A curious incident occurred during the representation.  Two ladies—­gentlewomen they could not be correctly styled—­being seated in the balcon, were brought in closer contact, whether by the crowd, or otherwise, than was agreeable to them.  From remonstrances they proceeded to murmurs, not only “loud, but deep,” and from murmurs—­“tell it not in Ascalon, publish it not in Gath”—­to violent pushing, and, at length, to blows.  The audience were, as well they might be, shocked; the Gendarmes interfered, and order was soon restored.  The extreme propriety of conduct that invariably prevails in a Parisian audience, and more especially in the female portion of it, renders the circumstance I have narrated remarkable.

Met Lady G., Lady H., and the usual circle of habitues last night at Madame C——­’s.  The first-mentioned lady surprises me every time I meet her, by the exaggeration of her sentiment and the romantic notions she entertains.  Love, eternal love, is her favourite topic of conversation; a topic unsuited to discussion at her age and in her position.

To hear a woman, no longer young, talking passionately of love, has something so absurd in it, that I am pained for Lady C., who is really a kind-hearted and amiable woman.  Her definitions of the passion, and descriptions of its effects, remind me of the themes furnished by Scudery, and are as tiresome as the tales of a traveller recounted some fifty years after he has made his voyage.  Lady H., who is older than Lady G., opens wide her round eyes, laughs, and exclaims, “Oh, dear!—­how very strange!—­well, that is so funny!” until Lady C. draws up with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and asserts that “few, very few, are capable of either feeling or comprehending the passion.”  A fortunate state for those who are no longer able to inspire it!

To grow old gracefully, proves no ordinary powers of mind, more especially in one who has been (oh, what an odious phrase that same has been is!) a beauty.  Well has it been observed by a French writer, that women no longer young and handsome should forget that they ever were so.

I have been reading Wordsworth’s poems again, and I verily believe for the fiftieth time.  They contain a mine of lofty, beautiful, and natural thoughts.  I never peruse them without feeling proud that England has such a poet, and without finding a love for the pure and the noble increased in my mind.  Talk of the ideal in poetry? what is it in comparison with the positive and the natural, of which he gives such exquisite delineations, lifting his readers from Nature up to Nature’s God?  How eloquently does he portray the feelings awakened by fine scenery, and the thoughts to which it gives birth!

Wordsworth is, par excellence, the Poet of Religion, for his productions fill the mind with pure and holy aspirations.  Fortunate is the poet who has quaffed inspiration in the purest of all its sources, Nature; and fortunate is the land that claims him for her own.