A short time since, a lady gave him a bouquet of roses and
pinks; he capered and danced and sang, put it in water, and carried it to
his own chamber; but he brought it out for us to see and admire two or
three times a day, bestowing on it all the epithets of admiration in the
French language,--"Superbe! magnifique!" When some of the flowers began
to fade, he made the rest, with others, into a new nosegay, and consulted
us whether it would be fit to give to another lady. Contrast this French
foppery with his solemn moods, when we sit in the twilight, or after
B------ is abed, talking of Christianity and Deism, of ways of life, of
marriage, of benevolence,--in short, of all deep matters of this world
and the next. An evening or two since, he began singing all manner of
English songs,--such as Mrs. Hemans's "Landing of the Pilgrims," "Auld
Lang Syne," and some of Moore's,--the singing pretty fair, but in the
oddest tone and accent. Occasionally he breaks out with scraps from
French tragedies, which he spouts with corresponding action. He
generally gets close to me in these displays of musical and histrionic
talent.
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