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Title: Gleanings in Europe
France, vol. 2 of 2
Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Release date: November 23, 2025 [eBook #77305]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard, 1836
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Emmanuel Ackerman, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLEANINGS IN EUROPE ***
GLEANINGS
IN EUROPE.
BY AN AMERICAN.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
PHILADELPHIA:
CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD.
1837.
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by CAREY,
LEA & BLANCHARD, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
FRANCE.
LETTER I.
TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.
We have not only had Mr. Canning in Paris, but Sir Walter Scott has
suddenly appeared among us. The arrival of the Great Unknown, or,
indeed, of any little Unknown from England, would be an event to throw
all the reading clubs at home, into a state of high moral and poetical
excitement. We are true village _lionizers_. As the professors of the
Catholic religion are notoriously more addicted to yielding faith to
miraculous interventions, in the remoter dioceses, than in Rome itself;
as loyalty is always more zealous in a colony, than in a court; as
fashions are more exaggerated in a province, than in a capital, and men
are more prodigious to every one else, than their own valets, so do we
throw the haloes of a vast ocean around the honoured heads of the
celebrated men of this eastern hemisphere. This, perhaps, is the natural
course of things, and is as unavoidable as that the sun shall hold the
earth within the influence of its attraction, until matters shall be
reversed by the earth’s becoming the larger and more glorious orb of the
two. Not so in Paris. Here men of every gradation of celebrity, from
Napoleon down to the Psalmanazar of the day, are so very common, that
one scarcely turns round in the streets, to look at them. Delicate and
polite attentions, however, fall as much to the share of reputation,
here, as in any other country, and perhaps more so, as respects literary
men, though there is so little _wonder-mongering_. It would be quite
impossible that the presence of Sir Walter Scott should not excite a
sensation. He was frequently named in the journals, received a good deal
of private, and some public notice, but, on the whole, much less of
both, I think, than one would have a right to expect for him, in a place
like Paris. I account for the fact, by the French distrusting the
forthcoming work on Napoleon, and by a little dissatisfaction which
prevails on the subject of the tone of “Paul’s Letters to his Kinsfolk.”
This feeling may surprise you, as coming from a nation as old and as
great as France, but, alas! we are all human.
The King spoke to him, in going to his chapel, Sir Walter being in
waiting for that purpose, but beyond this I believe he met with no
civilities from the court.
As for myself, circumstances that it is needless to recount, had brought
me, to a slight degree, within the notice of Sir Walter Scott, though we
had never met, nor had I ever seen him, even in public, so as to know
his person. Still I was not without hopes of being more fortunate now,
while I felt a delicacy about obtruding myself any further on his time
and attention. Several days after his arrival went by, however, without
my good luck bringing me in his way, and I began to give the matter up,
though the _Princesse_ ——, with whom I had the advantage of being on
friendly terms, flattered me with an opportunity of seeing the great
writer at her house, for she had a fixed resolution of making his
acquaintance before he left Paris, _coute qui coute_.
It might have been ten days after the arrival of Sir Walter Scott, that
I had ordered a carriage, one morning, with an intention of driving over
to the other side of the river, and had got as far as the lower flight
of steps, on my way to enter it, when, by the tramping of horses in the
court, I found that another coach was driving in. It was raining, and,
as my own carriage drove from the door, to make way for the new comer, I
stopped where I was, until it could return. The carriage-steps rattled,
and presently a large, heavy-moulded man appeared in the door of the
hotel. He was gray, and limped a little, walking with a cane. His
carriage immediately drove round, and was succeeded by mine, again; so I
descended. We passed each other on the stairs, bowing as a matter of
course. I had got to the door, and was about to enter the carriage, when
it flashed on my mind that the visit might be to myself. The two lower
floors of the hotel were occupied as a girl’s boarding-school; the
reason of our dwelling in it, for our own daughters were in the
establishment; _au seconde_, there was nothing but our own
_appartement_, and above us, again, dwelt a family whose visitors never
came in carriages. The door of the boarding-school was below, and men
seldom came to it, at all. Strangers, moreover, sometimes did honour me
with calls. Under these impressions I paused, to see if the visitor went
as far as our flight of steps. All this time, I had not the slightest
suspicion of who he was, though I fancied both the face and form were
known to me.
The stranger got up the large stone steps slowly, leaning, with one
hand, on the iron railing, and with the other, on his cane. He was on
the first landing, as I stopped, and, turning towards the next flight,
our eyes met. The idea that I might be the person he wanted, seemed then
to strike him for the first time. “_Est-ce Mons. ——, que j’ai l’honneur
de voir?_” he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent.
“_Monsieur, je m’appele ——._” “_Eh bien, donc—je suis Walter Scott._”
I ran up to the landing, shook him by the hand, which he stood holding
out to me cordially, and expressed my sense of the honour he was
conferring. He told me, in substance, that the _Princesse_ —— had been
as good as her word, and having succeeded herself in getting hold of
him, she had good naturedly given him my address. By way of cutting
short all ceremony he had driven from his hotel to my lodgings. All this
time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in
English. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said—“Well, here have I been
_parlez-vousing_ to you, in a way to surprise you, no doubt; but these
Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half
forgotten my own language.” As we proceeded up the next flight of steps,
he accepted my arm, and continued the conversation in English, walking
with more difficulty than I had expected to see. You will excuse the
vanity of my repeating the next observation he made, which I do in the
hope that some of our own _exquisites_ in literature may learn in what
manner a man of true sentiment and sound feeling regards a trait that
they have seen fit to stigmatize as unbecoming. “I’ll tell you what I
most like,” he added, abruptly; “and it is the manner in which you
maintain the ascendancy of your own country on all proper occasions,
without descending to vulgar abuse of ours. You are obliged to bring the
two nations in collision, and I respect your liberal hostility.” This
will probably be esteemed treason in our own self-constituted mentors of
the press, one of whom, I observe, has quite lately had to apologize to
his readers for exposing some of the sins of the English writers in
reference to ourselves! But these people are not worth our attention,
for they have neither the independence which belongs to masculine
reason, nor manhood even to prize the quality in others. “I am afraid
the mother has not always treated the daughter well,” he continued,
“feeling a little jealous of her growth, perhaps; for, though we hope
England has not yet begun to descend on the evil side, we have a
presentiment that she has got to the top of the ladder.”
There were two entrances to our apartments; one, the principal, leading
by an ante-chamber and _salle à manger_ into the _salon_, and thence
through other rooms to a terrace; and the other, by a private
_corridor_, to the same spot. The door of my _cabinet_ opened on this
_corridor_, and though it was dark, crooked, and any thing but savoury,
as it lead by the kitchen, I conducted Sir Walter through it, under an
impression that he walked with pain, an idea, of which I could not
divest myself, in the hurry of the moment. But for this awkwardness on
my part, I believe I should have been the witness of a singular
interview. General Lafayette had been with me a few minutes before, and
he had gone away by the _salon_, in order to speak to Mrs. ——. Having a
note to write, I had left him there, and I think his carriage could not
have quitted the court when that of Sir Walter Scott entered. If so, the
General must have passed out by the ante-chamber, about the time we came
through the _corridor_.
There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this
interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the
conversation was more general. You will remember that Sir Walter was
still the _Unknown_,[1] and that he was believed to be in Paris, in
search of facts for the Life of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the former
circumstance, he spoke of his works with great frankness and simplicity,
and without the parade of asking any promises of secrecy. In short, as
he commenced in this style, his authorship was alluded to by us both,
just as if it had never been called in question. He asked me if I had a
copy of the —— by me, and on my confessing I did not own a single volume
of anything I had written, he laughed, and said he believed that most
authors had the same feeling on the subject: as for himself, he cared
not if he never saw a Waverly novel again, as long as he lived. Curious
to know whether a writer as great and as practised as he, felt the
occasional despondency which invariably attends all my own little
efforts of this nature, I remarked that I found the mere composition of
a tale a source of pleasure; so much so, that I always invented twice as
much as was committed to paper, in my walks, or in bed, and, in my own
judgment, much the best parts of the composition never saw the light;
for, what was written was usually written at set hours, and was a good
deal a matter of chance; and that going over and over the same subject,
in proofs, disgusted me so thoroughly with the book, that I supposed
every one else would be disposed to view it with the same eyes. To this
he answered, that he was spared much of the labour of proof-reading,
Scotland, he presumed, being better off than America, in this respect;
but, still, he said he “would as soon see his dinner again, after a
hearty meal, as to read one of his own tales when he was fairly rid of
it.”
Footnote 1:
He did not avow himself for several months afterwards.
He sat with me nearly an hour, and he manifested, during the time the
conversation was not tied down to business, a strong propensity to
humour. Having occasion to mention our common publisher in Paris, he
quaintly termed him, with a sort of malicious fun, “our Gosling;”[2]
adding, that he hoped he, at least, “laid golden eggs.”
Footnote 2:
His name was _Gosselin_.
I hoped that he had found the facilities he desired, in obtaining facts
for the forthcoming history. He rather hesitated about admitting
this.—“One can hear as much as he pleases, in the way of anecdote,” he
said, “but then, as a gentleman, he is not always sure how much of it he
can, with propriety, relate in a book—besides,” throwing all his latent
humour into the expression of his small gray eyes, “one may even doubt
how much of what he hears is fit for history, on another account.” He
paused, and his face assumed an exquisite air of confiding simplicity,
as he continued with perfect _bonne foi_ and strong Scottish feeling, “I
have been to see _my countryman_ M‘Donald, and I rather think that will
be about as much as I can do here, now.” This was uttered with so much
_naïveté_ that I could hardly believe it was the same man, who, a moment
before, had shown so much shrewd distrust of oral relations of facts.
I inquired when we might expect the work. “Some time in the course of
the winter,” he replied, “though it is likely to prove larger than I, at
first, intended. We have got several volumes printed, but I find I must
add to the matter, considerably, in order to dispose of the subject. I
thought I should get rid of it in seven volumes, which are already
written, but it will reach, I think, to nine.” “If you have two still to
write, I shall not expect to see the book before spring.” “You may. Let
me once get back to Abbotsford, and I’ll soon knock off those two
fellows.” To this I had nothing to say, although I thought such a _tour
de force_ in writing might better suit invention than history.
When he rose to go, I begged him to step into the _salon_, that I might
have the gratification of introducing my wife to him. To this he very
good naturedly assented, and entering the room, after presenting Mrs. ——
and my nephew W——, he took a seat. He sat some little time, and his fit
of pleasantry returned, for he illustrated his discourse by one or two
apt anecdotes, related with a slightly Scottish accent, that he seemed
to drop and assume at will. Mrs. —— observed to him that the _bergère_
in which he was seated, had been twice honoured that morning, for
General Lafayette had not left it more than half an hour. Sir Walter
Scott looked surprised at this, and said, inquiringly, “I thought he had
gone to America, to pass the rest of his days?” On my explaining the
true state of the case, he merely observed, “he is a great man;” and
yet, I thought the remark was made coldly, or in complaisance to us.
When Sir Walter left us, it was settled that I was to breakfast with
him, the following day but one. I was punctual, of course, and found him
in a new silk _douilliette_ that he had just purchased, trying “as hard
as he could,” as he pleasantly observed, to make a Frenchman of himself;
an undertaking as little likely to be successful, I should think, in the
case of his Scottish exterior, and Scottish interior, too, as any
experiment well could be. There were two or three visitors present,
besides Miss Ann Scott, his daughter, who was his companion in the
journey. He was just answering an invitation from the _Princesse_ ——, to
an evening party, as I entered. “Here,” said he, “you are a friend of
the lady, and _parlez-vous_ so much better than I, can you tell me
whether this is for _jeudi_, or _lundi_, or _mardi_, or whether it means
no day at all.” I told him the day of the week intended. “You get notes
occasionally from the lady, or you could not read her scrawl so
readily?” “She is very kind to us, and we often have occasion to read
her writing.” “Well, it is worth a very good dinner to get through a
page of it.” “I take my revenge in kind, and I fancy she has the worst
of it.” “I don’t know, after all, that she will get much the better of
me, with this _plume d’auberge_.” He was quite right, for, although Sir
Walter writes a smooth even hand, and one that appears rather well than
otherwise on a page, it is one of the most difficult to decipher I have
ever met with. The i’s, u’s, m’s, n’s, a’s, e’s, t’s, &c., &c., for want
of dots, crossings, and being fully rounded, looking all alike, and
rendering the reading slow and difficult, without great familiarity with
his mode of handling the pen; at least, I have found it so.
He had sealed the note, and was about writing the direction, when he
seemed at a loss. “How do you address this lady—as ‘Her Highness’?” I
was much surprised at this question from him, for it denoted a want of
familiarity with the world, that one would not have expected in a man
who had been so very much and so long courted by the great. But, after
all, his life has been provincial, though, as his daughter remarked in
the course of the morning, they had no occasion to quit Scotland, to see
the world, all the world coming to see Scotland.
The next morning he was with me again, for near an hour, and we
completed our little affair. After this, we had a conversation on the
Law of Copy-Rights, in the two countries, which, as we possess a common
language, is a subject of great national interest. I understood him to
say that he had a double right, in England, to his works; one under a
statute, and the other growing out of common law. Any one publishing a
book, let it be written by whom it might, in England, duly complying
with the law, can secure the right, whereas, none but a _citizen_ can do
the same in America. I regret to say, that I misled him on the subject
of our copy-right law, which, after all, is not so much more illiberal
than that of England, as I had thought it.
I told Sir Walter Scott, that, in order to secure a copy-right in
America, it was necessary the book should never have been published
_anywhere else_. This was said under the popular notion of the matter;
or that which is entertained among the booksellers. Reflection and
examination have since convinced me of my error: the publication alluded
to in the law, can only mean publication in America; for, as the object
of doing certain acts previously to publication is merely to forewarn
the _American_ public that the right is reserved, there can be no motive
for having reference to any other publication. It is, moreover, in
conformity with the spirit of all laws to limit the meaning of their
phrases by their proper jurisdiction. Let us suppose a case. An American
writes a book. He sends a copy to England, where it is published in
March. Complying with the terms of our own Copy-Right Law, as to the
entries and notices, the same work is published here in April. Now, will
it be pretended that his right is lost, always providing that his own is
the first _American_ publication? I do not see how it can be so, by
either the letter or the spirit of the law. The intention is to
encourage the citizen to write, and to give him a just property in the
fruits of his labour; and the precautionary provisions of the law are
merely to prevent others from being injured for want of proper
information. It is of no moment to either of these objects that the
author of a work has already reaped emolument, in a foreign country. The
principle is to encourage literature, by giving it all the advantages it
can obtain.
If these views are correct, why may not an English writer secure a right
in this country, by selling it in season, to a citizen here? An
equitable trust might not, probably would not be sufficient, but a _bonâ
fide_ transfer for a valuable consideration, I begin to think, would. It
seems to me that all the misconception which has existed on this point,
has arisen from supposing that the term _publication_ refers to other
than a publication in the country. But, when one remembers how rare it
is to get lawyers to agree on a question like this, it becomes a layman
to advance his opinion with great humility. I suppose, after all, a good
way of getting an accurate notion of the meaning of the law, would be to
toss a dollar into the air, and cry “heads,” or “tails.” Sir Walter
Scott seemed fully aware of the great circulation of his books in
America, as well as how much he lost by not being able to secure a
copy-right. Still, he admitted they produced him something. Our
conversation on this subject terminated by a frank offer, on his part,
of aiding me with the publishers of his own country,[3] but, although
grateful for the kindness, I was not so circumstanced as to be able to
profit by it.
Footnote 3:
An offer that was twice renewed, after intervals of several years.
He did not appear to me to be pleased with Paris. His notions of the
French were pretty accurate, though clearly not free from the
old-fashioned prejudices. “After all,” he remarked, “I am a true Scot,
never, except on this occasion, and the short visit I made to Paris in
1815, having been out of my own country, unless to visit England, and I
have even done very little of the latter.” I understood him to say he
had never been in Ireland, at all.
I met him once more, in the evening, at the hotel of the _Princesse_ ——.
The party had been got together in a hurry, and was not large. Our
hostess contrived to assemble some exceedingly clever people, however,
among whom were one or two women, who are already historical, and whom I
had fancied long since dead. All the female part of the company, with
the silent delicacy that the French so well understand, appeared with
ribbons, hats, or ornaments of some sort or other, of a Scottish stamp.
Indeed, almost the only woman in the room that did not appear to be a
Caledonian was Miss Scott. She was in half-mourning, and with her black
eyes and jet-black hair, might very well have passed for a French woman,
but for a slight peculiarity about the cheek bones. She looked
exceedingly well, and was much admired. Having two or three more places
to go to, they staid but an hour. As a matter of course, all the French
women were exceedingly _empressées_ in their manner towards the Great
Unknown, and as there were three or four that were very exaggerated on
the score of romance, he was quite lucky if he escaped some absurdities.
Nothing could be more patient than his manner, under it all, but as soon
as he very well could, he got into a corner, where I went to speak to
him. He said, laughingly, that he spoke French with so much difficulty
he was embarrassed to answer the compliments. “I’m as good a lion as
needs be, allowing my mane to be stroked as familiarly as they please,
but I can’t growl for them, in French. How is it with you?” Disclaiming
the necessity of being either a good or a bad lion, being very little
troubled in that way, for his amusement I related to him an anecdote.
Pointing out to him a _Comtesse de_ ——, who was present, I told him,
this lady I had met once a week, for several months, and at every
_soirée_ she invariably sailed up to me to say—“_Oh, Monsieur ——,
quelles livres!—vos charmants livres—que vos livres sont charmants!_”
and I had just made up my mind that she was, at least, a woman of taste,
when she approached me with the utmost _sang froid_, and cried—“_Bon
soir, Monsieur ——; je viens d’acheter tous vos livres et je compte
profiter de la premiere occasion pour les lire!_”
I took leave of him, in the ante-chamber, as he went away, for he was to
quit Paris the following evening.
Sir Walter Scott’s person and manner have been so often described, that
you will not ask much of me, in this way, especially as I saw so little
of him. His frame is large and muscular, his walk difficult, in
appearance, though he boasted himself a vigorous mountaineer, and his
action, in general, measured and heavy. His features and countenance
were very Scottish, with the short thick nose, heavy lips, and massive
cheeks. The superior or intellectual part of his head was neither deep
nor broad, but perhaps the reverse, though singularly high. Indeed, it
is quite uncommon to see a scull so round and tower-like in the
formation, though I have met with them in individuals not at all
distinguished for talents. I do not think a casual observer would find
anything unusual in the exterior of Sir Walter Scott, beyond his
physical force, which is great, without being at all extraordinary. His
eye, however, is certainly remarkable. Gray, small, and without lustre,
in his graver moments it appears to look inward, instead of regarding
external objects, in a way, though the expression, more or less, belongs
to abstraction, that I have never seen equalled. His smile is
good-natured and social; and when he is in the mood, as happened to be
the fact so often in our brief intercourse as to lead me to think it
characteristic of the man, his eye would lighten with a great deal of
latent fun. He spoke more freely of his private affairs than I had
reason to expect, though our business introduced the subject naturally;
and, at such times, I thought the expression changed to a sort of
melancholy resolution, that was not wanting in sublimity.
The manner of Sir Walter Scott is that of a man accustomed to see much
of the world without being exactly a man of the world himself. He has
evidently great social tact, perfect self-possession, is quiet, and
absolutely without pretension, and has much dignity; and yet it struck
me that he wanted the ease and _àplomb_ of one accustomed to live with
his equals. The fact of his being a lion, may produce some such effect,
but I am mistaken if it be not more the influence of early habits and
opinions than of any thing else.
Scott has been so much the mark of society, that it has evidently
changed his natural manner, which is far less restrained, than it is his
habit to be in the world. I do not mean by this, the mere restraint of
decorum, but a drilled simplicity or demureness, like that of girls who
are curbed in their tendency to fun and light-heartedness, by the dread
of observation. I have seldom known a man of his years, whose manner was
so different in a _tête-à-tête_, and in the presence of a third person.
In Edinburgh the circle must be small, and he probably knows every one.
If strangers do go there, they do not go all at once, and, of course,
the old faces form the great majority; so that he finds himself always
on familiar ground. I can readily imagine that in _Auld Reekie_, and
among the proper set, warmed perhaps by a glass of mountain-dew, that
Sir Walter Scott, in his peculiar way, is one of the pleasantest
companions the world holds.
There was a certain _M. de_ —— at the _soirée_ of the _Princesse_ ——,
who has obtained some notoriety as the writer of novels. I had the
honour of being introduced to this person, and was much amused with one
of his questions. You are to understand that the vaguest possible
notions exist in France, on the subject of the United States. Empires,
states, continents and islands, are blended in inextricable confusion,
in the minds of a large majority of even the intelligent classes, and we
sometimes hear the oddest ideas imaginable. This ignorance, quite
pardonable in part, is not confined to France, by any means, but exists
even in England, a country that ought to know us better. It would seem
that _M. de_ ——, either because I was a shade or two whiter than
himself, or because he did not conceive it possible that an American
could write a book, (for in this quarter of the world, there is a strong
tendency to believe that every man whose name crosses the ocean from
America, is merely some European who has gone there,) or, from some
cause that to me is inexplicable, took it into his head that I was an
Englishman who had amused a leisure year or two in the Western
Hemisphere. After asking me a few questions concerning the country, he
very coolly continued—“_Et, combien de temps avez-vous passé, en
Amérique, Monsieur?_” Comprehending his mistake, for a little practice
here makes one quick in such matters, I answered—“_Monsieur, nous y
sommes, dépuis deux siécles._” I question if M. de —— has yet recovered
from his surprize!
