AUTHOR OF "VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD,"
ETC. ETC.
| Sad, solemn, soure, and full of fancies fraile, |
| She woxe: yet wist she neither how nor why: |
| She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile, |
| Yet wist she was not well at ease, perdie; |
| Yet thought it was not Love, but some Melancholie. |
| Spenser. |
PARIS,
BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY,
SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS;
THEOPHILE BARROIS, JUN., RUE RICHELIEU; LIBRAIRIE DES ÉTRANGERS,
RUE NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTIN; AND HEIDELOFF AND CAMPE,
RUE VIVIENNE.
1836.
Calais, June 21.—What young lady, travelling for the first timeon the Continent, does not write a "Diary?" No sooner have we slepton the shores of France—no sooner are we seated in the gay salon atDessin's, than we call, like Biddy Fudge, for "French pens andFrench ink," and forth steps from its case the morocco-bound diary,regularly ruled and paged, with its patent Bramah lock and key,wherein we are to record and preserve all the striking, profound, andoriginal observations—the classical reminiscences—the thread-bareraptures—the poetical effusions—in short, all the never-sufficiently-to-be-exhaustedtopics of sentiment and enthusiasm, which must necessarilysuggest themselves while posting from Paris to Naples.
Verbiage, emptiness, and affectation!
Yes—but what must I do, then, with my volume in green morocco?
Very true, I did not think of that.
We have all read the Diary of an Invalid, the best of all diariessince old Evelyn's.—
Well, then,—Here beginneth the Diary of a Blue Devil.
What inconsistent beings are we!—How strange that in such amoment 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 shouldnot; some because it is blue, but I am not blue, only a blue devil;some for their amusement,—amusement!! alas! alas! and somethat they may remember,—and I that I may forget, O! would it werepossible.
When, to-day, for the first time in my life, I saw the shores ofEngland fade away in the distance—did the conviction that I shouldnever behold them more, bring with it one additional pang of regret,or one consoling thought? neither the one nor the other. I leave behindme the scenes, the objects, so long associated with pain; butfrom pain itself I cannot fly: it has become a part of myself. I knownot yet whether I ought to rejoice and be thankful for this opportunityof travelling, while my mind is thus torn and upset; or rather regret[Pg 2]that I must visit scenes of interest, of splendour, of novelty—scenesover which, years ago, I used to ponder with many a sigh, and manya vain longing, now that I am lost to all the pleasure they could oncehave