- Voyage from Lisbon to Falmouth. -- immediate departure for Paris. -- society. -- Talleyrand. -- return to London. -- Lord Holland. -- Sir J. MacKINTOSHintosh. -- John Allen. -- Lord Brougham. -- Hatfield. -- Woburn. -- Cambridge.
 The following anecdotes were written down later by Mr. Ticknor, and placed by him in the Journal according to the date:—
I have spoken of Prince Talleyrand, whom I saw occasionally in Paris this winter (1818-19), and of whom I have given my general impressions.9 But I met him twice, under circumstances which afforded me such intimations of his character, that I think it worth while to record them long afterwards, although I failed at the time to write out my notes, as I often did during my hurried life in Paris, at that period. On both the occasions referred to, I met Mons. de Talleyrand at the hotel of the Duchess de Duras, to whom I was presented by a letter from the Duc Adrien de Montmorency Laval, French ambassador in Madrid, in such a way that, from the first, she received me with great kindness and permitted me to visit her familiarly. She received a great deal of company, but her favorite time for seeing her friends without ceremony was between four and six,—what she called ‘mes  petites cinq heures,’—the last thing, in fact, before dinner, when her reception-room was no longer the salon for formal morning calls, but a charming library, just lighted for the early darkness of the season. I went oftenest at this hour, and generally found one or two friends with her. One evening, as I entered, I saw a single elderly gentleman standing with his back to the fire, dressed in a long gray surtout coat, buttoned quite up to his throat, and marked only with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor, which ornamented the buttonholes of so many of the persons met in good society, that it constituted no distinction worth notice. He had on a heavy, high, white cravat, concealing a good deal of the lower part of his face, and his hair seemed brought down with powder and pomatum so as to hide his forehead and temples. In short, hardly anything of his features could be seen that it was easy to cover, and what I saw attracted at first little of my attention. He stood there kicking the fire-fender. I observed, however, that he was in earnest conversation with Mad. de Duras; that she called him ‘Mon Prince’; and that the tones of both of them, and especially those of the lady, were a little too eager to be entirely pleasant, though quite well bred. I therefore took up a pamphlet and seemed to read; but I listened, as they were talking on a subject of political and legal notoriety, with which society and the journals were then ringing. It was, whether, under a phrase in the ‘Charte,’ or Constitution, ‘La religion Romaine Catholique est la religion de laEtat,’ Protestants were required on days of public religious ceremony, like the Procession of the Corpus Christi, to hang out tapestry before their houses, or give other outward signs of respectful observance. The more earnest Catholics maintained that they were so required; the Protestants denied it, and had just prevailed, on the highest appeal in the courts of law. Mad. de Duras was displeased with this decision, and was maintaining her point with not a little brilliancy; the gentleman in gray answering her with wit, but not as if he wanted to discuss the matter. But at last it seemed to me that he became a little piqued with some of her sharp sallies, and said, rather suddenly and in a different tone, ‘But do you know, Mad. de Duras, who advised’—I think he said ‘Beugnot’—‘to put those words into the Charte?’ ‘No, I do not,’ she replied, ‘but they are excellent words, whoever it was.’ ‘Eh bien,’ he retorted, instantly, ‘caetait moi.’ ‘I am glad,’ she replied, with equal promptness, and laughing, not altogether agreeably, ‘that you advised such good words, and I thank you for them.’ ‘But do you  know why I advised them?’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I am sure you can have had only a good reason for so good a thing.’ ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I suggested those words because they did not mean anything at all,—parcequ'ils ne signifiaient rien du tout.’ Mad. de Duras replied with something approaching to asperity, and the conversation went on for some little time in this tone, until, finding it, I suppose, more agreeable to talk about something else, she turned to me in a rather decisive manner, and said, ‘You have no troubles of this sort in America; you have no state religion.’ I answered, without entering into the matter, that of course we had not; but the gentleman in gray—apparently as glad to change the subject as the lady was—immediately began to talk about the United States, and to ask questions. I had not the smallest suspicion who he might be, but I soon perceived that he had been himself in America. I therefore took the liberty to ask him what parts of the country he had visited. He told me that he had been in Philadelphia, in Washington's time; and on my soon replying that I was from Boston, he said that he had been there too, and praised America generally. Mad. de Duras here interrupted him by saying, ‘It was there I first saw you, when I was a little girl, my mother and I émigrees. We met you at a public ball in Philadelphia.’ ‘Oui,’ said the gentleman in gray, going right on with his own thoughts, ‘c'est un pays remarquable, mais leur luxe, leur luxe est affreux,’ comparing it, no doubt, with the tasteful and dainty luxury to which he had been accustomed in France, before he fled from the Revolution, and amidst which he had everywhere lived since his return. I now became very curious to know who he was, and asked him what other parts of the United States he had visited. He told me he had been in New York, and that, at one time, he went as far east as Portland. I immediately suspected who he was, for I knew that M. de Talleyrand had been so far east, and no farther. I questioned him, therefore, about Boston. He seemed to have some recollection of it; said he knew a very intelligent family there, he did not remember their names, but there was a daughter in it whose name was ‘Barbe’ [Barbara], one of the handsomest creatures he ever saw. I knew in an instant that it was Barbara Higginson, whom I had known as Mrs. S. G. Perkins quite intimately, when she was the mother of half a dozen children; with whom I had crossed the Atlantic in 1815, and who had often told me of her acquaintance with Talleyrand, and that he talked English with her who knew no French at all, when he refused to talk it in society generally. But he no longer  cared anything about her or about anybody in Boston, except as a part of his own recollections and life. In this way we continued to talk for some time, until, at last, Mad. de Duras turned and said, ‘Messieurs, you talk so much about individuals that I think you ought to know each other,’ and presented me without further words to Prince Talleyrand. Everything, of course, now became easy and simple. I asked him about the United States, concerning which I thought he did not like to talk, but he said, ‘There is a great deal to be learnt there, j'y ai appris assez, moimeme’; and then, turning to Mad. de Duras, he said, laughing, ‘If Dino [his nephew] would go there, he would learn more than he does every night at the opera.’ I asked him about Washington's appearance, and he spoke of him very respectfully but very coldly, which I easily accounted for, because it was well known that Washington had told Hamilton that he could not receive Talleyrand at his levees, and Pichon had told me, in 1817, that he knew Talleyrand had never forgiven it.10 But this naturally brought Hamilton into his thoughts, and of him he spoke willingly, freely, and with great admiration. In the course of his remarks, he said that he had known, during his life, many of the more marked men of his time, but that he had never, on the whole, known one equal to Hamilton. I was much surprised, as well as gratified, by the remark; but still feeling that, as an American, I was, in some sort, a party concerned by patriotism in the compliment, I answered,—with a little reserve, perhaps with a little modesty,— that the great military commanders and the great statesmen of Europe had dealt with much larger masses of men, and much wider interests than Hamilton ever had. ‘Mais, monsieur,’ the Prince instantly replied, ‘Hamilton avait devine l'europe.’ After this, he spoke almost inevitably of Burr, whom he had also known in America, but whom he did not rate, intellectually, so high as I think most persons who knew him have done. He said, that when Burr came to Europe, he wished to induce the French government to be concerned in a project for dismembering the United States, which he had earlier entertained. ‘But,’ Talleyrand said, ‘I would have nothing to do with him. I  hated the man who had murdered Hamilton.’ ‘Assassine’ was the word he used. This may have been his sole motive, though he had little influence, I suppose, at that time, and it is not very likely. But, at any rate, he suffered Burr to fall into poverty in Paris and come home a beggar, arriving at Boston, where he was relieved, but not visited, by Mr. Jonathan Mason. The conversation now became very various and interesting, and was continued until near dinner-time. Among other things, Mad. de Duras gave an account of her own escape and her mother's from Bordeaux for the United States, amidst the terrors of the Revolution; and finding that I was acquainted with Captain Forbes, who had materially assisted them to get on board an American vessel in the night, she charged me with many messages for him, and subsequently added a note of acknowledgment, which I delivered to its address personally the following summer on Milton Hill. Captain Forbes told me that he had already received other acknowledgments from her and her mother; her father, General Kersaint, having perished by the guillotine in the days of Terror. But, at last, it was time to go, and we went, the Prince first and I afterwards, not thinking to see him again. However, I did see him several times, but only once when the conversation was especially interesting, and this was again in the library of Mad. de Duras, the last time I saw her, and just as I was leaving Paris for London. It was at the moment when there had been for several days a ‘crise,’ as it was called, or a sort of suspension of efficiency in the government, from the resignation of the Duc de Richelieu, and the difficulty of arranging a new Ministry. I had not been in the room five minutes before I perceived that, like all the rest of the world, Prince Talleyrand and Mad. de Duras were talking about the anxieties of the time, and that the Viscount de Senonnes was there, listening. I joined Mons. de Senonnes, whom I knew very well, and we both said as nearly nothing as possible. Indeed, there was nothing for anybody else to say. The Prince had all the talk, or all but the whole of it, to himself, and he was much in earnest in what he said; willing, too, I suppose, that it should be heard and his opinions known. His view of things seemed the most sombre. Everything was threatening. No sufficient Ministry could be formed. The king had nobody to depend upon. In short, everything was as dark as possible. Mad. de Duras said very little. She was, as everybody knew, an important personage in the management of affairs at the Palace, and was now evidently made unhappy by the view the Prince gave of the immediate future,  which certainly was gloomy enough. At last he rose to go, but continued to talk in the same disagreeable strain as he moved very slowly towards the door; and then, at the instant he went out of the room, said, in a peculiar tone of voice, ‘Et, cependant, Madame de Duras, il y a un petit moyen, si l'on savait s'en servir,’11 and disappeared, waiting no reply. An awkward silence of a moment followed, and then, making sincerely grateful adieus and acknowledgments to Mad. de Duras, I followed him. But I had not fairly got into my carriage, in the court-yard, before M. de Senonnes overtook me, and said that Mad. de Duras would be obliged to me if I would return to her for a moment in the library. Of course I went, and as soon as I had shut the door, she said, ‘You must be aware of the meaning of the extraordinary conversation you have just heard, and especially of the Prince's last words; and I hope you will do me the favor not to speak of it while you remain in France. As you are going away so soon, you will not, I trust, feel it much of a sacrifice.’ Of course I gave her the promise and kept it, although I should much have liked to tell the whole conversation at the De Broglies', where I dined with Humboldt, Lafayette, and De Pradt the same evening, and who would have enjoyed it prodigiously. But the first house at which I dined in England was Lord Holland's, where I met Tierney, Mackintosh, and some other of the leading Whigs, to whom I told it amidst great laughter. Two or three times afterwards, when I met Sir James Mackintosh, he spoke of Talleyrand, and always called him ‘le petit moyen.’