The French, when their general cleverness is considered, are singularly
ignorant of the habits, institutions, and civilization of other
countries. This is in part owing to their being little addicted to
travelling. Their commercial enterprize is not great; for though we
occasionally see a Frenchman carrying with him into pursuits of this
nature, the comprehensive views, and one might almost say, the
philosophy, that distinguish the real intelligence of the country, such
instances are rare, the prevailing character of their commerce being
caution and close dealing. Like the people of all great nations, their
attention is drawn more to themselves than to others, and then the want
of a knowledge of foreign languages has greatly contributed to their
ignorance. This want of knowledge of foreign languages, in a nation that
has traversed Europe as conquerors, is owing to the fact that they have
either carried their own language with them, or met it everywhere. It is
a want, moreover, that belongs rather to the last generation, than to
the present; the returned emigrants having brought back with them a
taste for English, German, Italian and Spanish, which has communicated
itself to all, or nearly all, the educated people of the country.
English, in particular, is now very generally studied; and perhaps,
relatively, more French, under thirty years of age, are to be found in
Paris, who speak English, than Americans, of the same age, are to be
found in New York, who speak French.
I think the limited powers of the language, and the rigid laws to which
it has been subjected, contribute to render the French less acquainted
with foreign nations, than they would otherwise be. In all their
translations, there is an effort to render the word, however peculiar
may be its meaning, into the French tongue. Thus, “township,” and
“city,” met with in an American book, would probably be rendered by
“_canton_,” or “_commune_,” or “_ville_;” neither of which conveys an
accurate idea of the thing intended. In an English or American book, we
should introduce the French word at once, which would induce the reader
to inquire into the differences that exist between the minor territorial
divisions of his own country, and those of the country of which he is
reading. In this manner is the door opened for further information,
until both writers and readers come to find it easier and more agreeable
to borrow words from others, than to curtail their ideas by their
national vocabularies. The French, however, are beginning to feel their
poverty, in this respect, and some are already bold enough to resort to
the natural cure.
The habit of thinking of other nations through their own customs,
betrays the people of this country into many ridiculous mistakes. One
hears, here, the queerest questions imaginable, every day; all of which,
veiled by the good breeding and delicacy that characterize the nation,
betray an innocent sense of superiority, that may be smiled at, and
which creates no feeling of resentment. A _savan_ lately named to me the
coasting tonnage of France, evidently with the expectation of exciting
my admiration; and on my receiving the information coolly, he inquired,
with a little sarcasm of manner—“without doubt, you have some coasting
tonnage, also, in America?” “The coasting tonnage of the United States,
Monsieur, is greater than the entire tonnage of France.” The man looked
astonished, and I was covered with questions, as to the nature of the
trade that required so much shipping, among a population numerically so
small. It could not possibly be the consumption of a country—he did not
say it, but he evidently thought it—so insignificant and poor? I told
him, that, bread, wine, and every other article of the first necessity
excepted, the other consumption of America, especially in luxuries, did
not fall so much short of that of France as he imagined, owing to the
great abundance in which the middling and lower classes lived. Unlike
Europe, articles that were imported, were mere necessaries of life, in
America, such as tea, coffee, sugar, &c., &c., the lowest labourer
usually indulging in them. He left me evidently impressed with new
notions, for there is a desire to learn mingled with all their vanity.
But, I will relate a laughable blunder of a translator, by way of giving
you a familiar example of the manner in which the French fall into
error, concerning the condition of other nations, and to illustrate my
meaning. In one of the recent American novels that have been circulated
here, a character is made to betray confusion, by tracing lines on the
table, after dinner, with some wine that had been spilt, a sort of idle
occupation sufficiently common to allow the allusion to be understood by
every American. The sentence was faithfully rendered; but, not satisfied
with giving his original, the translator annexes a note, in which he
says, “one sees by this little trait, that the use of table-cloths, at
the time of the American Revolution, was unknown in America!” You will
understand the train of reasoning that led him to this conclusion. In
France the cover is laid, perhaps, on a coarse table of oak, or even of
pine, and the cloth is never drawn; the men leaving the table with the
women. In America, the table is of highly polished mahogany, the cloth
is removed, and the men sit, as in England. Now the French custom was
supposed to be the custom of mankind, and wine could not be traced on
the wood had there been a cloth; America was a young and semi-civilized
nation, and, _ergo_, in 1779, there could have been no table-cloths
known in America! When men even visit a people of whom they have been
accustomed to think in this way, they use their eyes through the medium
of the imagination. I lately met a French traveller who affirmed that
the use of carpets was hardly known among us.
LETTER II.
TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.
In my last, I gave you a few examples of the instances in which the
French have mistaken the relative civilization of their country and
America, and I shall now give you some in which we have fallen into the
same error, or the other side of the question.
There has lately been an exhibition of articles of French manufacture,
at Paris; one of, I believe, the triennial collections of this
character, that have been established here. The court of the Louvre was
filled with temporary booths, for the occasion, and vast ranges of the
unfinished apartments in that magnificent palace have been thrown open
for the same purpose. The court of the Louvre, of itself, is an area
rather more than four hundred feet square, and I should think fully a
quarter of a mile of rooms in the building itself are to be added to the
space occupied for this purpose.
The first idea, with which I was impressed, on walking through the
booths and galleries, on this occasion, was the great disproportion
between the objects purely of taste and luxury, and the objects of use.
The former abounded, were very generally elegant and well imagined,
while the latter betrayed the condition of a nation whose civilization
has commenced with the summit, instead of the base of society.
In France, nearly every improvement in machinery is the result of
scientific research; is unobjectionable in principles, profound in the
adaptation of its parts to the end, and commonly beautiful in form. But
it ends here, rarely penetrating the mass, and producing positive
results. The _conservatoire des arts_, for instance, is full of
beautiful and ingenious ploughs, while France is tilled with heavy,
costly and cumbrous implements of this nature. One sees light mould
turning up, here, under a sort of agricultural _diligences_, drawn by
four, and even six heavy horses, which in America would be done quite as
well, and much sooner, by two. You know I am farmer enough to understand
what I say, on a point like this. In France, the cutlery, ironware,
glass, door-fastenings, hinges, locks, fire-irons, axes, hatchets,
carpenter’s tools, and, in short, almost every thing that is connected
with homely industry and homely comfort, is inferior to the same thing
in America. It is true, many of our articles are imported, but this
produces no change in the habits of the respective people; our
manufactories are merely in Birmingham, instead of being in
Philadelphia.
I have now been long enough in France to understand that seeing an
article in an exhibition like the one I am describing, is no proof that
it enters at all into the comforts and civilization of the nation,
although it may be an object as homely as a harrow or a spade. The
scientific part of the country has little influence, in this way, on the
operative. The chasm between knowledge and ignorance is so vast in
France, that it requires a long time for the simplest idea to find its
way across it.
Exhibitions are every where bad guides to the average civilization of a
country, as it is usual to expose only the objects that have been
wrought with the greatest care. In a popular sense, they are proofs of
what _can_ be done, rather than of what _is_ done. The cloths that I saw
in the booths, for instance, are not to be met with in the shops; the
specimens of fire-arms, glass, cutlery, &c. &c., too, are all much
superior to any thing one finds on sale. But this is the case every
where, from the boarding-school to the military parade, men invariably
putting the best foot foremost, when they are to be especially
inspected. This is not the difference I mean. Familiar, as every
American, at all accustomed to the usages of genteel life in his own
country, must be, with the better manufactures of Great Britain, I think
he would be struck by the inferiority of even the best specimens of the
commoner articles that were here laid before the public. But when it
came to the articles of elegance and luxury, as connected with forms,
taste and execution, though not always in ingenuity and extent of
comfort, I should think that no Englishman, let his rank in life be what
it would, could pass through this wilderness of elegancies, without
wonder.
Even the manufactures in which we, or rather the English (for I now
refer more to use than to production) ordinarily excel, such as carpets,
rugs, porcelain, plate, and all the higher articles of personal comfort,
_as exceptions_, surpass those of which we have any notion. I say, _as
exceptions_, not in the sense by which we distinguish the extraordinary
efforts of the ordinary manufacturer, in order to make a figure at an
exhibition, but certain objects produced in certain exclusive
establishments, that are chiefly the property of the crown, as they have
been the offspring of regal taste and magnificence.
Of this latter character is the _Sêvres_ china. There are manufactures
of this name, of a quality that brings them within the reach of moderate
fortunes, it is true, but one obtains no idea of the length to which
luxury and taste have been pushed in this branch of art, without
examining the objects made especially for the king, who is in the habit
of distributing them as presents among the crowned heads and his
personal favourites. After the ware has been made, with the greatest
care, and of the best materials, artists of celebrity are employed to
paint it. You can easily imagine the value of these articles, when you
remember that each plate has a design of its own, beautifully executed
in colours, and presenting a landscape or an historical subject, that is
fit to be framed and suspended in a gallery. One or two of the artists
employed in this manner have great reputations, and it is no uncommon
thing to see miniatures, in gilded frames, which, on examination, prove
to be on porcelain. Of course the painting has been subject to the
action of heat, in the baking. As respects the miniatures, there is not
much to be said in their favour. They are well drawn and well enough
coloured, but the process and the material together, give them a glossy,
unnatural appearance, which must prevent them from ever being considered
as more than so many _tours de force_ in the arts. But on vases, dinner
setts, and all ornamental furniture of this nature, in which we look for
the peculiarities of the material, they produce a magnificence of
effect, that I cannot describe. Vases of the value of ten or fifteen
thousand francs, or even of more money, are not uncommon, and at the
exhibition there was a little table, the price of which I believe was
two thousand dollars, that was a perfect treasure in its way.
Busts, and even statues, I believe, have been attempted in this branch
of art. This, of course, is enlisting the statuary as well as the
painter in its service. I remember to have seen, when at _Sêvres_, many
busts of the late _Duc de Berri_, in the process of drying, previously
to being put into the oven. Our _cicerone_, on that occasion, made us
laugh, by the routine with which he went through his catalogue of
wonders. He had pointed out to us the unbaked busts, in a particular
room, and, on entering another apartment, where the baked busts were
standing, he exclaimed—“_Ah! voilà son Altesse Royal tout cuit._” This
is just the amount of the criticism I should hazard on this branch of
the _Sêvres_ art, or on that which exceeds its legitimate limits—“Behold
his Royal Highness, ready cooked.”
The value of some of the single plates must be very considerable, and
the king, frequently, in presenting a solitary vase, or ornament of the
_Sêvres_ porcelain, presents thousands.
The tapestry is another of the costly works, that it has suited the
policy of France to keep up, while her ploughs, and axes, and carts, and
other ordinary implements are still so primitive and awkward. The
exhibition contained many specimens from the _Gobelins_, that greatly
surpassed my expectations. They were chiefly historical subjects, with
the figures larger than life, and might very well have passed, with a
novice, at a little distance, for oil paintings. The dimensions of the
apartment are taken, and the subject is designed, of course, on a scale
suited to the room. The effect of this species of ornament is very noble
and imposing, and the tapestries have the additional merit of warmth and
comfort. Hangings in cloth are very common in Paris, but the tapestry of
the _Gobelins_ is chiefly confined to the royal palaces. Our neighbour
the _duc de_ ——, has some of it, however, in his hotel, a present from
the king, but the colours are much faded, and the work is otherwise the
worse for time. I have heard him say, that one piece he has, even in its
dilapidated state, is valued at seven thousand francs. Occasionally a
little of this tapestry is found, in this manner, in the great hotels;
but, as a rule, its use is strictly royal.
The paper for hangings, is another article in which the French excel. We
get very pretty specimens of their skill in this manufacture in America,
but, with occasional exceptions, nothing that is strictly magnificent
finds its way into our markets. I was much struck with some of these
hangings that were made to imitate velvet. The cloth appeared to be
actually incorporated with the paper, and by no ingenuity of which I was
master, could I detect the means. The style of paper is common enough,
every where, but this exhibition had qualities far surpassing any thing
of the sort I had ever before seen. Curiosity has since led me to the
paper-maker, in order to penetrate the secrets of his art, and there,
like the affair of Columbus and the egg, I found the whole thing as
simple as heart could wish. You will probably smile, when you learn the
process by which paper is converted into velvet, which is briefly this.
Wooden moulds are used to stamp the designs, each colour being put on,
by laying a separate mould on its proper place, one mould being used
after another, though only one is used on any particular occasion. Thus,
all the black is put on now, the green to-morrow, and the yellow next
day. As to the velvets, they are produced as follows. Wool is chopped
fine, and dyed the desired hue. I am not certain that cotton, or even
other materials may not be used. This chopped and coloured wool is
thrown into a tub; the mould is covered with some glutinous substance,
and when applied it leaves on the paper the adhesive property, as types
leave the ink. The paper passes immediately over the tub, and a boy
throws on the wool. A light blow or two, of a rattan, tosses it about,
and finally throws all back again into the tub that has not touched the
glue. The _printed_ part, of course, is covered with blue, or purple, or
scarlet wool, and is converted, by a touch of the wand, into velvet! The
process of covering a yard lasts about ten seconds, and I should think
considerably more than a hundred yards of paper could be _velvetized_ in
an hour. We laughed at the discovery, and came away satisfied that
Solomon could have known nothing about manufacturing paper-hangings, or
he would not have said there was nothing “new under the sun.”
But the manufacture of France that struck me as being strictly in the
best taste, in which perfection and magnificence are attained without
recourse to conceits, or doing violence to any of the proprieties are
the products of the _Savonnerie_, and the exquisitely designed and
executed works of Beauvais. These include chair bottoms and backs,
hangings for rooms, and, I believe, carpets. At all events, if the
carpets do not come from these places, they are quite worthy to have
that extraction. Flowers, _arabesques_, and other similar designs,
exquisitely coloured and drawn, chiefly limit the efforts of the former;
and the carpets were in single pieces, and made to fit the room. Nothing
that you have ever seen, or probably have imagined, at all equals the
magnificence of some of these princely carpets. Indeed, I know nothing
that runs a closer parallel to the general civilization between France
and England, and I might almost add of America, than the history of
their respective carpets. In France, a vast majority of the people
hardly know what a carpet is. They use mud floors, or, rising a little
above the very lowest classes, coarse stone and rude tiles are
substituted. The middling classes, out of the large towns, have little
else besides painted tiles. The wooden _parquet_ is met with, in all the
better houses, and is well made and well kept. There is a finish and
beauty about them, that is not misplaced even in a palace. Among all
these classes, until quite lately, carpets were unknown, or at least
they were confined to the very highest class of society. The great
influx of English has introduced them into the public hotels, and common
lodging houses, but I have visited among many French of rank and
fortune, in the dead of winter, and found no carpets. A few of a very
coarse quality, made of rags, adroitly tortured into laboured designs,
are seen, it is true, even in indifferent houses; but the rule is, as I
have told you. In short, carpets, in this country, until quite lately,
have been deemed articles of high luxury; and, like nearly every thing
else that is magnificent and luxurious, at the point where they have
been taken up, they infinitely exceed any thing of the sort in England.
The classical designs, perfect drawings, and brilliant colours, defeat
every effort to surpass them,—I had almost said, all competition.
In all America, except in the new regions, with here and there, a
dwelling on the frontier, there is scarcely a house to be found without
carpets, the owners of which are at all above the labouring classes.
Even in many of the latter they are to be found. We are carpetted,
frequently, from the kitchen to the garret; the richness and rarity of
the manufacture increasing as we ascend in the scale of wealth and
fashion, until we reach the uttermost limits of our habits—a point where
beauty and neatness verge upon elegance and magnificence. At this point,
however, we stop, and the turn of the French commences. Now this is the
history of the comparative civilization of the two countries, in a
multitude of other matters; perhaps it would be better to say it is the
general comparative history of the two countries. The English differ
from us, only, in carrying their scale both higher and lower than
ourselves: in being sometimes magnificent, and sometimes impoverished;
but rarely, indeed, do they equal the French, in the light, classical,
and elegant taste that so eminently distinguishes these people. There is
something ponderous and purse-proud about the magnificence of England,
that is scarcely ever visible here; though taste is evidently and
rapidly on the increase in England, on the one hand, as comfort is here,
on the other. The French have even partially adopted the two words
“_fashionable_,” and “_comfortable_.”
One of the most curious things connected with the arts in France, is
that of transferring old pictures from wood to canvass. A large
proportion of the paintings of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
were done on wood or copper, and many of the former are, or have been,
in danger of being lost, from decay. In order to meet the evil, a
process has been invented by which the painting is transferred to
canvas, where it remains, to all appearance, as good as ever. I have
taken some pains to ascertain in what manner this nice operation is
performed. I have seen pictures in various stages of the process, though
I have never watched any one through it all; and, in one instance, I saw
a small Wouvermans, stripped to the shirt, if it may be so expressed,
or, in other words, _when it was nothing but paint_. From what I have
seen and been told, I understand the mode of effecting this delicate and
almost incredible operation, to be as follows:—
A glue is rubbed over the face of the picture, which is then laid on a
piece of canvas that is properly stretched and secured, to receive it.
Weights are now laid on the back of the picture; and it is left for a
day or two, in order that the glue may harden. The weights are then
removed, and the operator commences removing the wood, first with a
plane, and, when he approaches the paint, with sharp delicate chissels.
The paint is kept in its place by the canvas to which it is glued, and
which is itself secured to the table; and, although the entire body of
the colours, hardened as it is by time, is usually not thicker than a
thin wafer, the wood is commonly taken entirely from it. Should a thin
fragment be left, however, or a crack made in the paint, it is
considered of no great moment. The Wouvermans alluded to, was pure
paint, however, and I was shown the pieces of wood, much worm-eaten,
that had been removed. When the wood is away, glue is applied to the
_back of the paint_, and to the canvas on which it is intended the
picture shall remain. The latter is then laid on the paint. New weights
are placed above it, and they are left two or three days longer, for
this new glue to harden. When it is thought the adhesion between the
second canvas and the paint is sufficient, the weights are removed, the
picture is turned, and warm water is used in loosening the first canvas
from the face of the picture, until it can be stripped off. More or less
of the varnish of the picture usually comes off, with the glue,
rendering the separation easier. The painting is then cleaned,
retouched, and should it be necessary, varnished and framed; after which
it commonly looks as well, and is really as sound and as good as ever,
so far, at least, as the consistency is concerned.
Among other wonders in the exhibition, was the coronation coach of
Charles X. This carriage is truly magnificent. It is quite large, as
indeed are all the royal carriages, perhaps as large as an American
stage-coach; the glass, pure and spotless as air, goes all round the
upper compartments, so as to admit of a view of the whole interior; the
pannels are beautifully painted in design; the top has gilded and
well-formed angels blowing trumpets, and the crown of France surmounts
the centre. The wheels, and train, and pole, are red, striped with gold.
All the leather is red morocco, gilt, as is the harness. Plumes of
ostrich feathers ornament the angles, and, altogether, it is a most
glittering and gorgeous vehicle. The paintings, the gildings, and all
the details are well executed, except the running gear, which struck me
as clumsy and imperfect. The cost is said to have been about sixty
thousand dollars.
Many new rooms in the Louvre were thrown open on this occasion, in order
that the paintings on their ceilings might be viewed, and as I walked
through this gorgeous magnificence, I felt how small were our highest
pretensions to anything like elegance or splendour. The very extreme of
art, of this nature, may, of itself, be of no great direct benefit, it
is true, but it should be remembered, that the skill which produces
these extraordinary fruits, in its road to the higher points of
magnificence, produces all that embellishes life in the intermediate
gradations.
In America, in the eagerness of gain, and with the contracted habits
that a love of gain engenders, which by their own avidity, as is usual
with the grosser passions, too often defeat their own ends, we overlook
the vast importance of cultivating the fine arts, even in a pecuniary
sense, to say nothing of the increased means of enjoying the very money
that is so blindly pursued, which their possession entails. France is at
this moment laying all christendom under contribution, simply by means
of her taste. Italy, where the arts have flourished still longer, and
where they have still more effectually penetrated society, would drive
the English and French out of every market on earth, were the national
energy at all equal to the national tastes. These things do not as
exclusively belong to extreme luxury as they may at first seem. Science,
skill of the nicest investigation, and great research, are all enlisted
in their behalf; and, in time, implements of the most homely uses derive
perfection, as by-plays, from the investigations consequent on the
production of luxuries. It is true, that, by blending a certain amount
of information with practice, as in the case of the American labourer,
our wants find the means of furnishing their own supplies; but, apart
from the fact that the man who makes a chair is not obliged to sit in
it, and is therefore content to consult his profits merely, the impulses
of practice are much aided by the accumulated knowledge of study. The
influence that the arts of design have had on the French manufactures is
incalculable. They have brought in the aid of chemistry, and
mathematics, and a knowledge of antiquity; and we can trace the effects
in the bronzes, the porcelain, the hangings, the chintzes, the silks,
down to the very ribbands of the country. We shall in vain endeavour to
compete with the great European nations, unless we make stronger efforts
to cultivate the fine arts. Of what avails our beautiful glass, unless
we know how to cut it; or of what great advantage, in the strife of
industry, will be even the _skilful_ glass-cutter, should he not also be
the _tasteful_ glass-cutter. It is true that classical forms and
proportions are, as yet, of no great account among us, and the great
mass of the American people still cling to their own uninstructed
fancies, in preference to the outlines and proportions of the more
approved models, and to those hues which art has demonstrated to be
harmonious. This is the history of every society in its progress to
perfection; and, cut off as we are from the rest of the civilized world,
it is not to be expected that we are to make an extraordinary exception.
But, while we may be satisfied with our own skill and taste, the happy
lot of all ignorance, our customers will not have the same
self-complacency, to induce them to become purchasers. We find this
truth already. We beat all nations in the fabrication of common
unstamped cottons. Were trade as free as some political economists
pretend, we should drive all our competitors out of every market, as
respects this one article. But the moment we attempt to print, or to
meddle with that part of the business which requires taste, we find
ourselves inferior to the Europeans, whose forms we are compelled to
imitate, and of course to receive when no longer novel, and whose hues
defy our art.
