make false enthusiasm palatable to the taste of man. To the taste of any woman the
enthusiasm of another woman is never very palatable.
We understood at Home that Mrs. Talboys had a considerable family,-- four or five
children, we were told; but she brought with her only one daughter, a little girl about
twelve years of age. She had torn herself asunder, as she told me, from the younger
nurslings of her heart, and had left them to the care of a devoted female attendant, whose
love was all but maternal. And then she said a word or two about the General, in terms
which made me almost think that this quasi-maternal love extended itself beyond the
children. The idea, however, was a mistaken one, arising from the strength of her
language, to which I was then unaccustomed. I have since become aware that nothing can
be more decorous than old Mrs. Upton, the excellent head-nurse at Hardover Lodge; and
no gentleman more discreet in his conduct than General Talboys.
And I may as well here declare, also, that there could be no more virtuous woman than
the General's wife. Her marriage vow was to her paramount to all other vows and bonds
whatever. The General's honour was quite safe when he sent her off to Rome by herself;
and he no doubt knew that it was so. Illi robur et aes triplex, of which I believe no
weapons of any assailant could get the better. But, nevertheless, we used to fancy that she
had no repugnance to impropriety in other women,--to what the world generally calls
impropriety. Invincibly attached herself to the marriage tie, she would constantly speak of
it as by no means necessarily binding on others; and, virtuous herself as any griffin of
propriety, she constantly patronised, at any rate, the theory of infidelity in her neighbours.
She was very eager in denouncing the prejudices of the English world, declaring that she
had found existence among them to be no longer possible for herself. She was hot against
the stern unforgiveness of British matrons, and equally eager in reprobating the stiff
conventionalities of a religion in which she said that none of its votaries had faith, though
they all allowed themselves to be enslaved.
We had at that time a small set at Rome, consisting chiefly of English and Americans,
who habitually met at each other's rooms, and spent many of our evening hours in
discussing Italian politics. We were, most of us, painters, poets, novelists, or sculptors;--
perhaps I should say would-be painters, poets, novelists, and sculptors,-- aspirants hoping
to become some day recognised; and among us Mrs. Talboys took her place, naturally
enough, on account of a very pretty taste she had for painting.
I do not know that she ever originated anything that was grand; but she made some nice
copies, and was fond, at any rate, of art conversation. She wrote essays, too, which she
showed in confidence to various gentlemen, and had some idea of taking lessons in
modelling.
In all our circle Conrad Mackinnon, an American, was, perhaps, the person most
qualified to be styled its leader. He was one who absolutely did gain his living, and an
ample living too, by his pen, and was regarded on all sides as a literary lion, justified by
success in roaring at any tone he might please. His usual roar was not exactly that of a
sucking-dove or a nightingale; but it was a good-humoured roar, not very offensive to
