“I see nothing so very delightful in spring,” said ——­ to me, yesterday. “Au contraire, I think it rather disagreeable, for the sunshine cheats one into the belief of warmth, and we go forth less warmly clad in consequence, so return home chilled by the sharp cold air which always prevails at this season, and find, as never fails to be the case, that our stupid servants have let out the fires, because, truly, the sun was shining in the cold blue sky.” ——­ reminds me of the man mentioned in Sterne’s works, who, when his friend looking on a beautiful prospect, compared a green field with a flock of snowy-fleeced sheep on it, to a vast emerald studded with pearls, answered that he could see nothing in it but grass and mutton.

Lord B——­ set out for London to-day, to vote on the Catholic question, which is to come on immediately.  His going at this moment, when he is far from well, is no little sacrifice of personal comfort; but never did he consider self when a duty was to be performed.  I wish the question was carried, and he safely back again.  What would our political friends say if they knew how strongly I urged him not to go, but to send his proxy to Lord Rosslyn?  I would not have consented to his departure, were it not that the Duke of Wellington takes such an interest in the measure.

How times are changed! and how much is due to those statesmen who yield up their own convictions for the general good!  There is no action in the whole life of the Duke more glorious than his self-abnegation on this occasion, nor is that of the Tory leader of the House of Commons less praiseworthy; yet how many attacks will both incur by this sacrifice of their opinions to expediency! for when were the actions of public men judged free from the prejudices that discolour and distort all viewed through their medium?  That which originates in the purest patriotism, will be termed an unworthy tergiversation; but the reward of these great and good men will be found in their own breasts.  I am triste and unsettled, so will try the effect of a drive in the Bois de Boulogne.

I was forcibly reminded yesterday of the truth of an observation of a clever French writer, who says, that to judge the real merit of a cook, one should sit down to table without the least feeling of appetite, as the triumph of the culinary art was not to satisfy hunger but to excite it.  Our new cook achieved this triumph yesterday, for he is so inimitable an artist, that the flavour of his plats made even me, albeit unused to the sensation of hunger, feel disposed to render justice to them.  Monsieur Louis—­for so he is named—­has a great reputation in his art; and it is evident, even from the proof furnished of his savoir-faire yesterday, that he merits it.

It is those only who have delicate appetites that can truly appreciate the talent of a cook; for they who devour soon lose the power of tasting.  No symptom of that terrible malady, well named by the ingenious Grimod de la Reyniere remords d’estomac, but vulgarly called indigestion, follows my unusual indulgence in entrees and entremets, another delightful proof of the admirable skill of Monsieur Louis.