The wisest thing the United States could do, would be to appropriate
thirty or forty millions to the formation of a marine, not to secure the
coast, as our hen-roost statesmen are always preaching, but to keep, in
our own hands, the control of our own fortunes, by rendering our enmity
or friendship of so much account to Europe, that no power shall ever
again dare trespass on our national rights:—and one of the next wisest
measures, I honestly believe, would be to appropriate, at once, a
million to the formation of a National Gallery, in which copies of the
antique, antiques themselves, pictures, bronzes, _arabesques_, and other
models of true taste, might be collected, before which the young
aspirants for fame might study, and with which become imbued, as the
preliminary step to an infusion of their merits into society. Without
including the vast influence of such a cultivation on the manners,
associations, intellects and habits of the people—an influence that can
scarcely be appreciated too highly—fifty years would see the first cost
returned fifty-fold, in the shape of the much beloved dollars. Will this
happen? Not till men of enlightened minds—_statesmen_, instead of
_political partizans_—are sent to Washington. It is the misfortune of
America to lie so remote from the rest of the civilized world, as to
feel little of the impulses of a noble competition, our rivalry commonly
limiting itself to the vulgar exhibitions of individual vanity; and this
the more to our disadvantage, as, denied access to the best models for
even this humble species of contention, with the antagonists we are
compelled to choose, victory is as bad as defeat.
One of the great impediments to a high class of improvement, in America,
is the disposition to resent every intimation that we can be any better
than we are at present. Few, perhaps no country, has ever endured so
much evil disposed and unmerited abuse as our own. It is not difficult
to trace the reasons, and every American should meet it with a just and
manly indignation. But, being deemed a nation of rogues; barbarous, and
manifesting the vices of an ancestry of convicts, is a very different
thing from standing at the head of civilization. This tendency to repel
every suggestion of inferiority is one of the surest signs of provincial
habits; it is exactly the feeling with which the resident of the village
resents what he calls the airs of the town, and that which the inland
trader brings with him among those whom he terms the “dandies” of the
sea-board. In short, it is the jealousy of inferiority, on the exciting
points, whatever may be the merits of its subject in other matters, and
furnishes, of itself, the best possible proof that there is room for
amendment. The French have a clever and pithy saying, that of—“_On peut
tout dire, à un grand peuple._” “One may tell all to a great nation.”
_Note._—Every one was telling me that I should find the country so
altered, after an absence of eight years, that I should not know it.
Altered, indeed, I found it; but not quite so evidently improved. It
struck me that there was a vast expansion of mediocrity, that was well
enough in itself, but which was so overwhelming as nearly to
overshadow every thing that once stood prominent, as more excellent.
This was, perhaps, no more than a natural consequence of the
elasticity and growth of a young vigorous community, which, in its
aggregate character, as in that of its individuals, must pass through
youth to arrive at manhood. Still it was painful, and doubly so, to
one coming from Europe. I saw the towns increased, more tawdry than
ever, but absolutely with less real taste than they had in my youth.
The art of painting alone appeared to me to have made any material
advances in the right direction, if one excepts increase in wealth,
and in the facilities to create wealth. The steam-boats were the only
objects that approached magnificence, but while they had increased in
show, they had less comfort and respectability. The taverns, as a
whole, had deteriorated, though the three first I happened to enter
might well compete with a very high class of European inns, viz.
Head’s, Barnum’s, and Gadsby’s.
LETTER III.
TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.
I cannot tell you whence the vulgar notions that we entertain of the
French, which, with many other pernicious prejudices have made a part of
our great inheritance from England, have been originally obtained.
Certainly I have seen no thing, nor any person, after a long residence
in the country, to serve as models to the flippant _marquis_, the
overdressed courtiers, or the _petites maitresses_ of the English
dramatists. Even a French _perruquier_ is quite as homely and plain a
personage as an English or an American barber. But these Athenians
grossly caricature themselves as well as their neighbours. Although
Paris is pretty well garnished with English of all degrees, from the
Duke down, it has never yet been my luck to encounter an English dandy.
Now and then one meets with a “_dresser_,” a man who thinks more of his
appearance than becomes his manhood, or than comports with good
breeding; and occasionally a woman is seen who is a mere appendage to
her attire, but, I am persuaded, that, as a rule, neither of these
vulgar classes exists, among people of any condition, in either country.
It is impossible for me to say what changes the revolution, and the
wars, and the new notions, may have produced in France, but there is no
sufficient reason for believing that the present cropped and fringeless,
be-whiskered, and _laceless_ generation of France, differs more from
their be-wigged, belaced and powdered predecessors, than the men and
women of any other country differ from their particular ancestors. Boys
wore cock’d hats, and breeches, and swords, in America, previously to
the revolution; and our immediate fathers flourished in scarlet coats,
powder, ruffled fingers, and embroidered waistcoats.
The manners of the continent of Europe are more finished than those of
England, and, while quiet and simplicity are the governing rules of good
breeding every where, even in unsophisticated America, this quiet and
simplicity is more gracious and more graceful in France than in the
neighbouring island. As yet, I see no other difference, in mere
deportment, though there is abundance when one goes into the examination
of character.
I have met with a good many people of the old court at Paris, and,
though now and then there is a certain _roué_ atmosphere about them,
both men and women, as if too much time had been passed at Coblentz,
they have generally, in other respects, been models of elegant demeanor.
Usually they are simple, dignified, and yet extremely gracious—gracious
without the appearance of affability, a quality that is almost always
indicative of a consciousness of superiority. The predominant fault of
manner here is too strong a hand in applying flattery, but this is as
much the fault of the head as of breeding. The French are fond of
hearing pleasant things. They say themselves that “a Frenchman goes into
society to make himself agreeable, and an Englishman to make himself
disagreeable,” and the _dire_ is not altogether without foundation in
truth. I never met a Frenchman, in society here, who appeared to wish to
enhance his importance by what are called “airs,” though a coxcomb in
feeling is an animal not altogether unknown to the natural history of
Paris, nor is the zoological science of M. Cuvier indispensable to his
discovery.
I shall probably surprise you with one of my opinions. I think the
population of Paris, physically speaking, finer than that of London.
Fine men and fine women are, by no means, as frequent, after allowing
for the difference in whole numbers, in the French, as in the English
capital, but, neither are there as many miserable, pallid and squalid
objects. The French are a smaller race than the English, much smaller
than the race of English gentlemen, so many of whom congregate at
London; but the population of Paris has a sturdy, healthful look, that I
do not think is by any means as general in London. In making this
comparison, allowance must be made for the better dress of the English,
and for their fogs, whose effect is to bleach the skin and to give a
colour that has no necessary connexion with the springs of life,
although the female portion of the population of Paris has probably as
much colour as that of London. It might possibly be safer to say that
the female population of Paris is finer than that of London, though I
think on the whole the males may be included, also. I do not mean by
this, that there is relatively as much female beauty in Paris as in
London, for in this respect the latter has immeasurably the advantage,
but, looks apart, that the _physique_ of the French of Paris is superior
to that of the English of London. The population of Paris is a
favourable specimen of that of the kingdom, while that of London,
Westminster excepted, is not at all above the level of the entire
country, if, indeed, it be as good.[4]
Footnote 4:
This opinion remains the same in the writer, who, between the years
1806 and 1833, has been six times in London, and between the years
1826 and 1833, five times in Paris. In 1833, he left Paris for London,
sailing for home from the latter place. A few days after his arrival
he went to Washington, where, _during the session of Congress_, dress
and air not considered, he thought he had never met so large a
proportion of fine men, in any part of the world. He was particularly
struck with their size, as was an American friend who was with him,
and who had also passed many years abroad, having left Liverpool the
same day the writer sailed from Portsmouth.
The very general notion, which exists in America, that the French are a
slightly-built, airy people, and that their women, in particular, are
thin and without _embonpoint_, is a most extraordinary one, for there is
not a particle of foundation for it. The women of Paris are about as
tall as the women of America, and could a fair sample of the two nations
be placed in the scales, I have no doubt it would be found that the
French women would outweigh the Americans in the proportion of six to
five. Instead of being meagre, they are compactly built, with good
busts, inclining to be full, and well limbed, as any one may see, who
will take the trouble to walk the streets after a hard shower; for, as
Falstaff told Prince Henry, “You are straight enough in the shoulders:
you care not who sees your back.” Indeed, I know no females to whom the
opinion which we entertain of the French women may better apply than to
our own, and yet I know none who are so generally well-looking.
The French are not a handsome nation. Personal beauty in either sex is
rare: there is a want of simplicity, of repose, of dignity, and even of
harmonious expression, what they themselves call _finesse_, in their
countenances, and yet the liveliness of the eyes and the joyous
character of their looks, render them agreeable. You are not to
understand from this that great personal beauty does not exist in
France, however, for there are so many exceptions to the rule, that they
have occasionally made me hesitate about believing it a rule at all. The
French quite often possess a feature in great perfection, that is very
rare in England, where personal beauty is so common in both sexes. It is
in the mouth, and particularly in the smile. Want of _finesse_ about the
mouth is a general European deficiency (the Italians have more of it
than any other people I know), and it is as prevalent an advantage in
America. But the races of Saxon root fail in the chin, which wants
nobleness and volume. Here, it is quite common to see profiles that
would seem in their proper places on a Roman coin.
Although female beauty is not common in France, when it is found, it is
usually of a very high order. The sweet, cherub-like, guileless
expression, that belongs to the English female face, and through it, to
the American, is hardly ever, perhaps never, met with here. The French
countenance seldom conveys the idea of extreme, infantile, innocence.
Even in the children there is a _manner_, which, while it does not
absolutely convey an impression of an absence of the virtues, I think
leaves less conviction of its belonging to the soul of the being, than
the peculiar look I mean. One always sees _woman_; modest, amiable,
_spirituel_, feminine and attractive, if you will, in a French girl;
while one sometimes sees an _angel_ in a young English or American face.
I have no allusion now to religious education, or to religious feelings,
which are quite as general in the sex, particularly the young of good
families, under their characteristic distinctions, here, as anywhere
else. In this particular, the great difference is, that in America it is
religion, and in France it is infidelity, that is metaphysical.
There is a coquetish prettiness that is quite common in France, in which
air and manner are mingled with a certain sauciness of expression, that
is not easily described, but which, while it blends well enough with the
style of the face, is rather pleasing than captivating. It marks the
peculiar beauty of the _grisette_, who, with her little cap, hands stuck
in the pockets of her apron, mincing walk, coquetish eye, and
well-balanced head, is a creature perfectly _sui generis_. Such a girl
is more like an actress imitating the character, than one is apt to
imagine the character itself. I have met with imitators of these roguish
beauties in a higher station, such as the wives and daughters of the
industrious classes, as it is the fashion to call them here, and even
among the banking community, but never among women of condition, whose
deportment in France, whatever may be their morals, is usually marked by
gentility of air, and a perfectly good tone of manner, always excepting
that small taint of _rouéism_ to which I have already alluded, and which
certainly must have come from the camp and emigration.
The highest style of the French beauty is the classical. I cannot recall
a more lovely picture, a finer union of the grand and the feminine, than
the _Duchesse de ——_, in full dress, at a carnival ball, where she shone
peerless among hundreds of the _élite_ of Europe. I see her now, with
her small, well-seated head; her large dark, brilliant eye riveted on
the mazes of a _Polognnaise_, danced in character; her hair, black as
the raven’s wing, clustering over a brow of ivory; her graceful form
slightly inclining forward in delighted and graceful attention; her
features just Grecian enough to be a model of delicate beauty, just
Roman enough to be noble; her colour heightened to that of youth, by the
heat of the room, and her costume, in which all the art of Paris was
blended with a critical knowledge of the just and the becoming. And yet
this woman was a grandmother!
The men of France have the same physical and the same conventional
peculiarities as the women. They are short, but sturdy. Including all
France, for there is a material difference in this respect between the
north and the south, I should think the average stature of the French
_men_, (not women) to be quite an inch and a half below the average
stature of America, and possibly two inches. At home, I did not find
myself greatly above the medium height, and in a crowd I was always
compelled to stand on tip-toe to look over the heads of those around me;
whereas, here, I am evidently _un grand_, and can see across the _Champs
Elysées_, without any difficulty. You may remember that I stand, as near
as may be, to five feet ten; it follows that five feet ten is rather a
tall man in France. You are not to suppose, however, that there are not
occasionally men of great stature in this country. One of the largest
men I have ever seen, appears daily in the garden of the _Tuileries_,
and I am told he is a Frenchman of one of the north-eastern provinces.
That part of the kingdom is German, rather than French, however, and the
population still retain most of the peculiarities of their origin.
The army has a look of service and activity, rather than of force. I
should think it more formidable by its manœuvres than its charges.
Indeed, the tactics of Napoleon, who used the legs of his troops more
than their muskets, aiming at concentrating masses on important points,
goes to show that he depended on alertness instead of _bottom_. This is
just the quality that would be most likely to prevail against your
methodical, slow-thinking, and slow-moving German, and I make no
question, the short, sturdy, nimble legs of the little warriors of this
country have gained many a field.
A general officer, himself a six-footer, told me, lately, that they had
found the tall men of very little use in the field, from their inability
to endure the fatigues of a campaign. When armies shall march on rail
roads, and manœuvre by steam, the grenadiers will come in play again;
but, as it is, the French are admirably adapted by their _physique_, to
run the career that history has given them. The Romans resembled them in
this respect, Cicero admitting that many people excelled them in size,
strength, beauty, and even learning, though he claimed a superiority for
his countrymen, on the score of love of country and a reverence for the
gods. The French are certainly patriotic enough, though their reverence
for the gods may possibly be questioned.
The regiments of the guards, the heavy cavalry, and the artillery are
all filled with men chosen with some care. These troops would, I think,
form about an average American army, on the score of size. The
battalions of the line receive the rest. As much attention is bestowed
in adapting the duty to the physique, and entire corps are composed of
men of as nearly as possible the same physical force, some of the
regiments certainly make but an indifferent figure, as to dimensions,
while others appear particularly well. Still, if not overworked, I
should think these short men would do good service. I think I have seen
one or two regiments, in which the average height has not exceeded five
feet three inches. The chances of not being hit in such a corps are
worth something, for the proportion, compared to the chances in a corps
of six-footers, is as sixty-three to seventy-two, or is one-eighth in
favour of the Lilliputians. I believe the rule for retreating is when
one-third of the men are _hors de combat_. Now, supposing a regiment of
three thousand grenadiers would be obliged to retire with a loss of one
thousand men, the little fellows, under the same fire, should have, at
the same time, two thousand one hundred and thirty-seven sound men left,
and of course, unless bullied out of it, they ought to gain the day.
LETTER IV.
TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.
It appears to be the melancholy lot of humanity, that every institution
which ingenuity can devise shall be perverted to an end different from
the legitimate. If we plan a democracy, the craven wretch who, in a
despotism, would be the parasite of a monarch, heads us off, and gets
the best of it under the pretence of extreme love for the people; if we
flatter ourselves that by throwing power into the hands of the rich and
noble, it is put beyond the temptation to abuse it, we soon discover
that rich is a term of convention, no one thinking he has enough until
he has all, and that nobility of station has no absolute connexion with
nobleness of spirit or of conduct; if we confide all to one, indolence,
favouritism, and indeed the impossibility of supervision throws us again
into the hands of the demagogue, in his new, or rather true character,
of a courtier. So it is with life; in politics, religion, arms, arts and
letters, yea, even the republic of letters, as it is called, is the prey
of schemers and parasites, and things _in fact_, are very different from
things _as they seem to be_.
“In the seventeen years that I have been a married man,” said Captain ——
of the British navy, “I have passed but seventeen months with my wife
and family.” “But, now there is peace, you will pass a few years quietly
in America, to look after your affairs,” said I, by way of awkward
condolence. “No, indeed; I shall return to England as soon as possible,
to make up for lost time. I have been kept so much at sea, that they
have forgotten me at home, and duty to my children requires that I
should be on the spot.” In the simplicity of my heart, I thought this
strange, and yet nothing could be more true. Captain —— was a scion of
the English aristocracy, and looked to his sword for his fortune.
Storms, fagging, cruising, all were of small avail compared to interest
at the admiralty, and so it is with all things else, whether in Europe
or America. The man who really gains the victory, is lucky, indeed, if
he obtain the meed of his skill and valour. You may be curious to know
of what all this is _à propos_? To be frank with you, I have visited the
French Academy; _ces quarante qui ont l’esprit comme quatre_, and, have
come away fully impressed with the vanity of human things!
The occasion was the reception of two or three new members, when,
according to a settled usage, the successful candidates pronounced
eulogies on their predecessors. You may be curious to know what
impression the assembled genius of France produced on a stranger from
the western world. I can only answer, none. The academy of the sciences
can scarcely ever be less than distinguished in such a nation, but when
I came to look about me, and to inquire after the purely literary men, I
was forcibly struck with the feebleness of the catalogue of names. Not
one in five was at all known to me, and very few even of those who were,
could properly be classed among the celebrated writers of the day. As
France has many very clever men who were not on the list, I was desirous
of knowing the reason, and then learned that intrigue, court-favour, and
“_log-rolling_,” to use a quaint American term, made members of the
academy as well as members of the cabinet. A moment’s reflection might
have told me it could not well be otherwise. It would be so in America,
if we were burthened with an academy; it _is_ so as respects collegiate
honours; and what reason is there for supposing it should not be so in a
country so notoriously addicted to intrigue as France?
One ought not to be the dupe of these things. There are a few great
names, distinguished by common consent, whose claims it is necessary to
respect. These men form the front of every honorary institution; if
there are to be knights and nobles, and academicians, they must be of
the number; not that such distinctions are necessary to them, but that
they are necessary to the distinctions; after which the _oi polloi_ are
enrolled as they can find interest. Something very like an admission of
this is contained in an inscription on the statue of _Moliere_, which
stands in the vestibule of the hall of the Academy, which frankly says,
though “we are not necessary to your glory, you are necessary to ours.”
He was excluded from the forty, by intrigue, on account of his
profession being that of a player. Shakspeare, himself, would have fared
no better. Now, fancy a country in which there was a club of select
authors, that should refuse to enrol the name of William Shakspeare on
their list!
The sitting was well attended, and I dare say the addressed were not
amiss, though there is something exceedingly tiresome in one of these
eulogies, that is perpetrated by _malice prepense_. The audience
applauded very much, after the fashion of those impromptus which are
made _à loisir_, and I could not but fancy that a good portion of the
assembly began to think the academy was what the cockneys call a _rum_
place, before they heard the last of it. We had a poem by _Comte Daru_,
to which I confess I did not listen, notwithstanding my personal respect
for the distinguished writer, simply because I was most heartily wearied
before he began, and because I can never make any thing of French
poetry, in the academy or out of it.
It would be unjust to speak lightly of any part of the French academy,
without a passing remark in honour of those sections of it, to which
honour is due. In these sections may be included, I think, that of the
arts, as well as that of the sciences. The number of respectable artists
that exist in this country is perfectly astonishing. The _connaisseurs_,
I believe, dispute the merits of the school, and ignorant as I am, in
such matters, I can myself see that there is a prevalent disposition,
both in statuary and painting, to sacrifice simplicity to details, and
that the theatrical is sometimes mistaken for the grand; but, after
admitting both these faults, and some defects in colouring, there still
remains a sufficient accumulation of merit, to create wonder in one,
like myself, who has not had previous opportunities of ascertaining the
affluence of a great nation in this respect.
As regards the scientific attainments of the French, it is unnecessary
to say anything, though I believe you will admit that they ought at
least to have the effect of counteracting some of the prejudices about
dancing-masters, _petits maîtres_, and _perruquiers_, that have
descended to us, through English novels and plays. Such a man as La
Place, alone, is sufficient to redeem an entire people from these
imputations. The very sight of one of his demonstrations will give
common men, like ourselves, headaches, and you will remember that having
successfully got through one of the toughest of them, he felicitated
himself that there was but one other man living who could comprehend it,
now it was made.
What a noble gift would it have been to his fellow creatures, had some
competent follower of La Place bestowed on them a comprehensive but
popular compend of the leading astronomical facts, to be used as one of
the most ordinary school books. Apart from the general usefulness of
this peculiar species of knowledge, and the chances that, by thus
popularizing the study, sparks might be struck from the spirit of some
dormant Newton, I know no inquiry that has so strong a tendency to raise
the mind from the gross and vulgar pursuits of the world, to a
contemplation of the power and designs of God. It has often happened to
me, when, filled with wonder and respect for the daring and art of man,
I have been wandering through the gorgeous halls of some palace, or
other public edifice, that an orrery or a diagram of the planetary
system has met my eye, and recalled me, in a moment, from the
consideration of art, and its intrinsic feebleness, to that of the
sublimity of nature. At such times, this globe has appeared so
insignificant, in comparison with the mighty system of which it forms so
secondary a part, that I have felt a truly philosophical indifference,
not to give it a better term, for all it contained. Admiration of human
powers, as connected with the objects around me, has been lost in
admiration of the mysterious spirit which could penetrate the remote and
sublime secrets of the science; and, on no other occasions, have I felt
so profound a conviction of my own isolated insignificance, or so lively
a perception of the stupendous majesty of the Deity.
Passing by the common and conceded facts of the dimensions of the
planets, and the extent of their orbits, what thoughts are awakened by
the suggestion that the fixed stars are the centres of other solar
systems, and that the eccentric comets are links to connect them all, in
one great and harmonious design! The astronomers tell us, that some of
these comets have no visible nucleuses, that the fixed stars are seen
through their apparent densest parts, and that they can be nothing but
luminous gases; while, on the other hand, others do betray dark compact
bodies of more solid matter. Fixed stars unaccountably disappear, as if
suddenly struck out of their places. Now, we know that ærolites are
formed in the atmosphere, by a natural process, and descend in masses of
pure iron. Why may not the matter of one globe, dispersed into its
elements by the fusion of its consummation, reassemble, in the shape of
comets, gaseous at first, and slowly increasing and condensing in the
form of solid matter, varying in their course as they acquire the
property of attraction, until they finally settle into new and regular
planetary orbits, by the power of their own masses, thus establishing a
regular reproduction of worlds to meet the waste of eternity? Were the
earth dissolved into gases, by fusion, what would become of its
satellite, the moon? Might not the principles of our planet, thus
volatilized, yield to its nearer attraction, assemble around that orb,
which, losing its governing influence, should be left to wander in
infinite space, subject to a new but eccentric law of gravity, until
finally reduced again within the limits of some new system? How know we
that such is not the origin of comets?
