to our pleasure is its slapping old Boney at every page, and no one being able to cry out "oh !" He has plucked the fowl without making her scream.

She was very angry when people did not take care of their health.

Pray tell me (she wrote to Miss Bonham Carter) how your sprain is. I am afraid you have neglected it, and that has made it so difficult to cure. Oh, the wickedness of neglecting one's self! Suicide is nothing to it; one is buried and done with, people are very sorry, and get consoled; but sick folk are the plague of one's life. They absorb more capital than a war. Their relations are generally anni

hilated; and then the money! the doctors! the rubbers! the waterpackers, the travels, the lodgings at watering-places, the bottles, the gallipots, the plaisters, the blisters, the powders, the pill-boxes, the night-lamps, the saucepans, the messes, gruels, semolinas, tapiocas! I could commit suicide myself to get out of their way; wicked, cruel, extravagant, selfish, absorbing wretches. Adieu, dear Coz; take care of yourself; don't take care of other folk. Care killed a cat; I dare say it was 'cause the cat took care of her kittens instead of herself.

Yours ever,

MARY MOHL.

The state of politics continued to exasperate M. Mohl. He writes to Miss Bonham Carter

October 23, 1853.

Nothing new here. The old story of luxury, despotism, and hypocrisy-the last becoming stronger. A few days ago Rouland gave Oppert-a very pushing, conceited, insufferable little Orientalist the Legion of Honour. Somebody told him O. was a Jew. "Is he?" says the minister, "so much the better. Je suis obligé d'opprimer les Protestants je me rattrape sur les Juifs." It puts one in mind of Pontius Pilate. But I must close this scrap, having much to do and little time. I wish you were here, and we could talk peaceably round the chimney, madame dreaming on the canapé, and the kettle singing.

CHAPTER VI.

1854-1857.

Character of Louis Napoleon-Analysis of vanity-Truth-British Gallery-Mismanagement of Crimean War-Visit to Austria and Hungary-Mrs. Jameson -Madame de Goethe-Mrs. Gaskell-Madame de Circourt and her salonMrs. Hollond and her salon-Garden and dinner parties in London-Madame Ristori-Scene in the Rue du Bac-Madame Castiglione-Acquaintance with the Wilsons-Letter to Mrs. Bagehot on her marriage.

EARLY in 1854 my father took an apartment in Paris for four months, and many were the breakfasts and dinners and evenings we enjoyed in the Rue du Bac.

Preparations were going on actively for the Crimean War, and Madame Mohl was indignant at the alliance between England and Louis Napoleon. Her hatred of him increased daily; she would not admit that he was worthy of being a Frenchman, and I find in my father's journal for this year the following note, written in pencil, by her :

CHARACTER OF LOUIS NAPOLEON.

He is as unlike the ideal Frenchman as possible; he has a particular tact for finding out the rotten spot of the human heart, and in that he casts his anchor. Thus he took C-, by his vanity and plebeian delight at being a personage. War was a horror to him, and L. N. made him believe it was his own opinion-as a great

secret.

The ideal Frenchman is, before all, social; this man is lonely. The Frenchman is expansive; this man is close and traitorous. The Frenchman is gay; this man is grave, laughs but little. The Frenchman is brilliantly valorous; this man gets frightened. He ran

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