How much do I regret, in the midst of my insipid grandeur, that world of tribulations and tears, those times in which I mingled my sorrows with those of a colony of unfortunates! It is true, then, that all changes, that misfortune itself comes to an end, like prosperity! What has become of my brothers in emigration? Some are dead, others have undergone various destinies: they have, like me, beheld the loss of their kinsmen and friends; they are less happy in the land of their birth than they were on foreign soil. Had we not on that soil our meetings, our amusements, our merry-makings, and, above all, our youth? Mothers of families and young girls commencing life in adversity brought the weekly fruit of their toil, to revel in some dance of their country. Attachments were formed in the course of the evening chit-chat after work, on the grass at Hampstead or Primrose Hill. In chapels adorned with our own hands, in old tumble-down buildings, we prayed on the 21st of January and on the anniversary of the Queen's death[439], and were much moved by a funeral oration pronounced by the emigrant curate of our village. We strolled beside the Thames, now to see the vessels laden with the world's riches entering dock, and again to admire the country-houses at Richmond, we so poor, we who had lost the shelter of the paternal roof-tree: all these things constitute true happiness! When I come home in 1822, instead of being received by my friend, shivering with cold, who opens the door of our garret to me, calls me "thee" and "thou," sleeps on a pallet beside mine, covering himself with his thin coat and having the moonlight for a lamp, I pass by the light of candles between two rows of lackeys, ending in half-a-dozen respectful secretaries. Overwhelmed along my road with the words, "Monseigneur, my Lord, your Excellency, _Monsieur l'Ambassadeur_," I come to a drawing-room upholstered in silk and gold. "I beg you, gentlemen, to leave me! A truce to these my lords! What use do you think I have for you? Go and laugh in the chancelleries as though I were not here. Do you imagine you will make me take this masquerade seriously? Do you think me fool enough to believe that I have changed my nature by changing my coat? The Marquess of Londonderry is coming, you say[440]; the Duke of Wellington[441] has asked for me; Mr. Canning[442] is looking for me; Lady Jersey[443] expects me to dinner, to meet Mr. Brougham[444]; Lady Gwydyr[445] hopes to see me at ten o'clock in her box at the Opera; Lady Mansfield[446] at midnight at Almack's[447]?"