Many astronomers have believed that the solar system, in company with
thousands of other systems, revolves around a common centre, in orbits
so vast as to defy computation, and a religious sentiment might well
suggest that this centre of the universe is the throne of the Most High.
Here we may fancy the Deity seated in power, and controlling, by his
will, the movements of worlds, directing each to the completion of his
own mysterious and benevolent designs.
It certainly might be dangerous to push our speculations too far, but
there can be no risk in familiarizing men to consider the omnipotence of
God, and to feel their own comparative insignificance. What ideas of
vastness are obtained by a knowledge of the fact that there exist stars
in the firmament, which ordinary telescopes show us only as single
bodies, but which, on examination by using reflectors of a higher power,
are found to be clusters of orbs—clusters of worlds—or clusters of suns!
These, again, are found to be _binary_ stars, or two stars revolving
round each other, while they are thought, at the same time, to revolve
around their central sun, and accompanied by this again, probably, to
revolve around the great common centre of all!
But, in the words of the quaint old song, I must cry “Holla! my fancy,
whither dost thou go?” Before taking leave of the stars altogether,
however, I will add that the French, and I believe all Europe, with the
exception of England, follow the natural order of time, in counting the
seasons. Thus the spring commences with the vernal equinox, and the
autumn with the autumnal. This division of the year leaves nearly the
whole of March as a winter month, June as a spring month, and September
as belonging to the summer. No general division of the seasons can suit
all latitudes; but the equinoxes certainly suggest the only two great
events of the year, that equally affect the entire sphere. Had the old
method of computing time continued, the seasons would gradually have
made the circle of the months, until their order was reversed, as they
are now known to be in the northern and southern hemispheres.
Quitting the Academy, which, with its schools of the classical and the
romantic, has tempted me to a higher flight than I could have believed
possible, let us descend to the theatres of Paris. Talma was still
playing last year, when we arrived, and as in the case of repentance, I
put off a visit to the _Théâtre Français_, with a full determination to
go, because it might be made at any time. In the mean while, he fell ill
and died, and it never was my good fortune to see that great actor.
Mademoiselle Mars I have seen, and, certainly, in her line of
characters, I have never beheld her equal. Indeed, it is scarcely
possible to conceive of a purer, more severe, more faultless, and yet
more poetical representation of common nature, than that which
characterizes her art. Her acting has all the finish of high breeding,
with just as much feeling as is necessary to keep alive the illusion. As
for rant, there is not as much about her whole system, as would serve a
common English, or American actress, for a single “length.”
To be frank with you, so great is the superiority of the French actors,
in _vaudevilles_, the light opera, and genteel comedy, that I fear I
have lost my taste for the English stage. Of tragedy I say nothing, for
I cannot enter into the poetry of the country at all, but, in all below
it, these people, to my taste, are immeasurably our superiors; and by
_ours_, you know I include the English stage. The different lines here,
are divided among the different theatres, so that if you wish to laugh,
you can go to the _Variétés_; to weep, to the _Théâtre Français_; or, to
gape, to the _Odeon_. At the _Porte St. Martin_, one finds vigorous
touches of national character, and at the _Gymnase_, the fashionable
place of resort, just at this moment, national traits polished by
convention. Besides these, there are many other theatres, not one of
which, in its way, can be called less than tolerable.
One can say but little in favour of the morals of too many of the pieces
represented here. In this particular there is a strange obliquity of
reason, arising out of habitual exaggeration of feeling, that really
seems to disqualify most of the women, even, from perceiving what is
monstrous, provided it be sentimental and touching. I was particularly
advised, to go to the _Théâtre Madame_ to see a certain piece, by a
_côterie_ of very amiable women, whom I met the following night at a
house where we all regularly resorted, once a week. On entering, they
eagerly inquired if “I had not been charmed, fascinated; if any thing
could be better played, or more touching?” Better played it could not
easily be, but I had been so shocked with the moral of the piece, that I
could scarcely admire the acting. “The moral! This was the first time
they had heard it questioned.” I was obliged to explain. A certain
person had been left the protector of a friend’s daughter, then an
infant. He had the child educated as his sister, and she grew to be a
woman, ignorant of her real origin. In the mean time, she has offers of
marriage, all of which she unaccountably refuses. In fine, she was
secretly cherishing a passion for her guardian _and supposed brother_;
an explanation is had, they marry, and the piece closes. I objected to
the probability of a well educated young woman’s falling in love with a
man old enough to be selected as her guardian, when she was an infant,
and against whom there existed the trifling objection of his being her
own brother. “But, he was _not_ her brother—not even a relative.” “True;
but she _believed_ him to be her brother.” “And nature—do you count
nature as nothing—a _secret sentiment_ told her he was not her brother.”
“And use, and education, and an _open sentiment_, and all the world,
told her he was. Such woman was guilty of a revolting indelicacy and a
heinous crime, and no exaggerated representation of love, a passion of
great purity in itself, can ever do away with the shocking realities of
such a case.”
I found no one to agree with me. He was _not_ her brother, and though
his tongue, and all around her, told her he was, her heart, that
infallible guide, told her the truth. What more could any reasonable man
ask?
It was _à propos_ of this play, and of my objection to this particular
feature of it, that an exceedingly clever French woman laughingly told
me she understood there was no such thing as love in America. That a
people, of manners as artificial as the French, should suppose that
others, under the influence of the cold formal exterior which the
puritans have entailed on so large a portion of the republic, were
without strong feeling, is not altogether as irrational as may at first
appear. Art, in ordinary deportment, is both cause and effect. That
which we habitually affect to be, gets, in the end, to be so
incorporated with our natural propensities, as to form a part of the
real man. We all know that by discipline we can get the mastery of our
strongest passions, and, on the other hand, by yielding to them and
encouraging them, that they soon get the mastery over us. Thus do a
highly artificial people, fond of, and always seeking, high excitement,
come, in time, to feel it, artificially, as it were, by natural
impulses.
I have mentioned the anecdote of the play, because I think it
characteristic of a tone of feeling that is quite prevalent among a
large class of the French, though I am far from saying there is not a
class who would, at once, see the grave sacrifice of principle that is
involved, in building up the sentiments of a fiction on such a
foundation of animal instinct. I find, on recollection, however, that
Miss Lee, in one of her Canterbury Tales, has made the love of her plot
hinge on a very similar incident. Surely, she must have been under the
influence of some of the German monstrosities that were so much in
vogue, about the time she wrote, for even Juvenal would scarcely have
imagined any thing worse, as the subject of his satire.
You will get a better idea of the sentimentalism that more or less
influences the tastes of this country, however, if I tell you that the
ladies of the _côterie_, in which the remarks on the amorous sister were
made, once gravely discussed, in my presence, the question whether
Madame de Stael was right or wrong, in causing _Corinne_ to go through
certain sentimental _experiences_, as our canters call it at home, on a
clouded day, instead of choosing one on which the sun was bright; or,
_vice versâ_; for I really forget whether it was on the “windy side” of
sensibility, or not, that the daughter of Neckar was supposed to have
erred.
The first feeling is that of surprise at finding a people so artificial
in their ordinary deportment, so chaste and free from exaggeration in
their scenic representations of life. But reflection will show us that
all finish has the effect of bringing us within the compass of severe
laws, and that the high taste which results from cultivation repudiates
all excess of mere manner. The simple fact is, that an educated
Frenchman is a great actor all the while, and that when he goes on the
stage, he has much less to do, to be perfect, than an Englishman who has
drilled himself into coldness, or an American who looks upon strong
expressions of feeling as affectation. When the two latter commence the
business of playing assumed parts, they consider it as a new occupation,
and go at it so much in earnest, that every body sees they are
acting.[5]
Footnote 5:
Mr. Mathews and Mr. Power were the nearest to the neat acting of
France of any male English performers the writer ever saw. The first
sometimes permitted himself to be led astray, by the caricatures he
was required to represent, and by the tastes of his audience; but the
latter, so far as the writer has seen him, appears determined to be
chaste, come what, come will.
You will remember, I say nothing in favour of the French tragic
representations. When a great and an intellectual nation, like France,
unites to applaud images and sentiments, that are communicated through
their own peculiar forms of speech, it becomes a stranger to distrust
his own knowledge, rather than their taste. I dare say that were I more
accustomed to the language, I might enjoy Corneille and Racine, and even
Voltaire, for I can now greatly enjoy Molière; but, to be honest in the
matter, all reciters of heroic French poetry appear to me to depend on a
pompous declamation, to compensate for the poverty of the idioms, and
the want of nobleness in the expressions. I never heard any one, poet or
actor, he who read his own verses, or he who repeated those of others,
who did not appear to mouth, and all their tragic playing has had the
air of being on stilts. Napoleon has said from the sublime to the
ridiculous it is but a step. This is much truer in France than in most
other countries, for the sublime is commonly so sublimated, that it will
admit of no great increase. Racine, in a most touching scene, makes one
of his heroic characters offer to wipe off the tears of a heroine lest
they should discolour her _rouge_! I had a classmate at college, who was
so very ultra courtly in his language, that he never forgot to say Mr.
Julius Cæsar, and Mr. Homer.
There exists a perfect mania for letters throughout Europe, in this
“piping time of peace.” Statesmen, soldiers, peers, princes and kings,
hardly think themselves _illustrated_, until each has produced his book.
The world never before saw a tithe of the names of people of condition,
figuring in the catalogues of its writers. “Some thinks he writes Cinna;
he owns to Panurge,” applies to half the people one meets in society. I
was at dinner lately, given by the Marquis de ——, when the table was
filled with peers, generals, ex-ministers, ex-ambassadors, naturalists,
philosophers and statesmen of all degrees. Casting my eyes round the
circle, I was struck with the singular prevalence of the _cacœthes
scribendi_, among so many men of different educations, antecedents, and
pursuits. There was a soldier present who had written on taste, a
politician on the art of war, a _diplomate_ who had dabbled in poetry,
and a jurist who pretended to enlighten the world in ethics. It was the
drollest assemblage in the world, and suggested many queer associations,
for, I believe, the only man at table, who had not dealt in ink, was an
old Lieutenant-General, who sat by me, and who, when I alluded to the
circumstance, strongly felicitated himself that he had escaped the mania
of the age, as it was an _illustration_ of itself. Among the _convives_
were Cuvier, Villemain, Daru, and several others who are almost as well
known to science and letters.
Half the voluntary visits I receive, are preceded by a volume of some
sort or other, as a token of my new acquaintance being a regularly
initiated member of the fraternity of the quill. In two or three
instances, I have been surprised at subsequently discovering that the
regular profession of the writer is arms, or some other pursuit, in
which one would scarcely anticipate so strong a devotion to letters. In
short, such is the actual state of opinion in Europe, that one is hardly
satisfied with any amount, or any quality of glory, until it is
consummated by that of having written a book. Napoleon closed his career
with the quill, and his successor was hardly on his throne, before he
began to publish. The principal officers of the Empire, and _emigrés_
without number, have fairly set to work as so many disinterested
historians, and even a lady, who, by way of abbreviation, is called “The
Widow of the Grand Army,” is giving us regularly volumes, whose
eccentricities and periodicity, as the astronomers say, can be reduced
to known laws, by the use of figures.
In the middle ages golden spurs were the object of every man’s ambition.
Without them, neither wealth, nor birth, nor power was properly
esteemed; and, at the present time, passing from the lance to the pen,
from the casque and shield, to the inkpot and fool’s cap, we all seek a
passport from the order of Letters. Does this augur good or evil, for
the world? The public press of France is conducted with great spirit and
talents, on all sides. It has few points in common with our own, beyond
the mere fact of its general character. In America, a single literary
man, putting the best face on it, enters into a compact with some person
of practical knowledge, a printer, perhaps, and together they establish
a newspaper, the mechanical part of which is confided to the care of the
latter partner, and the intellectual to the former. In the country, half
the time, the editor is no other than the printer himself, the division
of labour not having yet reached even this important branch of industry.
But looking to the papers that are published in the towns, one man of
letters is a luxury about an American print. There are a few instances
in which there are two, or three; but, generally, the subordinates are
little more than scissor’s men. Now, it must be apparent, at a glance,
that no one individual can keep up the character of a daily print, of
any magnitude; the drain on his knowledge and other resources being too
great. This, I take it, is the simple reason why the press of America
ranks no higher than it does. The business is too much divided; too much
is required, and this, too, in a country where matters of grave import
are of rare occurrence, and in which the chief interests are centered in
the vulgar concerns of mere party politics, with little or no connection
with great measures, or great principles. You have only to fancy the
superior importance that attaches to the views of powerful monarchs, the
secret intrigues of courts, on whose results, perhaps, depend the
fortunes of Christendom, and the serious and radical principles that are
dependent on the great changes of systems that are silently working
their way, in this part of the world, and which involve material
alterations in the very structure of society, to get an idea of how much
more interest a European journal, _ceteris paribus_, must be, compared
to an American journal, by the nature of its facts alone. It is true
that we get a portion of these facts, as light finally arrives from the
remoter stars, but mutilated, and necessarily shorn of much of their
interest, by their want of importance to our own country. I had been in
Europe some time, before I could fully comprehend the reason why I was
ignorant of so many minor points of its political history, for, from
boyhood up, I had been an attentive reader of all that touched this part
of the world, as it appeared in our prints. By dint of inquiry, however,
I believe I have come at the fact. The winds are by no means as regular
as the daily prints; and it frequently happens, especially in the winter
and spring months, that five or six packets arrive nearly together,
bringing with them the condensed intelligence of as many weeks. Now,
newspaper finders notoriously seek the latest news, and in the hurry and
confusion of reading and selecting, and bringing out, to meet the wants
of the day, many of the connecting links are lost, readers get imperfect
notions of men and things, and, from a want of a complete understanding
of the matter, the mind gives up, without regret, the little and
unsatisfactory knowledge it had so casually obtained. I take it, this is
a principal cause of the many false notions that exist among us, on the
subject of Europe and its events.
In France, a paper is established by a regular subscription of capital;
a principal editor is selected, and he is commonly supported, in the
case of a leading journal, by four or five paid assistants. In addition
to this formidable corps, many of the most distinguished men of France
are known to contribute freely to the columns of the prints in the
interest of their cause.
The laws of France compel a journal that has admitted any statement
involving facts, concerning an individual, to publish his reply, that
the antidote may meet the poison. This is a regulation that we might
adopt with great advantage to truth and the character of the country.
There is not, at this moment, within my knowledge, a single critical
literary journal, of received authority, in all France. This is a
species of literature to which the French pay but little attention, just
now, although many of the leading daily prints contain articles on the
principal works, as they appear.
By the little that has come under my observation, I should say the
fraudulent and disgusting system of puffing and of abusing, as interest
or pique dictates, is even carried to a greater length in France, than
it is in either England or America. The following anecdote, which
relates to myself, may give you some notion of the _modus operandi_.
All the works I had written previously to coming to Europe, had been
taken from the English editions, and translated, appearing
simultaneously with their originals. Having an intention to cause a new
book to be printed in English, in Paris, for the sake of reading the
proofs, the necessity was felt of getting some control over the
translation, lest, profiting by the interval necessary to send the
sheets home to be reprinted, it might appear as the original book. I
knew that the sheets of previous books had been purchased in England,
and I accordingly sent a proposition to the publishers, that the next
bargain should be made with me. Under the impression that an author’s
price would be asked, they took the alarm, and made difficulties.
Finding me firm, and indisposed to yield to some threats of doing as
they pleased, the matter was suspended for a few days. Just at this
moment, I received, through the post, a single number of an obscure
newspaper, whose existence, until then, was quite unknown to me.
Surprised at such an attention, I was curious to know the contents. The
journal contained an article on my merits and demerits as a writer, the
latter being treated with a good deal of freedom. When one gets a paper,
in this manner, containing abuse of himself, he is pretty safe in
believing its opinions dishonest. But I had even better evidence than
common, in this particular case, for I happened to be extolled for the
manner in which I had treated the character of Franklin, a personage
whose name even had never appeared in anything I had written. This, of
course, settled the character of the critique, and the next time I saw
the individual who had acted as agent in the negotiation just mentioned,
I gave him the paper, and told him I was half disposed to raise my price
on account of the pitiful manœuvre it contained. We had already come to
terms, the publishers finding that the price was little more than
nominal, and the answer was a virtual conclusion that the article was
intended to affect my estimate of the value of the intended work in
France, and to bring me under subjection to the critics.[6]
Footnote 6:
The writer suffers this anecdote to stand as it was written nine years
since; but since his return home, he has discovered that we are in no
degree behind the French in the corruption and frauds that render the
pursuits of a writer one of the most humiliating and revolting in
which a man of any pride of character can engage, unless he resolutely
maintains his independence, a temerity that is certain to be resented
by all those, who, unequal to going alone in the paths of literature,
seek their ends by clinging to those who can, either as pirates or
robbers.
I apprehend that few books are brought before the public in France,
dependent only on their intrinsic merits, and the system of intrigue,
which predominates in every thing, is as active in this as in other
interests.
In France, a book that penetrates to the provinces, may be said to be
popular; and, as for a book coming _from_ the provinces, it is almost
unheard of. The despotism of the trade, on this point, is unyielding.
Paris appears to deem itself the arbiter in all matters of taste and
literature, and it is almost as unlikely that a new fashion should come
from Lyons, or Bordeaux, or Marseilles, as that a new work should be
received with favour, that was published in either of those towns. The
approbation of Paris is indispensable, and the publishers of the
capital, assisted by their paid corps of puffers and detractors, are
sufficiently powerful to prevent that potent public, to whom all affect
to defer, from judging for itself.
We have lately had a proof, here, of the unwillingness of the Parisians
to permit others to decide for them, in any thing relating to taste, in
a case that refers to us Americans. Madame Malibran arrived from America
a few months since. In Europe she was unknown, but the great name of her
father stood her in stead. Unluckily, it was whispered that she had met
with great success in America. America! and this, too, in conjunction
with music and the opera! The poor woman was compelled to appear under
the disadvantage of having brought an American reputation with her, and,
seriously, this single fact went nigh to destroy her fortunes. Those
wretches who, as Coleridge expresses it, are “animalculæ, who live by
feeding on the body of genius,” affected to be displeased, and the
public hesitated, at their suggestions, about accepting an artist from
the “colonies,” as they still have the audacity to call the great
Republic. I have no means of knowing what sacrifices were made to the
petty tyrants of the press, before this woman, who has the talents
necessary to raise her to the summit of her profession, was enabled to
gain the favour of a “_generous and discerning public_.”!
LETTER V.
TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.
We have been the residents of a French village ever since the first of
June, and it is now drawing to the close of October. We had already
passed the greater part of a summer, an entire autumn, winter and
spring, within the walls of Paris, and then we thought we might indulge
our tastes a little, by retreating to the fields, to catch a glimpse of
country life. You will smile when I add that we are only a league from
the _Barrière de Clichy_. This is the reason I have not before spoken of
the removal, for we are in town three or four times every week, and
never miss an occasion, when there is any thing to be seen. I shall now
proceed, however, to let you into the secret of our actual situation.
I passed the month of May examining the environs of the capital in quest
of a house. As this was an agreeable occupation, we were in no hurry,
but having set up my _cabriolet_, we killed two birds with one stone, by
making ourselves familiarly acquainted with nearly every village, or
hamlet, within three leagues of Paris, a distance beyond which I did not
wish to go.
On the side of St. Cloud, which embraces Passy, Auteuil, and all the
places that encircle the _Bois de Boulogne_, the Hyde Park of Paris,
there are very many pleasant residences, but, from one cause or another,
no one suited us, exactly, and we finally took a house in the village of
St. Ouen, the Runnymeade of France. When Louis XVIII. came, in 1814, to
his capital, in the rear of the allies, he stopped for a few days at St
Ouen, a league from the barriers, where there was a small _château_ that
was the property of the crown. Here he was met by M. de Talleyrand and
others, and hence he issued the celebrated charter, that is to render
France, forevermore, a constitutional country.
The _château_ has since been razed, and a pavilion erected in its place,
which has been presented to the Comtesse de ——, a lady, who, reversing
the ordinary lot of courtiers, is said to cause majesty to live in the
sunshine of _her_ smiles. What an appropriate and encouraging monument
to rear on the birthplace of French liberty! At the opposite extremity
of the village, is another considerable house, that was once the
dwelling of M. Neckar, and is now the property and country residence of
M. Ternaux, or the _Baron_ Ternaux, if it were polite to style him thus,
the most celebrated manufacturer of France. I say polite, for the mere
_fanfaronade_ of nobility is little in vogue here. The wags tell a story
of some one, who was formally announced as “_Mons. le Marquis d’un
tel_,” turning short round on the servant, and exclaiming with
indignation, “_Marquis, toi-même!_” But this story savours of the
Bonapartists, for, as the Emperor created neither _marquis_ nor
_vicomtes_, there was a sort of affectation of assuming these titles at
the restoration, as proofs of belonging to the old _régime_.
St. Ouen is a cluster of small, mean, stone houses, stretched along the
right bank of the Seine, which, after making a circuit of near twenty
miles, winds round so close to the town, again, that they are actually
constructing a basin, near the village, for the use of the capital; it
being easier to wheel articles from this point to Paris, than to contend
with the current and to thread its shoals. In addition to the two houses
named, however, it has six or eight respectable abodes between the
street and the river, one of which is our own.
This place became a princely residence about the year 1300, since which
time it has been more or less frequented as such, down to the 4th June,
1814, the date of the memorable charter.[7] Madame de Pompadour
possessed the _château_ in 1745, so you see it has been “dust to dust”
with this place, as with all that is frail.
