We have all read the diary of an invalid, the best of all diaries since old Evelyn’s.—­

Well, then,—­Here beginneth the diary of A blue devil.

What inconsistent beings are we!—­How strange that in such a moment as this, I can jest in mockery of myself! but I will write on.  Some keep a diary, because it is the fashion—­a reason why I should not; some because it is blue, but I am not blue, only a blue devil; some for their amusement,—­amusement!! alas! alas! and some that they may remember,—­and I that I may forget, O! would it were possible.

When, to-day, for the first time in my life, I saw the shores of England fade away in the distance—­did the conviction that I should never behold them more, bring with it one additional pang of regret, or one consoling thought? neither the one nor the other.  I leave behind me the scenes, the objects, so long associated with pain; but from pain itself I cannot fly:  it has become a part of myself.  I know not yet whether I ought to rejoice and be thankful for this opportunity of travelling, while my mind is thus torn and upset; or rather regret that I must visit scenes of interest, of splendour, of novelty—­scenes over which, years ago, I used to ponder with many a sigh, and many a vain longing, now that I am lost to all the pleasure they could once have excited:  for what is all the world to me now?—­But I will not weakly yield:  though time and I have not been long acquainted, do I not know what miracles he, “the all-powerful healer,” can perform?  Who knows but this dark cloud may pass away?  Continual motion, continual activity, continual novelty, the absolute necessity for self-command, may do something for me.  I cannot quite forget; but if I can cease to remember for a few minutes, or even, it may be, for a few hours?  O how idle to talk of “indulging grief:”  talk of indulging the rack, the rheumatism! who ever indulged grief that truly felt it? to endure is hard enough.

    It is o’er! with its pains and its pleasures,
      The dream of affection is o’er! 
    The feelings I lavish’d so fondly
      Will never return to me more.

    With a faith, O! too blindly believing—­
      A truth, no unkindness could move;
    My prodigal heart hath expended
      At once, an existence of love.

    And now, like the spendthrift forsaken,
      By those whom his bounty had blest,
    All empty, and cold, and despairing,
      It shrinks in my desolate breast.

    But a spirit is burning within me,
      Unquench’d, and unquenchable yet;
    It shall teach me to bear uncomplaining,
      The grief I can never forget.

Rouen, June 25.—­I do not pity Joan of Arc:  that heroic woman only paid the price which all must pay for celebrity in some shape or other:  the sword or the faggot, the scaffold or the field, public hatred or private heart-break; what matter?  The noble Bedford could not rise above the age in which he lived:  but that was the age of gallantry and chivalry, as well as superstition:  and could Charles, the lover of Agnes Sorel, with all the knights and nobles of France, look on while their champion, and a woman, was devoted to chains and death, without one effort to save her?