Footnote 7:
The _château_ of St. Ouen, rather less than two centuries since,
passed into the possession of the _Duc de Gesvre_. Dulaure gives the
following, a part of a letter from this nobleman, as a specimen of the
education of a _Duc_, in the seventeenth century. “_Monsieur, me
trouvant obligé de randre une bonne party de largan que mais enfant
ont pris de peuis qu’il sont au campane, monsieur, cela moblige a vous
suplier tres humblemant monsieur de me faire la grasse de commander
monsieur quant il vous plera que lon me pay la capitenery de Monsaux
monsieur vous asseurant que vous mobligeres fort sansiblement monsieur
comme ausy de me croire avec toute sorte de respec, etc._” This beats
Jack Cade, out and out. The great connêtable _Anne de Montmorency_
could not write his name, and, as his signature became necessary, his
secretary stood over his shoulder to tell him when he had made enough
_piés de mouche_ to answer the purpose.
The village of St. Ouen, small, dirty, crowded and unsavoury as it is,
has a _place_, like every other French village. When we drove into it,
to look at the house, I confess to having laughed outright, at the idea
of inhabiting such a hole. Two large _portecochères_, however, opened
from the square, and we were admitted, through the best-looking of the
two, into a spacious and an extremely neat court. On one side of the
gate was a lodge for a porter, and, on the other, a building to contain
gardener’s tools, plants, &c. The walls that separate it from the square
and the adjoining gardens, are twelve or fourteen feet high, and once
within them, the world is completely excluded. The width of the grounds
does not exceed a hundred and fifty feet; the length, the form being
that of a parallelogram, may be three hundred, or a little more; and yet
in these narrow limits, which are planted _à l’Anglaise_, so well is
every thing contrived, that we appear to have abundance of room. The
garden terminates in a terrace that overhangs the river, and, from this
point, the eye ranges over a wide extent of beautiful plain, that is
bounded by fine bold hills which are teeming with gray villages and
_bourgs_.
The house is of stone, and not without elegance. It may be ninety feet
in length, by some forty in width. The entrance is into a vestibule,
which has the offices on the right, and the great stair-case on the
left. The principal _salon_ is in front. This is a good room, near
thirty feet long, fifteen or sixteen high, and has three good windows,
that open on the garden. The billiard-room communicates on one side, and
the _salle à manger_ on the other; next the latter come the offices
again, and next the billiard-room is a very pretty little _boudoir_. Up
stairs, are suites of bed-rooms and dressing-rooms; every thing is neat,
and the house is in excellent order, and well furnished for a country
residence. Now, all this I get at a hundred dollars a month, for the
five summer months. There are also a carriage house, and stabling for
three horses. The gardener and porter are paid by the proprietor. The
village, however, is not in much request, and the rent is thought to be
low.
One of the great advantages that is enjoyed by a residence in Europe,
are the facilities of this nature. Furnished apartments, or furnished
houses, can be had in almost every town of any size; and, owning your
own linen and plate, nearly every other necessary is found you. It is
true, that one sometimes misses comforts to which he has been accustomed
in his own house; but, in France, many little things are found, it is
not usual to meet with elsewhere. Thus, no principal bed-room is
considered properly furnished in a good house, without a handsome
secretary, and a bureau. These two articles are as much matters of
course, as are the eternal two rooms and folding doors, in New York.
This, then, has been our _Tusculum_ since June. M. Ternaux enlivens the
scene, occasionally, by a dinner; and he has politely granted us
permission to walk in his grounds, which are extensive and well laid
out, for the old French style. We have a neighbour on our left, name
unknown, who gives suppers in his garden, and concerts that really are
worthy of the grand opera. Occasionally, we get a song, in a female
voice, that rivals the best of Madame Malibran’s. On our right lives a
staid widow, whose establishment is as tranquil as our own.
One of our great amusements is to watch the _living_ life on the
river,—there is no _still_ life in France. All the washerwomen of the
village assemble, three days in the week, beneath our terrace, and a
merrier set of _grisettes_ is not to be found in the neighbourhood of
Paris. They chat, and joke, and splash, and scream from morning to
night, lightening the toil by never-ceasing good humour. Occasionally an
enormous scow-like barge is hauled up against the current, by stout
horses, loaded to the waters edge, or one, without freight, comes
dropping down the stream, nearly filling the whole river as it floats
broad-side to. There are three or four islands opposite, and, now and
then, a small boat is seen paddling among them. We have even tried
_punting_ ourselves, but the amusement was soon exhausted.
Sunday is a great day with us, for then the shore is lined with
Parisians, as thoroughly cockney as if Bow-bells could be heard in the
_quartier Montmartre_! These good people visit us, in all sorts of ways;
some on donkies, some in _cabriolets_, some in _fiacres_, and, by far
the larger portion on foot. They are perfectly inoffensive and
unobtrusive, being, in this respect, just as unlike an American inroad
from a town, as can well be. These crowds pass vineyards on their way to
us, unprotected by any fences. This point in the French character,
however, about which so much has been said to our disadvantage, as well
as to that of the English, is subject to some explanation. The statues,
promenades, gardens, &c. &c. are, almost without exception, guarded by
sentinels; and then there are agents of the police, in common clothes,
scattered through the towns, in such numbers as to make depredations
hazardous. In the country each _commune_ has one, or more, _gardes
champêtre_, whose sole business it is to detect and arrest trespassers.
When to these are added the _gensdarmes à piè_ and _à cheval_, who are
constantly in motion, one sees that the risk of breaking the laws, is
attended with more hazard here, than with us. There is no doubt, on the
other hand, that the training and habits, produced by such a system of
watchfulness, enter so far into the character of the people, that they
cease to think of doing that which is so strenuously denied them.
Some of our visitors make their appearance in a very quaint style. I met
a party the other day, among whom the following family arrangement had
obtained. The man was mounted on a donkey, with his feet just clear of
the ground. The wife, a buxom brunette, was trudging afoot in the rear,
accompanied by the two younger children, a boy and girl, between twelve
and fourteen, led by a small dog, fastened to a string, like the guide
of a blind mendicant; while the eldest daughter was mounted on the
crupper, maintaining her equilibrium by a masculine disposition of her
lower limbs. She was a fine, rosy cheeked _grisette_, of about
seventeen; and, as they ambled along, just fast enough to keep the cur
on a slow trot, her cap flared in the wind, her black eyes flashed with
pleasure, and her dark ringlets streamed behind her, like so many silken
pennants. She had a ready laugh for every one she met, and a sort of
malicious pleasure in asking, by her countenance, if they did not wish
they too had a donkey? As the seat was none of the most commodious, she
had contrived to make a pair of stirrups of her petticoats. The gown was
pinned up about her waist, leaving her knees instead of her feet, as the
_points d’appui_. The well-turned legs, and the ancles, with such a
_chaussure_ as at once marks a _Parisienne_, were exposed to the
admiration of a _parterre_ of some hundreds of idle wayfarers. Truly, it
is no wonder that sculptors abound in this country, for capital models
are to be found, even in the highways. The donkey was the only one who
appeared displeased with this _monture_, and he only manifested
dissatisfaction by lifting his hinder extremities a little, as the man
occasionally touched his flanks with a nettle, that the ass would much
rather have been eating.
Not long since I passed half an hour on the terrace, an amused witness
of the perils of a voyage across the Seine, in a punt. The adventurers
were a _bourgeois_, his wife, sister, and child. Honest Pierre, the
waterman, had conditioned to take the whole party to the island
opposite, and to return them safe to the main, for the modicum of five
_sous_. The old fox invariably charged me a _franc_, for the same
service. There was much demurring and many doubts about encountering the
risks; and, more than once, the women would have receded, had not the
man treated the matter as a trifle. He affirmed _parole d’honneur_ that
his father had crossed the Maine a dozen times, and no harm had come of
it! This encouraged them, and with many pretty screams, _mes fois_, and
_oh, dieus_, they finally embarked. The punt was a narrow scow, that a
ton weight would not have disturbed, the river was so low and sluggish
that it might have been forded two-thirds of the distance, and the width
was not three hundred feet. Pierre protested that the danger was
certainly not worth mentioning, and away he went, as philosophical in
appearance as his punt. The voyage was made in safety, and the bows of
the boat had actually touched the shore on its return, before any of the
passengers ventured to smile. The excursion, like most travelling, was
likely to be most productive of happiness by the recollections. But the
women were no sooner landed, than that rash adventurer, the husband,
brother, and father, seized an oar, and began to ply it with all his
force. He merely wished to tell his _confreres_ of the _rue Montmartre_
how a punt might be rowed. Pierre had gallantly landed to assist the
ladies, and the boat, relieved of its weight, slowly yielded to the
impulse of the oar, and inclined its bows from the land. “_Oh! Edouard!
mon mari! mon frere!—que fais tu?_” exclaimed the ladies. “_Ce n’est
rien_,” returned the man, puffing and giving another lusty sweep, by
which he succeeded in forcing the punt fully twenty feet from the shore.
“_Edouard! cher Edouard!_” “_Laisse-moi m’amuser. Je m’amuse—je
m’amuse_,” cried the husband, in a tone of indignant remonstrance. But
_Edouard_, a tight, sleek little _epìcier_, of about five and thirty,
had never heard that an oar on each side was necessary in a boat, and
the harder he pulled, the less likely was he to regain the shore. Of
this he began to be convinced, as he whirled more into the centre of the
current; and his efforts now really became frantic, for his imagination
probably painted the horrors of a distant voyage, in an unknown bark, to
an unknown land, and all without food or compass. The women screamed,
and the louder they cried, the more strenuously he persevered in saying,
“_Laisse-moi m’amuser—je m’amuse, je m’amuse._” By this time the
perspiration poured from the face of _Edouard_, and I called to the
imperturbable Pierre, who stood in silent admiration of his punt while
playing such antics, and desired him to tell the man to put his oar on
the bottom, and to push the boat ashore. “_Oui, Monsieur_,” said the
rogue, with a leer, for he remembered the francs, and we soon had our
adventurer safe on _terra firma_ again. Then began the tender
expostulations, the affectionate reproaches, and the kind injunctions
for the truant to remember that he was a husband and a father.
_Edouard_, secretly cursing the punt and all rivers in his heart, made
light of the matter, however, protesting to the last, that he had only
been enjoying himself.
We have had a _fête_, too; for every village in the vicinity of Paris
has its _fête_. The square was filled with whirligigs and flying-horses,
and all the ingenious contrivances of the French to make and to spend a
_sous_ pleasantly. There was service in the parish church, at which our
neighbours sang, in a style fit for St. Peter’s; and the villagers
danced _quadrilles_ on the green, with an air that would be thought fine
in many a country drawing-room.
I enjoy all this greatly; for, to own the truth, the crowds and mannered
sameness of Paris began to weary me. Our friends occasionally come from
town to see us, and we make good use of the _cabriolet_. As we are near
neighbours to _St. Denis_, we have paid several visits to the tombs of
the French kings, and returned, each time, less pleased with most of the
unmeaning obsequies that are observed in their vaults. There was a
ceremony, not long since, at which the royal family, and many of the
great officers of the court assisted, and among others, M. de
Talleyrand. The latter was in the body of the church, when a man rushed
upon him, and actually struck him, or shoved him, to the earth, using,
at the same time, language that left no doubt of the nature of the
assault. There are strange rumours connected with the affair. The
assailant was a _Marquis de_ ——, and it is reported that his wrongs,
real or imaginary, are connected with a plot to rob one of the dethroned
family of her jewels, or of some crown jewels, I cannot say which, at
the epoch of the restoration. The journals said a good deal about it, at
the time, but events occur so fast, here, that a quarrel of this sort
produces little sensation. I pretend to no knowledge of the merits of
this affair, and only give a general outline of what was current in the
public prints, at the time.
We have also visited Enghien, and Montmorency. The latter, as you know
already, stands on the side of a low mountain, in plain view of Paris.
It is a town of some size, with very uneven streets, some of them being
actually sharp acclivities, and a gothic church that is seen from afar,
and that is well worth viewing near by. These quaint edifices afford us
deep delight, by their antiquity, architecture, size, and pious
histories. What matters it to us how much or how little superstition may
blend with the rites, when we know and feel that we are standing in a
nave that has echoed with orisons to God, for a thousand years! This of
Montmorency is not quite so old, however, having been rebuilt only three
centuries since.
Dulaure, a severe judge of aristocracy, denounces the pretension of the
_Montmorencies_ to be the _Premiers Barons Chretiens_, affirming that
they were neither the first barons, nor the first Christians, by a great
many. He says, that the extravagant title has most probably been a
war-cry, in the time of the crusaders. According to his account of the
family, it originated, about the year 1008, in a certain Burchard, who,
proving a bad neighbour to the Abbey of St. Denis, the vassals of which
he was in the habit of robbing, besides, now and then, despoiling a
monk, the king caused his fortress in the _isle St. Denis_ to be razed;
after which, by a treaty, he was put in possession of the mountain hard
by, with permission to erect another hold near a fountain, at a place
called in the charters, _Montmorenciacum_. Hence the name, and the
family. This writer thinks that the first castle must have been built of
wood!
We took a road that led us up to a bluff on the mountain, behind the
town, where we obtained a new and very peculiar view of Paris and its
environs. I have said that the French towns have no straggling suburbs.
A few wine-houses (to save the _ortroi_) are built near the gates,
compactly, as in the town itself, and there the buildings cease as
suddenly as if pared down by a knife. The fields touch the walls, in
many places, and between St. Ouen and the _guinguettes_ and wine-houses,
at the _barrière de Clichy_, a distance of quite two miles, there is but
a solitary building. A wide plain separates Paris, on this side, from
the mountains, and of course our view extended across it. The number of
villages was absolutely astounding. Although I did not attempt counting
them, I should think not fewer than a hundred were in sight, all gray,
picturesque, and clustering round the high nave and church tower, like
chickens gathering beneath the wing. The day was clouded, and the
hamlets rose from their beds of verdure, sombre but distinct, with their
faces of wall, now in subdued light, and now quite shaded, resembling
the glorious _darks_ of Rembrandt’s pictures.
LETTER VI.
TO CAPT. M. PERRY, U. S. N.
I am often in the saddle, since our removal to St. Ouen. I first
commenced the business of exploring in the cabriolet, with my wife for a
companion, during which time, several very pretty drives, of whose
existence one journeying along the great roads would form no idea, were
discovered. At last, as these became exhausted, I mounted, and pricked
into the fields. The result has been a better knowledge of the details
of ordinary rural life, in this country, than a stranger would get by a
residence, after the ordinary fashion, of years.
I found the vast plain intersected by roads as intricate as the veins of
the human body. The comparison is not unapt, by the way, and may be even
carried out much further; for the _grandes routes_ can be compared to
the arteries, the _chemins vicinaux_, or cross-roads, to the veins, and
the innumerable paths that intersect the fields, in all directions, to
the more minute blood vessels, circulation being the object common to
all.
I mount my horse and gallop into the fields at random, merely taking
care not to quit the paths. By the latter, one can go in almost any
direction; and, as they are very winding, there is a certain pleasure in
following their sinuosities, doubtful whither they tend. Much of the
plain is in vegetables, for the use of Paris, though there is
occasionally a vineyard, or a field of grain. The weather has become
settled and autumnal, and is equally without the chilling moisture of
the winter or the fickleness of the spring. The kind-hearted peasants
see me pass among them without distrust, and my salutations are answered
with cheerfulness and civility. Even at this trifling distance from the
capital, I miss the _brusque_ ferocity that is so apt to characterize
the deportment of its lower classes, who are truly the people that
Voltaire has described as “_ou singes, ou tigres_.” Nothing, I think,
strikes an American more than the marked difference between the town and
country of France. With us, the towns are less town-like, and the
country less country-like, than is usually the case. Our towns are
provincial from the want of tone that can only be acquired by time,
while it is a fault with our country to wish to imitate the towns. I now
allude to habits only, for the nature at home, owing to the great
abundance of wood, is more strikingly rural than in any other country I
know. The inhabitant of Paris can quit his own door in the centre of the
place, and after walking an hour, he finds himself truly in the country,
both as to the air of external objects, and as to the manners of the
people. The influence of the capital doubtless has some little effect on
the latter, but not enough to raise them above the ordinary rusticity,
for the French peasants are as rustic in their appearance and habits, as
the upper classes are refined.
One of my rides is through the plain that lies between St. Ouen and
Montmartre, ascending the latter by its rear to the windmills, that
night and day, are whirling their ragged arms over the capital of
France. Thence I descend into the town, by the carriage road. A view
from this height is like a glimpse into the pages of history, for every
foot of land that it commands, and more than half the artificial
accessories, are pregnant of the past. Looking down into the fissures
between the houses, men appear the mites they are, and one gets to have
a philosophical indifference to human vanities, by obtaining these
bird’s-eye views of them in the mass. It was a happy thought that first
suggested the summits of mountains for religious contemplation; nor do I
think the Father of Evil discovered his usual sagacity when he resorted
to such a place for the purposes of selfish temptation; perhaps,
however, it would be better to say, he betrayed the grovelling
propensities of his own nature. The cathedral of Notre Dame should have
been reared on this noble and isolated height, that the airs of heaven
might whisper through its fane, breathing the chaunts in honour of God.
Dismounting, manfully, I have lately undertaken a far more serious
enterprise—that of making the entire circuit of Paris, on foot. My
companion was our old friend Capt. ——. We met, by appointment, at eleven
o’clock, just without the _barrière de Clichy_, and, ordering the
carriage to come for us at five, off we started, taking the direction of
the eastern side of the town. You probably know that what are commonly
called the _boulevards_ of Paris, are no more than a circular line of
wide streets, through the very heart of the place, which obtain their
common appellation from the fact that they occupy the sites of the
ancient walls. Thus the street, within this circuit, is called by its
name, whatever it may happen to be, and, if continued without the
circuit, the term of _fauxbourg_ or suburb is added; as in the case of
the “_rue St. Honoré_,” and the “_rue fauxbourg St. Honoré_,” the latter
being strictly a continuation of the former, but lying without the site
of the ancient walls. As the town has increased, it has been found
necessary to enlarge its _enceinte_, and the walls are now encircled
with wide avenues that are called the outer _boulevards_. There are
avenues within and without the walls, and immediately beneath them; and,
in many places, both are planted. Our route was on the exterior.
We began the march in good spirits, and by twelve, we had handsomely
done our four miles and a half. Of course we passed the different
_barrières_, and the gate of _Père la Chaise_. The captain commenced
with great vigour, and for near two hours, as he expressed himself, he
had me a little on his lee quarter, not more, however, he thought, than
was due to his superior rank, for he had once been my senior, as a
midshipman. At the _barrière du trone_ we were compelled to diverge a
little from the wall, in order to get across the river by the _pont
d’Austerlitz_. By this time, I had ranged up abeam of the commodore, and
I proposed that we should follow the river, up as far as the wall again,
in order to do our work honestly. But to this he objected that he had no
wish to puzzle himself with spherical trigonometry, that plane sailing
was his humour at the moment, and that he had, moreover, just discovered
that one of his boots pinched his foot. Accordingly we proceeded
straight from the bridge, not meeting the wall again until we were
beyond the _abattoir_. These _abattoirs_ are slaughter-houses, that
Napoleon caused to be built, near the walls, in some places within, and
in others without them, according to the different localities. There are
five or six of them, that of _Montmartre_ being the most considerable.
They are kept in excellent order, and the regulations respecting them
appear to be generally good. The butchers sell their meats, in shops,
all over the town, a general custom in Europe, and one that has more
advantages than disadvantages, as it enables the inhabitant to order a
meal at any moment. This independence in the mode of living
distinguishes all the large towns of this part of the world from our
own; for I greatly question if there be any civilized people among whom
the individual is as much obliged to consult the habits and tastes of
_all_, in gratifying his own, as in free and independent America. A part
of this uncomfortable feature in our domestic economy, is no doubt the
result of circumstances unavoidably connected with the condition of a
young country, but a great deal is to be ascribed to the practice of
referring every thing to the public, and not a little to those religious
sects who extended their supervision to all the affairs of life, that
had a chief concern in settling the country, and who have entailed so
much that is inconvenient and ungraceful (I might almost say, in some
instances, _disgraceful_) on the nation, blended with so much that forms
its purest sources of pride. Men are always an inconsistent medley of
good and bad.
The captain and myself had visited the _abattoir_ of _Montmartre_ only a
few days previously to this excursion, and we had both been much
gratified with its order and neatness. But an unfortunate pile of hocks,
hoofs, tallow, and nameless fragments of carcasses, had caught my
companion’s eye. I found him musing over this _omnium gatherum_, which
he protested was worse than a bread pudding at Saratoga. By some process
of reasoning, that was rather material than philosophical, he came to
the conclusion that the substratum of all the extraordinary compounds he
had met with at the _restaurants_ was derived from this pile, and he
swore, as terribly as any of “our army in Flanders,” that not another
mouthful would he touch, while he remained in Paris, if the dish put his
knowledge of natural history at fault. He had all along suspected he had
been eating cats and vermin, but his imagination had never pictured to
him such a store of abominations for the _casserole_, as were to be seen
in this pile. In vain I asked him if he did not find the dishes good.
Cats might be good for any thing he knew, but he was too old to change
his habits. On the present occasion, he made the situation of the
_abattoir d’Ivry_ an excuse for not turning up the river, by the wall. I
do not think, however, we gained any thing in the distance, the _détour_
to cross the bridge more than equaling the ground we missed.
We came under the wall again, at the _barrière de Ville Juif_, and
followed it, keeping on the side next the town, until we fairly reached
the river, once more, beyond _Vaugirard_. Here we were compelled to walk
some distance to cross the _Pont de Jéne_, and again to make a
considerable circuit through Passy, on account of the gardens, in order
to do justice to our task. About this time, the commodore fairly fell
astern; and he discovered that the other boot was too large. I kept
talking to him over my shoulder, and cheering him on, and he felicitated
me on frogs agreeing so well with my constitution. At length, we came in
at the _barrière de Clichy_, just as the clocks struck three, or in four
hours, to a minute, from the time we had left the same spot. We had
neither stopped, eaten, nor drunk a mouthful. The distance is supposed
to be about eighteen miles, but I can hardly think it is so much, for we
went rather further than if we had closely followed the wall.
Our agility having greatly exceeded my calculations, we were obliged to
walk two miles further, in order to find the carriage. The time expended
in going this distance included, we were just four hours and a half on
our feet. The captain protested that his boots had disgraced him, and
forthwith commanded another pair; a subterfuge that did him no good.
One anecdote connected with the sojourn of this eccentric, but really
excellent-hearted and intelligent man,[8] at Paris, is too good not to
be told. He cannot speak a word of pure French, and of all Anglicizing
of the language, I have ever heard, his attempts at it are the most
droll. He calls the _Tuileries_, Tully_rees_, the _jardins des plantes_
the _garden dis plants_, the _guillotine_, _gullyteen_, and the
_garçons_ of the _cafés_, _gassons_. Cholerick, with whiskers like a
bear, and a voice of thunder, if any thing goes wrong, he swears away,
starboard and larboard, in French and English, in delightful discord.
Footnote 8:
He is since dead.
He sought me out, soon after his arrival, and carried me with him, as an
interpreter, in quest of lodgings. We found a very snug little apartment
of four rooms, that he took. The last occupant was a lady, who in
letting the rooms, conditioned that _Marie_, her servant, must be hired
with them, to look after the furniture, and to be in readiness to
receive her, at her return from the provinces. A few days after this
arrangement I called, and was surprised, on ringing the bell, to hear
the cry of an infant. After a moment’s delay the door was cautiously
opened, and the captain in his gruffest tone demanded, “_cur vully
voo_?” An exclamation of surprize, at seeing me, followed; but instead
of opening the door for my admission, he held it, for a moment, as if
undecided whether to be “at home” or not. At this critical instant an
infant cried again, and the thing became too ridiculous for further
gravity. We both laughed outright. I entered and found the captain with
a child three days old, tucked under his right arm, or that which had
been concealed by the door. The explanation was very simple, and
infinitely to his credit.
Marie, the _locum tenens_ of the lady who had let the apartment, and the
wife of a coachman who was in the country, was the mother of the infant.
After its birth, she presented herself to her new master; told her
story, adding, by means of an interpreter, that if he turned her away,
she had no place in which to lay her head. The kind-hearted fellow made
out to live abroad as well as he could, for a day or two; an easy thing
enough in Paris, by the way; and when I so unexpectedly entered, Marie
was actually cooking the captain’s breakfast in the kitchen, while he
was nursing the child in the _salon_!
The dialogues between the captain and Marie, were, to the last degree,
amusing. He was quite unconscious of the odd sounds he uttered in
speaking French, but thought he was getting on very well, being rather
minute and particular in his orders; and she felt his kindness to
herself and child so sensibly, that she always fancied she understood
his wishes. I was frequently compelled to interpret between them, first
asking him to explain himself in English, for I could make but little of
his French, myself. On one occasion, he invited me to breakfast, as we
were to pass the day exploring, in company. By way of inducement, he
told me that he had accidentally found some cocoa in the shell, and that
he had been teaching Marie how to cook it, “ship-fashion.” I would not
promise, as his hour was rather early, and the distance between us so
great; but before eleven I would certainly be with him. I breakfasted at
home, therefore, but was punctual to the latter engagement. “I hope you
have breakfasted?” cried the captain, rather fiercely, as I entered. I
satisfied him on this point, and then, after a minute of demure
reflection, he resumed, “you are lucky, for Marie boiled the cocoa, and,
after throwing away the liquor, she buttered and peppered the shells,
and served them for me to eat! I don’t see how she made such a mistake,
for I was very particular in my directions, and be d—d to her. I don’t
care so much about my own breakfast, neither, for that can be had at the
next _café_, but the poor creature has lost hers, which I told her to
cook out of the rest of the cocoa.” I had the curiosity to inquire how
he had made out to tell _Marie_ to do all this. “Why, I showed her the
cocoa, to be sure, and then told her to “_boily vousmême_.” There was no
laughing at this, and so I went with the captain to a _café_, after
which we proceeded in quest of the “_gullyteen_,” which he was
particularly anxious to see.
My rides often extend to the heights behind Malmaison and St. Cloud,
where there is a fine country, and where some of the best views, in the
vicinity of Paris, are to be obtained. As the court is at St. Cloud, I
often meet different members of the royal family, dashing to or from
town, or perhaps passing from one of their abodes to another. The style
is pretty uniform, for I do not remember to have ever met the king, but
once, with less than eight horses. The exception, was quite early one
morning, when he was going into the country with very little _éclat_,
accompanied by the Dauphine. Even on this occasion, he was in a carriage
and six, followed by another with four, and attended by a dozen mounted
men. These royal progresses are truly magnificent; and they serve
greatly to enliven the road, as we live so near the country palace. The
king has been quite lately to a camp, formed at St. Omer, and I happened
to meet a portion of his equipages on their return. The carriages I saw
were very neatly built post-chaises, well leathered, and contained what
are here called the “officers of the mouth,” alias “cooks and
purveyors.” They were all drawn by four horses. This was a great
occasion—furniture being actually sent from the palace of Compèigne for
the king’s lodgings, and the court is said to have employed seventy
different vehicles to transport it. I saw about a dozen.
Returning the other night from a dinner party, given on the banks of the
Seine, a few miles above us, I saw flaring lights gleaming along the
highway, which, at first, caused nearly as much conjecture as some of
the adventures of Don Quixote. My horse proving a little restive, I
pulled up, placing the _cabriolet_ on one side of the road, for the
first impression was that the cattle employed at some funeral procession
had taken flight, and were running away. It proved to be the Dauphine
dashing towards St. Cloud. This was the first time I had ever met any of
the royal equipages at night, and the passage was much the most
picturesque of any I had hitherto seen. Footmen, holding flaming
flambeaux, rode in pairs, in front, by the side of the carriage, and in
its rear; the _piqueur_ scouring along the road in advance, like a
rocket. By the way, a lady of the court told me lately, that Louis
XVIIIth had lost some of his French by the emigration, for he did not
know how to pronounce this word _piqueur_.
On witnessing all this magnificence, the mind is carried back a few
generations, in the inquiry after the progress of luxury, and the usages
of our fathers. Coaches were first used in England in the reign of
Elizabeth. It is clear enough, by the pictures in the Louvre, that in
the time of Louis XIVth the royal carriages were huge, clumsy vehicles,
with at least three seats. _Mademoiselle de Montpensier_, in her
Memoirs, tells us how often she took her place at the window, in order
to admire the graceful attitudes of _M. de Lauzun_, who rode near it.
There is still in existence, in the _Bibliothèque du Roi_, a letter of
Henry IVth to Sully, in which the king explains to the grand master, the
reason why he could not come to the arsenal that day: the excuse being
that the queen _was using the carriage_! To-day his descendant seldom
moves at a pace slower than ten miles the hour, is drawn by eight
horses, and is usually accompanied by one or more empty vehicles, of
equal magnificence, to receive him, in the event of an accident.
Notwithstanding all this regal splendour, the turn-outs of Paris, as a
whole, are by no means remarkable. The genteelest, and the fashionable,
carriage is the chariot. I like the proportions of the French carriages
better than those of the English, or our own: the first being too heavy,
and the last too light. The French vehicles appear to me to be, in this
respect, a happy medium. But the finish is by no means equal to that of
the English carriages, nor at all better than that of ours. There are,
relatively, a large proportion of shabby-genteel equipages at Paris.
Even the vehicles that are seen standing in the court of the
_Tuileries_, on a reception day, are not at all superior to the better
sort of American carriages, though the liveries are much more showy.
Few people here, own the carriages and horses they use. Even the
strangers, who are obliged to have travelling vehicles, rarely use them
in town, the road and the streets requiring very different sorts of
equipages. There are certain job-dealers who furnish all that is
required, for a stipulated sum. You select the carriage and horses, on
trial, and contract at so much a month, or at so much a year. The
coachman usually comes with the equipage, as does the footman sometimes,
though both are paid by the person taking the coach. They will wear your
livery, if you choose, and, you can have your arms put on the carriage,
if desirable. I pay five hundred francs a month for a carriage and
horses, and forty francs for a coachman. I believe this is the usual
price. I have a right to have a pair of horses, always at my command,
finding nothing but the stable, and even this would be unnecessary in
Paris. If we go away from our own stable, I pay five francs a day,
extra. There is a very great convenience to strangers, in particular, in
this system, for one can set up, and lay down a carriage, without
unnecessary trouble or expense, as it may be wanted. In every thing of
this nature, we have no town that has the least the character, or the
conveniences, of a capital.
The French have little to boast of in the way of horse flesh. Most of
the fine coach and cabriolet cattle of Paris come from Mecklenburg,
though some are imported from England. It is not common to meet with a
very fine animal of the native breed. In America, land is so plenty and
so cheap, that we keep a much larger proportion of brute force than is
kept here. It is not uncommon with us to meet with those who live by
day’s work, using either oxen or horses. The consequence is, that many
beasts are raised with little care, and with scarcely any attention to
the breeds. We find many bad horses, therefore, in America, but still we
find many good ones. In spite of bad grooming, little training, and hard
work, I greatly question if even England possesses a larger proportion
of good horses, comparing the population of the two countries, than
America. Our animals are quicker footed, and at trotting, I suspect, we
could beat the world; Christendom, certainly. The great avenue between
the garden of the _Tuileries_ and the _Bois de Boulogne_, with the
_allées_ of the latter, are the places to meet the fast goers of the
French capital, and I am strongly of opinion that there is no such
exhibition of speed, in either, as one meets on the Third Avenue of New
York. As for the _Avenue de Neuilly_, our sulky riders would vanish like
the wind from any thing I have seen on it, although one meets there,
occasionally, fine animals from all parts of Europe.
The cattle of the _diligences_, of the post houses, and even of the
cavalry of France, are solid, hardy and good feeders, but they are
almost entirely without speed or action. The two former are very much
the same, and it is a hard matter to get more than eight miles out of
them, without breaking into a gallop, or more than ten, if put under the
whip. Now, a short time previously to leaving home, I went eleven
measured miles, in a public coach, in two minutes less than an hour, the
whip untouched. I sat on the box, by the side of the driver, and know
that this was done under a pull that actually disabled one of his arms,
and that neither of the four animals broke its trot. It is not often our
roads will admit of this, but, had we the roads of England, I make
little doubt we should altogether outdo her in speed. As for the horses
used here, in the public conveyances, and for the post routes, they are
commonly compact, clumsy beasts, with less force than their shape would
give reason to suppose. Their manes are long and shaggy, the fetlocks
are rarely trimmed, the shoes are seldom corked, and, when there is a
little coquetry, the tail is braided. In this trim, with a coarse
harness, that is hardly ever cleaned, traces of common rope, and half
the time no blinkers or reins, away they scamper, with their heads in
all directions, like the classical representation of a team in an
ancient car, through thick and thin, working with all their might to do
two posts within an hour; one, being the legal measure. These animals
appear to possess a strange _bonhomie_, being obedient, willing, and
tractable, although, in the way of harness and reins, they are pretty
much their own masters.
My excursions in the environs have made me acquainted with a great
variety of modes of communication between the capital and its adjacent
villages. Although Paris is pared down so accurately, and is almost
without suburbs, the population, within a circuit of ten miles in each
direction, is almost equal to that of Paris itself. St. Denis has
several thousands, St. Germain the same, and Versailles is still a town
of considerable importance. All these places, with villages out of
number, keep up daily intercourse with the city, and in addition to the
hundreds of vegetable carts that constantly pass to and fro, there are
many conveyances that are exclusively devoted to passengers. The
cheapest and lowest is called a _coucou_, for no reason that I can see,
unless it be that a man looks very like a fool to have a seat in one of
them. They are large _cabriolets_, with two and even three seats. The
wheels are enormous, and there is commonly a small horse harnessed by
the side of a larger, in the thills, to drag perhaps eight or nine
people. One is amazed to see the living carrion that is driven about a
place like Paris, in these uncouth vehicles. The river is so exceedingly
crooked, that it is little used by travellers above Rouen.
The internal transportation of France, where the lines of the rivers are
not followed, is carried on, almost exclusively, in enormous carts,
drawn by six and even eight heavy horses, harnessed in a line. The
burthen is often as large as a load of hay, not quite so high, perhaps,
but generally longer, care being had to preserve the balance in such a
manner as to leave no great weight on the shaft-horse. These teams are
managed with great dexterity, and I have often stopped and witnessed,
with admiration, the entrance of one of them into a yard, as it passed
from a crowded street probably not more than thirty feet wide. But the
evolutions of the _diligence_, guided as it chiefly is by the whip, and
moving on a trot, are really nice affairs. I came from _La Grange_, some
time since, in one, and I thought that we should dash every thing to
pieces in the streets, and yet nothing was injured. At the close of the
journey, our team of five horses, two on the pole and three on the lead,
wheeled, without breaking its trot, into a street that was barely wide
enough to receive the huge vehicle, and this too without human
direction, the driver being much too drunk to be of any service. These
_diligences_ are uncouth objects to the eye; but, for the inside
passengers, they are much more comfortable, so far as my experience
extends, than either the American stage, or the English coach.
The necessity of passing the _barrière_ two or three times a day, has
also made me acquainted with the great amount of drunkenness that
prevails in Paris. Wine can be had _outside_ of the walls, for about
half the price which is paid for it within the town, as it escapes the
_ortroi_, or city duty. The people resort to these places for
indulgence, and there is quite as much low blackguardism and guzzling
here, as is to be met with in any seaport I know.
Provisions of all sorts, too, are cheaper without the gates, for the
same reason; and the lower classes resort to them to celebrate their
weddings, and on other eating and drinking occasions. “_Ici on fait
festins et noces_,”[9] is a common sign, no barrier being without more
or less of these houses. The _guinguettes_ are low gardens, answering to
the English tea-gardens of the humblest class, with a difference in the
drinkables and other fare. The base of Montmartre is crowded with them.
Footnote 9:
Weddings and merry-makings are kept here.
One sometimes meets with an unpleasant adventure among these exhilirated
gentry; for, though, I think, a low Frenchman is usually better natured
when a little _grisé_ than when perfectly sober, this is not always the
case. Quite lately I had an affair that might have terminated seriously,
but for our good luck. It is usual to have two sets of reins to the
_cabriolets_, the horses being very spirited, and the danger from
accidents in streets so narrow and crowded, being great. I had dined in
town, and was coming out about nine o’clock. The horse was walking up
the ascent to the _barrière de Clichy_, when I observed, by the shadow
cast from a bright moon, that there was a man seated on the _cabriolet_,
behind. Charles was driving, and I ordered him to tell the man to get
off. Finding words of no effect, Charles gave him a slight tap with his
whip. The fellow instantly sprang forward, seized the horse by the
reins, and attempted to drag him to one side of the road. Failing in
this, he fled up the street. Charles now called out that he had cut the
reins. I seized the other pair and brought the horse up, and, as soon as
he was under command, we pursued our assailant at a gallop. He was soon
out of breath, and we captured him. As I felt very indignant at the
supposed outrage, which might have cost, not us only, but others, their
lives, I gave him in charge to two _gensd’armes_ at the gate, with my
address, promising to call at the police office in the morning.
Accordingly, next day I presented myself, and was surprised to find that
the man had been liberated. I had discovered, in the interval, that the
leather had _broken_, and had not been _cut_, which materially altered
the _animus_ of the offence, and I had come with an intention to ask for
the release of the culprit, believing it merely a sally of temper, which
a night’s imprisonment sufficiently punished; but, the man being
_charged_ with cutting the rein, I thought the magistrate had greatly
forgotten himself, in discharging him before I appeared. Indeed I made
no scruple in telling him so. We had some warm words, and parted. I make
no doubt I was mistaken for an Englishman, and that the old national
antipathy was at work against me.
I was a good deal surprised at the termination of this, my first essay
in French criminal justice. So many eulogiums have been passed on the
police, that I was not prepared to find this indifference to an offence
like that of wantonly cutting the reins of a spirited cabriolet horse,
in the streets of Paris; for such was the charge on which the man stood
committed. I mentioned the affair to a friend, and he said that the
police was good only for political offences, and that the government
rather leaned to the side of the rabble, in order to find support with
them, in the event of any serious movement. This, you will remember, was
the opinion of a Frenchman, and not mine; for I only relate the facts
(one conjecture excepted,) and to do justice to all parties, it is
proper to add that my friend is warmly opposed to the present _régime_.
I have uniformly found the _gensd’armes_ civil, and even obliging; and I
have seen them show great forbearance on various occasions. As to the
marvellous stories we have heard of the police of Paris, I suspect they
have been gotten up for effect, such things being constantly practised
here. One needs be behind the curtain, in a great many things, to get a
just idea of the true state of the world. A laughable instance has just
occurred, within my knowledge, of a story that has been got up for
effect. The town was quite horrified, lately, with an account, in the
journals, of a careless nurse permitting a child to fall into the
_fossé_ of the great bears, in the _jardins des plantes_, and of the
bears eating up the dear little thing, to the smallest fragment, before
succour could be obtained. Happening to be at the garden soon after, in
the company of one connected with the establishment, I inquired into the
circumstances, and was told that the nurses were very careless with the
children, and that the story was published in order that the bears
_should not eat up any child hereafter_, rather than because they ha_d
eaten up_ a child _heretofore_.
LETTER VII.
TO MRS. POMEROY, COOPERSTOWN.
I have said very little, in my previous letters, on the subject of our
personal intercourse with the society of Paris. It is not always easy
for one to be particular in these matters, and maintain the reserve that
is due to others. Violating the confidence he may have received through
his hospitality, is but an indifferent return from the guest to the
host. Still there are men, if I may so express it, so public in their
very essence, certainly in their lives, that propriety is less concerned
with a repetition of their sentiments, and with delineations of their
characters, than in ordinary cases; for the practice of the world has
put them so much on their guard against the representations of
travellers, that there is more danger of rendering a false account, by
becoming their dupes, than of betraying them in their unguarded moments.
I have scarcely ever been admitted to the presence of a real notoriety,
that I did not find the man, or woman—sex making little difference—an
actor; and this, too, much beyond the every day and perhaps justifiable
little practices of conventional life. Inherent simplicity of character,
is one of the rarest, as, tempered by the tone imparted by refinement,
it is the loveliest of all our traits, though it is quite common to meet
with those who affect it, with an address that is very apt to deceive
the ordinary, and most especially the flattered, observer.
Opportunity, rather than talents, is the great requisite for circulating
gossip; a very moderate degree of ability, sufficing for the observation
which shall render private anecdotes, more especially when they relate
to persons of celebrity, of interest to the general reader. But there is
another objection to being merely the medium of information of this low
quality, that I should think would have great influence with every one
who has the common self-respect of a gentleman. _There is a tacit
admission of inferiority_ in the occupation, that ought to prove too
humiliating to a man accustomed to those associations, which imply
equality. It is permitted to touch upon the habits and appearance of a
truly great man; but to dwell upon the peculiarities of a duke, merely
because he is a duke, is as much as to say he is your superior; a
concession I do not feel disposed to make in favour of any _mere duke_
in Christendom.
I shall not, however, be wholly silent on the general impressions left
by the little I have seen of the society of Paris; and, occasionally,
when it is characteristic, an anecdote may be introduced, for such
things sometimes give distinctness, as well as piquancy, to a
description.
During our first winter in Paris, our circle, never very large, was
principally confined to foreign families, intermingled with a few
French; but since our return to town, from St. Ouen, we have seen more
of the people of the country. I should greatly mislead you, however,
were I to leave the impression that our currency in the French capital
has been at all general, for it certainly has not. Neither my health,
leisure, fortune, nor opportunities, have permitted this. I believe few,
perhaps no Americans, have very general access to the best society of
any large European town; at all events, I have met with no one who, I
have had any reason to think was much better off than myself in this
respect; and, I repeat, my own familiarity with the circles of the
capital, is nothing to boast of. It is in Paris, as it is every where
else, as respects those who are easy of access. In all large towns there
is to be found a troublesome and pushing set, who, requiring notoriety,
obtrude themselves on strangers, sometimes with sounding names, and
always with offensive pretensions of some sort or other; but the truly
respectable and estimable class, in every country, except in cases that
cannot properly be included in the rule, are to be sought. Now, one must
feel that he has peculiar claims, or be better furnished with letters
than happened to be my case, to get a ready admission into this set, or,
having obtained it, to feel that his position enabled him to maintain
the intercourse, with the ease and freedom that could alone render it
agreeable. To be shown about as a lion, when circumstances offer the
means; to be stuck up at a dinner table, as a piece of luxury, like
strawberries in February, or peaches in April, can hardly be called
association: the terms being much on a par with that which forms the
_liaison_, between him who gives the entertainment, and the hired plate
with which his table is garnished. With this explanation, then, you are
welcome to an outline of the little I know on the subject.
One of the errors respecting the French, which has been imported into
America, through England, is the impression that they are not
hospitable. Since my residence here, I have often been at a loss to
imagine how such a notion could have arisen, for I am acquainted with no
town, in which it has struck me there is more true hospitality, than in
Paris. Not only are dinners, balls, and all the minor entertainments
frequent, but there is scarcely a man, or a woman, of any note in
society, who does not cause his or her doors to be opened, once a
fortnight at least, and, in half the cases, once a week. At these
_soirées_ invitations are sometimes given, it is true, but then they are
general, and for the whole season; and it is not unusual, even, to
consider them free to all who are on visiting terms with the family. The
utmost simplicity and good taste prevail at these places, the
refreshments being light and appropriate, and the forms exacting no more
than what belongs to good breeding. You will, at once, conceive the
great advantages that a stranger possesses in having access to such
social resources. One, with a tolerable visiting list, may choose his
circle for any particular evening, and, if by chance, the company should
not happen to be to his mind, he has still before him the alternative of
several other houses, which are certain to be open. It is not easy to
say what can be more truly hospitable than this.
The _petits soupers_, once so celebrated, are entirely superseded by the
new distribution of time, which is probably the most rational that can
be devised for a town life. The dinner is at six, an hour that is too
early to interfere with the engagements of the evening, it being usually
over at eight, and too late to render food again necessary that night;
an arrangement that greatly facilitates the evening intercourse,
releasing it at once from all trouble and parade.
It has often been said, in favour of French society, that once within
the doors of a _salon_ all are equal. This is not literally so, it being
impossible that such a state of things can exist; nor is it desirable
that it should; since it is confounding all sentiment and feeling,
overlooking the claims of age, services, merit of every sort, and
setting at naught the whole construction of society. It is not
absolutely true, that even rank is entirely forgotten in French society,
though I think it sufficiently so to prevent any deference to it from
being offensive. The social pretensions of a French peer are exceedingly
well regulated, nor do I remember to have seen an instance in which a
very young man has been particularly noticed on account of his having
claims of this sort. Distinguished men are so very numerous in Paris,
that they excite no great feeling, and the even course of society is
little disturbed on their account.
Although all within the doors of a French _salon_ are not perfectly
equal, none are made unpleasantly to feel the indifference. I dare say
there are circles in Paris, in which the mere possession of money may be
a source of evident distinction, but it must be in a very inferior set.
The French, while they are singularly alive to the advantages of money,
and extremely liable to yield to its influence in all important matters,
rarely permit any manifestations of its power to escape them in their
ordinary intercourse. As a people, they appear to me to be ready to
yield every thing to money, but its external homage. On these points,
they are the very converse of the Americans, who are hard to be bought,
while they consider money the very base of all distinction. The origin
of these peculiarities may be found in the respective conditions of the
two countries.
In America, fortunes are easily and rapidly acquired; pressure reduces
few to want; he who serves is, if any thing, more in demand than he who
is to be served; and the want of temptation produces exemption from the
liability to corruption. Men will, and do, daily, _corrupt themselves_,
in the rapacious pursuit of gain, but comparatively few are in the
market, to be bought and sold by others. Notwithstanding this, money
being every man’s goal, there is a secret, profound, and general
deference for it; while money will do less, than in almost any other
country in Christendom. Here, few young men look forward to gaining
distinction by making money; they search for it, as a means; whereas,
with us, it is the end. We have little need of arms in America, and the
profession is in less request than that of law or merchandize. Of the
arts and letters, the country possesses none, or next to none; and there
is no true sympathy with either. The only career that is felt, as likely
to lead, and which can lead, to distinction independently of money, is
that of politics, and, as a whole, this is so much occupied by sheer
adventurers, with little or no pretension to the name of statesmen, that
it is scarcely reputable to belong to it. Although money has no
influence in politics, or as little as well may be, even the successful
politician is but a secondary man, in ordinary society, in comparison
with the _milionaire_. Now, all this is very much reversed in Paris.
Money does much, while it seems to do but little. The writer of a
successful comedy would be a much more important personage, in the
_côteries_ of Paris, than M. Rothschild; and the inventor of a new
bonnet would enjoy much more _éclat_ than the inventor of a clever
speculation. I question if there be a community on earth, in which
gambling risks in the funds, for instance, are more general than in
this, and yet the subject appears to be entirely lost sight of out of
the _Bourse_.
The little social notoriety that is attached to military distinction,
here, has greatly surprised me. It really seems as if France has had so
much military renown, as to be satiated with it. One is elbowed
constantly by generals, who have gained this or that victory, and yet no
one seems to care anything about them. I do not mean that the nation is
indifferent to military glory, but society appears to care little or
nothing about it. I have seen a good deal of fuss made with the writer
of a few clever verses, but I have never seen any made with a hero.
Perhaps it was because the verses were new, and the victories old.
The perfect good taste and indifference which the French manifest
concerning the private affairs, and concerning the mode of living, of
one who is admitted to the _salons_, has justly extorted admiration,
even from the English, the people of all others who most submit to a
contrary feeling. A hackney coach is not always admitted into a
court-yard, but both men and women make their visits in them, without
any apparent hesitation. No one seems ashamed of confessing poverty. I
do not say that women of quality often use _fiacres_ to make their
visits, but men do, and I have seen women in them, openly, whom I have
met in some of the best houses in Paris. It is better to go in a private
carriage, or in a _remise_, if one can, but few hesitate, when their
means are limited, about using the former. In order to appreciate this
self-denial, or simplicity, or good sense, it is necessary to remember
that a Paris _fiacre_ is not to be confounded with any other vehicle on
earth. I witnessed, a short time since, a ludicrous instance of the
different degrees of feeling that exist on this point, among different
people. A—— and myself went to the house of an English woman, of our
acquaintance, who is not very choice in her French. A Mrs. ——, the wife
of a colonel in the English army, sat next A——, as a French lady begged
that her carriage might be ordered. Our hostess told her servant to
order the _fiacre_ of Madame ——. Now, Madame —— kept her chariot, to my
certain knowledge, but she disregarded the mistake. A—— soon after
desired that our carriage might come next. The good woman of the house,
who loved to be busy, again called for the _fiacre_ of Madame ——. I saw
the foot of A—— in motion, but catching my eye, she smiled, and the
thing passed off. The _voiture de Madame_ ——, or our own carriage, was
announced, just as Mrs. —— was trying to make a servant understand she
wished for hers.—“_Le fiacre de Madame_ ——,” again put in the bustling
hostess. This was too much for a colonel’s lady, and, with a very pretty
air of distress, she took care to explain in a way that all might hear
her, that it was a _remise_.
I dare say, vulgar prejudices influence vulgar minds, here, as
elsewhere, and yet I must say, that I never knew any one hesitate about
giving an address, on account of the humility of the lodgings. It is to
be presumed that the manner in which families that are historical, and
of long-established rank, were broken down by the revolution, has had an
influence in effecting this healthful state of feeling.
The great tact and careful training of the women, serve to add very much
to the grace of French society. They effectually prevent all
embarrassments from the question of precedency, by their own decisions.
Indeed, it appears to be admitted, that when there is any doubt on these
points, the mistress of the house shall settle it in her own way. I
found myself lately, at a small dinner, the only stranger, and the
especially invited guest, standing near _Madame la Marquise_ at the
moment the service was announced. A bishop made one of the trio. I could
not precede a man of his years and profession, and he was too polite to
precede a stranger. It was a nice point. Had it been a question between
a duke and myself, as a stranger, and under the circumstances of the
invitation, I should have had the _pas_, but even the lady hesitated
about discrediting a father of the church. She delayed but an instant,
and, smiling, she begged us to follow her to the table, avoiding the
decision altogether. In America, such a thing could not have happened,
for no woman, by a fiction of society, is supposed to know how to walk
in company without support; but, here, a woman will not spoil her
curtesy, on entering a room, by leaning on an arm, if she can well help
it. The practice of tucking up a brace of females, (liver and gizzard,
as the English coarsely, but not inaptly, term it,) under one’s arms, in
order to enter a small room that is crowded in a way to render the
movements of even one person difficult, does not prevail here, it being
rightly judged that a proper _tenue_, a good walk, and a graceful
movement, are all impaired by it. This habit also singularly contributes
to the comfort of your sex, by rendering them more independent of ours.
No one thinks, except in very particular cases, of going to the door to
see a lady into her carriage, a custom too provincial to prevail in a
capital, anywhere. Still, there is an amusing assiduity among the men,
on certain points of etiquette, that has sometimes made me laugh;
though, in truth, every concession to politeness being a tribute to
benevolence, is respectable, unless spoiled in the manner. As we are
gossiping about trifles, I will mention a usage or two, that to you will
at least be novel.
I was honoured with a letter from _le Chevalier Alexandre de
Lameth_,[10] accompanied by an offering of a book, and I took an early
opportunity to pay my respects to him. I found this gentleman, who once
played so conspicuous a part in the politics of France, and who is now a
liberal deputy, at breakfast, in a small cabinet, at the end of a suite
of four rooms. He received me politely, conversed a good deal of
America, in which country he had served as a colonel, under Rochambeau,
and I took my leave. That M. de Lameth should rise, and even see me into
the next room, was what every one would expect, and there I again took
my leave of him. But he followed me to each door, in succession, and
when, with a little gentle violence, I succeeded in shutting him in the
ante-chamber, he seemed to yield to my entreaties not to give himself
any further trouble. I was on the landing, on my way down, when, hearing
the door of M. de Lameth’s apartment open, I turned and saw its master
standing before it, to give and receive the last bow. Although this
extreme attention to the feelings of others, and delicacy of demeanor,
rather marks the Frenchman of the old school, perhaps, it is by no means
uncommon here. General la Fayette, while he permits me to see him with
very little ceremony, scarcely ever suffers me to leave him, without
going with me as far as two or three doors. This, in my case, he does
more from habit than any thing else, for he frequently does not even
rise when I enter; and, sometimes, when I laughingly venture to say so
much ceremony is scarcely necessary between us, he will take me at my
word, and go back to his writing, with perfect simplicity.
Footnote 10:
Since dead.
The reception between the women, I see plainly, is graduated with an
unpretending but nice regard to their respective claims. They rise, even
to men, a much more becoming and graceful habit than that of America,
except in evening circles, or in receiving intimates. I never saw a
French woman offer her hand to a male visitor, unless a relative, though
it is quite common for females to kiss each other, when the _réunion_ is
not an affair of ceremony. The practice of kissing among men, still
exists, though it is not very common at Paris. It appears to be
gradually going out with the ear-rings. I have never had an offer from a
Frenchman, of my own age, to kiss me, but it has frequently occurred,
with my seniors. General la Fayette practises it still, with all his
intimates.
I was seated, the other evening, in quiet conversation, with _Madame la
Princesse de_ ——. Several people had come and gone in the course of an
hour, and all had been received in the usual manner. At length the
_huissier_, walking fast through the antechambers, announced the wife of
an ambassador. The _Princesse_, at the moment, was seated on a _divan_,
with her feet raised so as not to touch the floor. I was startled with
the suddenness and vehemence of her movements. She sprang to her feet,
and rather ran than walked across the vast _salon_ to the door, where
she was met by her visitor, who, observing the _empressement_ of her
hostess, through the vista of rooms, had rushed forward as fast as
decorum would at all allow, in order to anticipate her at the door. It
was my impression, at first, that they were bosom friends, about to be
restored to each other, after a long absence, and that the impetuosity
of their feelings had gotten the better of their ordinary self-command.
No such thing; it was merely a strife of courtesy, for the meeting was
followed by an extreme attention to all the forms of society, profound
curtseys, and the elaborated demeanor which marks ceremony rather than
friendship.
Much has been said about the latitude of speech among the women of
France, and comparisons have been made between them and our own females,
to the disadvantage of the former. If the American usages are to be
taken as the standard of delicacy in such matters, I know of no other
people who come up to it. As to our mere feelings, habit can render any
thing proper, or any thing improper, and it is not an easy matter to say
where the line, in conformity with good sense and good taste, should be
actually drawn. I confess a leaning to the American school, but how far
I am influenced by education, it would not be easy for me to say myself.
Foreigners affirm that we are squeamish, and that we wound delicacy
oftener by the awkward attempts to protect it, than if we had more
simplicity. There may be some truth in this, for though cherishing the
notions of my youth, I never belonged to the ultra school at home,
which, I believe you will agree with me, rather proves low breeding than
good breeding. One sees instances of this truth, not only every day, but
every hour of the day. Yesterday, in crossing the Tuileries, I was
witness of a ludicrous scene that sufficiently illustrates what I mean.
The statues of the garden have little or no drapery. A countryman, and
two women of the same class, in passing one, were struck with this
circumstance, and their bursts of laughter, running and hiding their
faces, and loud giggling, left no one in ignorance of the cause of their
extreme bashfulness. Thousands of both sexes pass daily beneath the same
statue, without a thought of its nudity, and it is looked upon as a
noble piece of sculpture.
In dismissing this subject, which is every way delicate, I shall merely
say that usage tolerates a license of speech, of which you probably have
no idea, but, that I think one hears very rarely, from a French woman of
condition, little that would not be uttered, by an American female,
under similar circumstances. So far as my experience goes, there is a
marked difference, in this particular, between the women of a middle
station and those of a higher rank; by rank, however, I mean hereditary
rank, for the revolution has made a _pèle mèle_ in the _salons_ of
Paris.
Although the _petits soupers_ have disappeared, the dinners are very
sufficient substitutes. They are given at a better hour, and the service
of a French entertainment, so quiet, so entirely free from effort, or
chatter about food, is admirably adapted to rendering them agreeable. I
am clearly of opinion no one ought to give any entertainment that has
not the means of making it pass off as a matter-of-course thing, and
without effort. I have certainly seen a few fussy dinners here, but they
are surprisingly rare. At home, we have plenty of people who know that a
party that has a laboured air is inherently vulgar, but how few are
there that know how to treat a brilliant entertainment as a mere matter
of course! Paris is full of those desirable houses in which the thing is
understood.
The forms of the table vary a little, according to the set one is in. In
truly French houses, until quite lately I believe, it was not the custom
to change the knife, the duty of which, by the way, is not great, the
cookery requiring little more than the fork. In families that mingle
more with strangers, both are changed, as with us. A great dinner is
served very much as at home, so far as the mere courses are concerned,
though I have seen the melons follow the soup. This I believe to be in
good taste, though it is not common, and it struck me, at first, as
being as much out of season as the old New England custom of eating the
pudding before the meat. But the French give small dinners, (small in
name, though certainly very great in execution,) in which the dishes are
served singly, or nearly so, the entertainment resembling those given by
the Turks, and being liable to the same objection; for when there is but
a single dish before one, and it is not known whether there is to be any
more, it is an awkward thing to decline eating. Such dinners are
generally of the best quality, but I think they should never be given
except where there is sufficient intimacy to embolden the guest to say
_jam satis_.
The old devotion to the sex is not so exclusively the Occupation of a
French _salon_, as it was, probably, half a century since. I have been
in several, where the men were grouped in a corner, talking politics,
while the women amused each other, as best they could, in cold, formal
lines, looking like so many figures placed there to show off the latest
modes of the _toilette_. I do not say this is absolutely common, but it
is less rare than you might be apt to suppose.
I can tell you little of the habit of reading manuscripts, in society.
Such things are certainly done, for I have been invited to be present on
one or two occasions, but having a horror of such exhibitions, I make it
a point to be indisposed, the choice lying between the megrims before,
or after them. Once, and once only, I have heard a poet recite his
verses in a well filled drawing-room, and, though I have every reason to
think him clever, my ear was so little accustomed to the language, that,
in the mouthing of French recitation, I lost nearly all of it.
I have had an odd pleasure in driving from one house to another, on
particular evenings, in order to produce as strong contrasts as my
limited visiting list will procure. Having a fair opportunity a few
nights since, in consequence of two or three invitations coming in, for
the evening on which several houses where I occasionally called were
opened, I determined to make a night of it, in order to note the effect.
As A—— did not know several of the people, I went alone, and you may
possibly be amused with an account of my adventures: they shall be told.
In the first place I had to dress, in order to go to dinner at a house
that I had never entered, and with a family of which I had never seen a
soul. These are incidents which frequently come over a stranger, and, at
first, were not a little awkward, but use hardens us to much greater
misfortunes. At six, then, I stepped punctually into my _coupé_ and gave
Charles the necessary number and street. I ought to tell you that the
invitation had come a few days before, and, in a fit of curiosity, I had
accepted it, and sent a card, without having the least idea who my host
and hostess were, beyond their names. There was something _piquant_ in
this ignorance, and I had almost made up my mind to go in the same
mysterious manner, leaving all to events, when happening, in an idle
moment, to ask a lady of my acquaintance, and for whom I have a great
respect, if she knew a _Madame de ——_, to my surprise, her answer
was—“Most certainly—she is my cousin, and you are to dine there
to-morrow.” I said no more, though this satisfied me that my hosts were
people of some standing. While driving to their hotel, it struck me,
under all the circumstances, it might be well to know more of them, and
I stopped at the gate of a female friend, who knows every body, and who,
I was certain, would receive me even at that unseasonable hour. I was
admitted, explained my errand, and inquired if she knew a _M. de ——_.
“_Quelle question!_” she exclaimed—“_M. de —— est Chancelier de la
France!_” Absurd, and even awkward, as it might have proved, but for
this lucky thought, I should have gone and dined with the French Lord
High Chancellor, without having the smallest suspicion of who he was!
The hotel was a fine one, though the apartment was merely good, and the
reception, service and general style of the house were so simple that
neither would have awakened the least suspicion of the importance of my
hosts. The party was small and the dinner modest. I found the
_chancelier_ a grave dignified man, a little curious on the subject of
America, and his wife, apparently a woman of great good sense, and, I
should think, of a good deal of attainment. Every thing went off in the
quietest manner possible, and I was sorry when it was time to go.
From this dinner, I drove to the hotel of the _Marquis de Marbois_, to
pay a visit of digestion. M. de Marbois retires so early, on account of
his great age, that one is obliged to be punctual, or he will find the
gate locked at nine. The company had got back into the drawing-room, and
as the last week’s guests were mostly there, as well as those who had
just left the table, there might have been thirty people present, all of
whom were men but two. One of the ladies was Madame de Souza, known in
French literature as the writer of several clever novels of society. In
the drawing-room, were grouped, in clusters, the Grand Referendary, M.
Cuvier, M. Daru, M. Villemain, M. de Plaisance, Mr. Brown, and many
others of note. There seemed to be something in the wind, as the
conversation was in low confidential whispers, attended by divers
ominous shrugs. This could only be politics, and watching an
opportunity, I questioned an acquaintance. The fact was really so. The
appointed hour had come, and the ministry of M. de Villèle was in the
agony. The elections had not been favourable, and it was expedient to
make an attempt to reach the _old_ end, by what is called a _new_
combination. It is necessary to understand the general influence of
political intrigues on certain _côteries_ of Paris, to appreciate the
effect of this intelligence, on a drawing-room filled, like this, with
men who had been actors in the principal events of France, for forty
years. The name of M. Cuvier was even mentioned as one of the new
ministers. Comte Roy was also named, as likely to be the new premier. I
was told that this gentleman was one of the greatest landed proprietors
of France, his estates being valued at four millions of dollars. The
fact is curious, as showing, not on vulgar rumour, but from a
respectable source, what is deemed a first rate landed property in this
country. It is certainly no merit, nor do I believe it is any very great
advantage; but, I think we might materially beat this, even in America.
The company soon separated, and I retired.
From the _Place de la Madeleine_, I drove to a house near the
_Carrousel_, where I had been invited to step in, in the course of the
evening. All the buildings that remain within the intended
parallelogram, which will some day make this spot one of the finest
squares in the world, have been bought by the government, or nearly so,
with the intent to have them pulled down, at a proper time; and the
court bestows lodgings, _ad interim_, among them, on its favourites.
Madame de —— was one of these favoured persons, and she occupies a small
apartment in the third story of one of these houses. The rooms were neat
and well arranged, but small. Probably the largest does not exceed
fifteen feet square. The approach to a Paris lodging is usually either
very good, or very bad. In the new buildings may be found some of the
mediocrity of the new order of things; but in all those which were
erected previously to the revolution, there is nothing but extremes in
this, as in most other things. Great luxury and elegance, or great
meanness and discomfort. The house of Madame de —— happens to be of the
latter class, and although all the disagreeables have disappeared from
her own rooms, one is compelled to climb up to them, through a dark well
of a stair-case, by flights of steps not much better than those we use
in our stables. You have no notion of such staircases as those I had
just descended in the hotels of the _Chancelier_ and the _Premier
President_;[11] nor have we any just idea, as connected with respectable
dwellings, of these I had now to clamber up. M. de —— is a man of
talents and great respectability, and his wife is exceedingly clever,
but they are not rich. He is a professor, and she is an artist. After
having passed so much of my youth, on topgallant-yards, and in
becketting royals, you are not to suppose, however, I had any great
difficulty in getting up these stairs, narrow, steep, and winding as
they were.
Footnote 11:
M. de Marbois was the first president of the Court of Accounts.
We are now at the door, and I have rung. On whom do you imagine the
curtain will rise? On a _réunion_ of philosophers come to discuss
questions in botany, with M. de ——, or on artists, assembled to talk
over the troubles of their profession, with his wife? The door opens,
and I enter.
The little drawing-room is crowded; chiefly with men. Two card tables
are set, and at one I recognize a party, in which are three dukes of the
_veille cour_, with M. de Duras at their head! The rest of the company
was a little more mixed, but, on the whole, it savoured strongly of
Coblentz and the _emigration_. This was more truly French than any thing
I had yet stumbled on. One or two of the grandees looked at me as if,
better informed than Scott, they knew that General La Fayette had not
gone to America to live. Some of these gentlemen certainly do not love
us; but I had cut out too much work for the night to stay and return the
big looks of even dukes, and, watching an opportunity, when the eyes of
Madame de —— were another way, I stole out of the room.
Charles now took his orders, and we drove down into the heart of the
town, somewhere near the general post-office, or into those mazes of
streets that, near two years of practice, have not yet taught me to
thread. We entered the court of a large hotel, that was brilliantly
lighted, and I ascended, by a noble flight of steps, to the first floor.
Ante-chambers communicated with a magnificent saloon, which appeared to
be near forty feet square. The ceilings were lofty, and the walls were
ornamented with military trophies, beautifully designed, and which had
the air of being embossed and gilded. I had got into the hotel of one of
Napoleon’s marshals, you will say, of at least into one of a marshal of
the old _régime_. The latter conjecture may be true, but the house is
now inhabited by a great woollen manufacturer, whom the events of the
day has thrown into the presence of all these military emblems. I found
the worthy _industriel_ surrounded by a groupe, composed of men of his
own stamp, eagerly discussing the recent changes in the government. The
women, of whom there might have been a dozen, were ranged, like a
neglected parterre, along the opposite side of the room. I paid my
compliments, staid a few minutes, and stole away to the next engagement.
We had now to go to a little, retired, house on the _Champs Elysées_.
There were only three or four carriages before the door, and on
ascending to a small, but very neat apartment, I found some twenty
people collected. The mistress of the house was an English lady, single,
of a certain age, and a daughter of the Earl of ——, who was once
governor of New York. Here was a very different set. One or two ladies
of the old court, women of elegant manners, and seemingly of good
information, several English women, pretty, quiet and clever, besides a
dozen men of different nations. This was one of those little _réunions_
that are so common in Paris, among the foreigners, in which a small
infusion of French serves to leaven a considerable batch of human beings
from other parts of the world. As it is always a relief to me to speak
my own language, after being a good while among foreigners, I staid an
hour at this house. In the course of the evening an Irishman of great
wit and of exquisite humour, one of the paragons of the age in his way,
came in. In the course of conversation, this gentleman, who is the
proprietor of an Irish estate, and a Catholic, told me of an atrocity in
the laws of his country, of which until then I was ignorant. It seems
that any younger brother, or next heir, might claim the estate by
turning Protestant, or drive the incumbent to the same act. I was
rejoiced to hear that there was hardly an instance of such profligacy
known.[12] To what baseness will not the struggle for political
ascendancy urge us!
Footnote 12:
I believe this infamous law, however, has been repealed.
In the course of the evening, Mr. ——, the Irish gentleman, gravely
introduced me to a Sir James ——, adding, with perfect gravity, “a
gentleman whose father humbugged the Pope—humbugged infallibility.” One
could not but be amused with such an introduction, urged in a way so
infinitely droll, and I ventured, at a proper moment, to ask an
explanation, which, unless I was also humbugged, was as follows.
Among the _détenus_ in 1804, was Sir William ——, the father of Sir James
——, the person in question. Taking advantage of the presence of the Pope
at Paris, he is said to have called on the good-hearted Pius, with great
concern of manner, to state his case. He had left his sons in England,
and through his absence they had fallen under the care of two
Presbyterian aunts; as a father he was naturally anxious to rescue them
from this perilous situation. “Now Pius,” continued my merry informant,
“quite naturally supposed that all this solicitude was in behalf of two
orthodox Catholic souls, and he got permission from Napoleon for the
return of so good a father, to his own country, never dreaming that the
conversion of the boys, if it ever took place, would only be from the
Protestant Episcopal Church of England, to that of Calvin; or a rescue
from one of the devil’s furnaces, to pop them into another.” I laughed
at this story, I suppose with a little incredulity, but my Irish friend
insisted on its truth, ending the conversation with a significant nod,
Catholic as he was, and saying—“humbugged infallibility!”
By this time it was eleven o’clock, and as I am obliged to keep
reasonable hours, it was time to go to _the_ party of the evening. Count
——, of the —— Legation, gave a great ball. My carriage entered the line
at the distance of near a quarter of a mile from the _hôtel_;
_gensdarmes_ being actively employed in keeping us all in our places. It
was half an hour before I was set down, and the _quadrilles_ were in
full motion when I entered. It was a brilliant affair, much the most so
I have ever yet witnessed in a private house. Some said there were
fifteen hundred people present. The number seems incredible, and yet,
when one comes to calculate, it may be so. As I got into my carriage to
go away, Charles informed me that the people at the gates affirm that
more than six hundred carriages had entered the court that evening. By
allowing an average of little more than two to each vehicle, we get the
number mentioned.
I do not know exactly how many rooms were opened on this occasion, but I
should think there were fully a dozen. Two or three were very large
_salons_, and the one in the centre, which was almost at fever heat, had
crimson hangings, by way of cooling one. I have never witnessed dancing
at all comparable to that of the quadrilles of this evening. Usually
there is either too much or too little of the dancing master, but on
this occasion every one seemed inspired with a love of the art. It was a
beautiful sight to see a hundred charming young women, of the first
families of Europe, for they were there of all nations, dressed with the
simple elegance that is so becoming to the young of the sex, and which
is never departed from here until after marriage, moving in perfect time
to delightful music, as if animated by a common soul. The men, too, did
better than usual, being less lugubrious and mournful than our sex is
apt to be in dancing. I do not know how it is in private, but in the
world, at Paris, every young woman seems to have a good mother; or, at
least, one capable of giving her both a good tone, and good taste.
At this party I met the ——, an intimate friend of the ambassador, and
one who also honours me with a portion of her friendship. In talking
over the appearance of things, she told me that some hundreds of
_applications for invitations_ to this ball had been made.
“Applications! I cannot conceive of such meanness. In what manner?”
“Directly; by note, by personal intercession—almost by tears. Be certain
of it, many hundreds have been refused.” In America we hear of refusals
to go to balls, but we have not yet reached the pass of sending refusals
to invite! “Do you see Mademoiselle ——, dancing in the set before you?”
She pointed to a beautiful French girl, whom I had often seen at her
house, but whose family was in a much lower station in society than
herself. “Certainly—pray how came _she_ here?” “I brought her. Her
mother was dying to come, too, and she begged me to get an invitation
for her and her daughter; but it would not do to bring the mother to
such a place, and I was obliged to say no more tickets could be issued.
I wished, however, to bring the daughter, she is so pretty, and we
compromised the affair in that way.” “And to this the mother assented!”
“Assented! How can you doubt it—what funny American notions you have
brought with you to France!”
I got some droll anecdotes from my companion, concerning the ingredients
of the company on this occasion, for she could be as sarcastic as she
was elegant. A young woman near us attracted attention by a loud and
vulgar manner of laughing. “Do you know that lady?” demanded my
neighbour. “I have seen her before, but scarcely know her name.” “She is
the daughter of your acquaintance, the _Marquise de ——_.” “Then she is,
or was, a _Mademoiselle de ——_.” “She is not, nor properly ever was, a
_Mademoiselle de ——_. In the revolution the _Marquis_ was imprisoned by
you wicked republicans, and the _Marquise_ fled to England, whence she
returned, after an absence of three years, bringing with her this young
lady, then an infant a few months old.” “And _Monsieur le Marquis_?” “He
never saw his daughter, having been beheaded in Paris, about a year
before her birth.” “_Quelle contre tems!_” “_Ne c’est-ce pas?_”
It is a melancholy admission, but it is no less true, that good breeding
is sometimes quite as active a virtue, as good principles. How many more
of the company present were born about a year after their fathers were
beheaded, I have no means of knowing; but had it been the case with all
of them, the company would have been of as elegant demeanor, and of much
more _retenue_ of deportment, than we are accustomed to see, I will not
say in _good_, but certainly in _general_ society, at home. One of the
consequences of good breeding is also a disinclination, positively a
distaste, to pry into the private affairs of others. The little specimen
to the contrary, just named, was rather an exception, owing to the
character of the individual, and to the indiscretion of the young lady
in laughing too loud, and then the affair of a birth so _very_
posthumous was rather too _patent_ to escape all criticism.
My friend was in a gossiping mood this evening, and as she was well
turned of fifty, I ventured to continue the conversation. As some of the
_liaisons_ which exist here must be novel to you, I shall mention one or
two more.
A _Madame de J——_ passed us, leaning on the arm of _M. de C——_. I knew
the former, who was a widow; had frequently visited her, and had been
surprised at the intimacy which existed between her and _M. de C——_, who
always appeared quite at home, in her house. I ventured to ask my
neighbour if the gentleman were the brother of the lady. “Her brother!
It is to be hoped not, as he is her husband.” “Why does she not bear his
name, if that be the case?” “Because her first husband is of a more
illustrious family than her second; and then there are some difficulties
on the score of fortune. No, no. These people are _bonâ fide_ married.
_Tenez_—do you see that gentleman who is standing so assiduously near
the chair of _Madame de S——_? He who is all attention and smiles to the
lady?” “Certainly—his politeness is even affectionate.” “Well it ought
to be, for it is _M. de S——_, her husband.” “They are a happy couple,
then.” “_Hors de doute_—he meets her at _soirées_ and balls; is the pink
of politeness; puts on her shawl; sees her safe into her carriage, and—”
“Then they drive home together, as loving as Darby and Joan.” “And then
he jumps into his _cabriolet_, and drives to the lodgings of ——. _Bon
soir, monsieur ——_, you are making me fall into the vulgar crime of
scandal.”
Now, as much as all this may sound like invention, it is quite true,
that I repeat no more to you than was said to me, and no more than what
I believe to be exact. As respects the latter couple, I have been
elsewhere told that they literally never see each other, except in
public, where they constantly meet, as the best friends in the world.
I was lately in some English society, when Lady G—— bet a pair of gloves
with Lord R—— that he had not seen Lady R—— in a fortnight. The bet was
won by the gentleman, who proved satisfactorily that he had met his wife
at a dinner party, only ten days before.
After all I have told you, and all that you may have heard from others,
I am nevertheless inclined to believe, that the high society of Paris is
quite as exemplary as that of any other large European town. If we are
any better ourselves, is it not more owing to the absence of temptation,
than to any other cause? Put large garrisons into our towns, fill the
streets with idlers, who have nothing to do but to render themselves
agreeable, and with women with whom dress and pleasure are the principal
occupations, and then let us see what protestantism and liberty will
avail us, in this particular. The intelligent French say that their
society is improving in morals. I can believe this, of which I think
there is sufficient proof by comparing the present with the past, as the
latter has been described to us. By the past, I do not mean the period
of the revolution, when vulgarity assisted to render vice still more
odious—a happy union, perhaps, for those who were to follow—but the days
of the old _régime_. Chance has thrown me in the way of three or four
old dowagers of that period, women of high rank, and still in the first
circles, who, amid all their _finesse_ of breeding, and ease of manner,
have had a most desperate _rouée_ air about them. Their very laugh, at
times, has seemed replete with a bold levity, that was as disgusting as
it was unfeminine. I have never, in any other part of the world, seen
loose sentiments _affichés_, with more effrontery. These women are the
complete antipodes of the quiet, elegant _Princesse de ——_, who was at
Lady —— ——’s, this evening; though some of them write _Princesses_ on
their cards, too.
The influence of a court must be great on the morals of those who live
in its purlieus. Conversing with the Duc de ——, a man who has had
general currency in the best society of Europe, on this subject, he
said,—“England has long decried our manners. Previously to the
revolution, I admit they were bad; perhaps worse than her own; but I
know nothing in our history as bad as what I lately witnessed in
England. You knew I was there, quite recently. The king invited me to
dine at Windsor. I found every one in the drawing-room, but His Majesty
and Lady ——. She entered but a minute before him, like a queen. Her
reception was that of a queen; young, unmarried females kissed her hand.
Now, all this might happen in France, even now; but Louis XV., the most
dissolute of our monarchs, went no farther. At Windsor, I saw the
husband, sons, and daughters of the favourite, in the circle! _Le parc
des Cerfs_ was not as bad as this.”
“And yet, M. de ——, since we are conversing frankly, listen to what I
witnessed, but the other day, in France. You know the situation of
things at St. Ouen, and the rumours that are so rife. We had the _fête
Dieu_, during my residence there. You, who are a Catholic, need not be
told that your sect believe in the doctrine of the “real presence.”
There was a _reposior_ erected in the garden of the _château_, and God,
in person, was carried, with religious pomp, to rest in the bowers of
the ex-favourite. It is true, the husband was not present: he was only
in the provinces!”
“The influence of a throne makes sad parasites and hypocrites,” said M.
de ——, shrugging his shoulders.
“And the influence of the people, too, though in a different way. A
courtier is merely a well-dressed demagogue.”
“It follows, then, that man is just a poor devil.”
But I am gossiping away with you, when my Asmodean career is ended, and
it is time I went to bed. Good night.
LETTER VIII.
TO JACOB SUTHERLAND, ESQUIRE, NEW YORK.
The Chambers have been opened with the customary ceremonies and parade.
It is usual for the King, attended by a brilliant _cortège_, to go, on
these occasions, from the Tuileries to the Palais Bourbon, through lines
of troops, under a salute of guns. The French love _spectacles_, and
their monarch, if he would be popular, is compelled to make himself one,
at every plausible opportunity.
The garden of the Tuileries is a parallelogram, of, I should think,
fifty acres, of which one end is bounded by the palace. It has a high
vaulted terrace on the side next the river, as well as at the opposite
end, and one a little lower, next the _rue de Rivoli_. There is also a
very low broad terrace, immediately beneath the windows of the palace,
which separates the buildings from the _parterres_. You will understand
that the effect of this arrangement, is to shut out the world from the
persons in the garden, by means of the terraces, and, indeed, to enable
them, by taking refuge in the woods that fill quite half the area, to
bury themselves almost in a forest. The public has free access to this
place, from an early hour in the morning, to eight or nine at night,
according to the season. When it is required to clear them, a party of
troops marches, by beat of drum, from the _château_, through the great
_allée_, to the lower end of the garden. This is always taken as the
signal to disperse, and the world begins to go out, at the different
gates. It is understood that the place is frequently used as a
promenade, by the royal family, after this hour, especially in the fine
season; but, as it would be quite easy for any one, evilly disposed, to
conceal himself among the trees, statues and shrubs, the troops are
extended in very open order, and march slowly back to the palace, of
course driving every one before them. Each gate is locked, as the line
passes it.
The only parts of the garden, which appear, on the exterior, to be on a
level with the street, though such is actually the fact with the whole
of the interior, are the great gate opposite the palace, and a side gate
near its southern end; the latter being the way by which one passes out,
to cross the Pont Royal.
In attempting to pass in at this gate the other morning, for the first
time, at that hour, I found it closed. A party of ladies and gentlemen
were walking on the low terrace, beneath the palace windows, and a
hundred people might have been looking at them from without. A second
glance showed me, that among some children, were the heir presumptive,
and his sister Mademoiselle d’Artois. The exhibition could merely be an
attempt to feel the public pulse, for the country house of _la
Bagatelle_, to which the children go two or three times a week, is much
better suited to taking the air. I could not believe in the indifference
that was manifested, had I not seen it. The children are both engaging,
particularly the daughter, and yet, these innocent and perfectly
inoffensive beings were evidently regarded more with aversion, than with
affection.
The display of the opening of the session produced no more effect on the
public mind, than the appearance on the terrace of _les Enfants de
France_. The Parisians are the least loyal of Charles’s subjects, and
though the troops, and a portion of the crowd, cried _vive le roi_, it
was easy to see that the disaffected were more numerous than the
well-affected.
I have attended some of the sittings since the opening, and shall now
say a word on the subject of the French parliamentary proceedings. The
hall is an amphitheatre, like our own; the disposition of the seats and
speaker’s chair being much the same as at Washington. The members sit on
benches, however, that rise one behind the other, and through which they
ascend and descend, by aisles. These aisles separate the different
shades of opinion, for those who think alike sit together. Thus the
_gauche_ or left is occupied by the extreme liberals; the _centre
gauche_, by those who are a shade nearer the Bourbons. The _centre
droit_, or right centre, by the true Bourbonists, and so on, to the
farthest point of the semicircle. Some of the members affect even to
manifest the minuter shades of their opinions, by their relative
positions in their own sections, and I believe it is usual for each one
to occupy his proper place.
You probably know that the French members speak from a stand,
immediately beneath the chair of the president, called a tribune. Absurd
as this may seem, I believe it to be a very useful regulation, the
vivacity of the national character rendering some such check on
loquacity quite necessary. Without it, a dozen would often be on their
feet at once; as it is, even, this sometimes happens. No disorder that
ever occurs in our legislative bodies, will give you any just notion of
that which frequently occurs here. The president rings a bell as a
summons to keep order, and as a last resource he puts on his hat, a
signal that the sitting is suspended.
The speaking of both chambers is generally bad. Two-thirds of the
members read their speeches, which gives the sitting a dull, monotonous
character, and as you may suppose, the greater part of their lectures
are very little attended to. The most parliamentary speaker is M. Royer
Collard, who is, just now, so popular that he has been returned for
seven different places at the recent election.
M. Constant is an exceedingly animated speaker, resembling in this
particular Mr. M‘Duffie. M. Constant, however, has a different motion
from the last gentleman, his movement being a constant oscillation over
the edge of the tribune, about as fast, and almost as regular, as that
of the pendulum of a large clock. It resembles that of a sawyer in the
Mississippi. General La Fayette speaks with the steadiness and calm,
that you would expect from his character, and is always listened to with
respect. Many professional men speak well, and exercise considerable
influence in the house, for here, as elsewhere, the habit of public and
extemporaneous speaking gives an immediate ascendancy in deliberative
bodies.
Some of the scenes one witnesses in the Chamber of Deputies are amusing
by their exceeding vivacity. The habit of crying _écoutez_ prevails, as
in the English parliament, though the different intonations of that cry
are not well understood. I have seen members run at the tribune, like
children playing puss in a corner; and, on one occasion, I saw five
different persons on its steps, in waiting for the descent of the member
in possession. When a great question is to be solemnly argued, the
members inscribe their names for the discussion, and are called on to
speak in the order in which they stand on the list.
The French never sit in committee of the whole, but they have adopted in
its place an expedient, that gives power more control over the
proceedings of the two houses. At the commencement of the session, the
members draw for their numbers in the _bureaux_, as they are called. Of
these _bureaux_, there are ten or twelve, and, as a matter of course,
they include all the members. As soon as the numbers are drawn, the
members assemble in their respective rooms, and choose their officers; a
president and secretary. These elections are always supposed to be
indicative of the political tendency of each _bureau_; those which have
a majority of liberals, choosing officers of their own opinions, and
_vice versâ_. These _bureaux_ are remodelled, periodically, by drawing
anew; the term of duration being a month or six weeks. I believe the
chamber retains the power to refer questions, or not, to these
_bureaux_; their institution being no more than a matter of internal
regulation, and not of constitutional law. It is, however, usual to send
all important laws to them, where they are discussed and voted on: the
approbation of a majority of the _bureaux_ being, in such cases,
necessary for their reception in the chambers.
The great evil of the present system is the _initiative_ of the king. By
this reservation in the charter, the crown possesses more than a veto,
all laws actually emanating from the sovereign. The tendency of such a
regulation is either to convert the chambers into the old _lits de
justice_, or to overthrow the throne, an event which will certainly
accompany any serious change here. As might have been, and as _would_
have been anticipated, by any one familiar with the action of
legislative bodies, in our time, this right is already so vigorously
assailed, as to give rise to constant contentions between the great
powers of the state. All parties are agreed that no law can be
presented, that does not come originally from the throne; but the
liberals are for putting so wide a construction on the right to amend,
as already to threaten to pervert the regulation. This has driven some
of the Bourbonists to maintain that the chambers have no right, at all,
to amend a royal proposition. Any one may foresee, that this is a state
of things which cannot peaceably endure for any great length of time.
The ministry are compelled to pack the chambers, and in order to effect
their objects, they resort to all the expedients of power that offer. As
those who drew up the charter had neither the fore-thought, nor the
experience, to anticipate all the embarrassments of a parliamentary
government, they unwittingly committed themselves, and illegal acts are
constantly resorted to, in order that the system may be upheld. The
charter was bestowed _ad captandum_, and is a contradictory _mélange_ of
inexpedient concessions and wily reservations. The conscription
undermined the popularity of Napoleon, and Louis XVIII., in his charter
says, “The conscription is abolished; the _recruiting_ for the army and
navy shall be settled by a law.” Now the conscription _is not_
abolished; but, if pushed on this point, a French jurist would perhaps
tell you it is _now_ established by law. The feudal exclusiveness, on
the subject of taxation, is done away with, all men being equally liable
to taxation. The nett pay of the army is about two sous a day; _this_ is
settled by law, passed by the representatives of those who pay two
hundred francs a year, in direct taxation. The conscription, in
appearance, is general and fair enough; but he who has money can always
hire a substitute, at a price quite within his power. It is only the
poor man, who is never in possession of one or two thousand francs, that
is obliged to serve seven years at two sous a day, nett.
France has gained, beyond estimate, by the changes from the old to the
present system, but it is in a manner to render further violent changes
necessary. I say _violent_, for political changes are everywhere
unavoidable, since questions of polity are, after all, no other than
questions of facts, and these are interests that will regulate
themselves, directly or indirectly. The great desideratum of a
government, after settling its principles in conformity with controlling
facts, is to secure to itself the means of progressive change, without
the apprehension of convulsion. Such is not the case with France, and
further revolutions are inevitable. The mongrel government which exists,
neither can stand, nor does it deserve to stand. It contains the seeds
of its own destruction. Here, you will be told, that the King is a
Jesuit, that he desires to return to the ancient _régime_, and that the
opposition wishes merely to keep him within the limits of the charter.
My own observations lead to a very different conclusion. The difficulty
is in the charter itself, which leaves the government neither free, nor
despotic; in short, without any distinctive character.
This defect is so much felt, that, in carrying out the details of the
system, much that properly belongs to it has been studiously omitted.
The King can do no wrong, here, as in England, but the ministers are
responsible. By way of making a parade of this responsibility, every
official act of the king is countersigned by the minister of the proper
department, and, by the theory of the government, that particular
minister is responsible for that particular act. Now, by the charter,
the peers are the judges of political crimes. By the charter, also, it
is stipulated that no one can be proceeded against except in cases
expressly provided for by law, and in the _forms_ prescribed by the law.
You will remember that, all the previous constitutions being declared
illegal, Louis XVIII. dates his reign from the supposed death of Louis
XVII., and that there are no fundamental precedents that may be drawn in
to aid the constructions, but that the charter must be interpreted by
its own provisions. It follows, then, as a consequence, that no minister
can be legally punished until a law is enacted to dictate the
punishment, explain the offences, and point out the forms of procedure.
Now, no such law has ever been proposed, and although the chambers may
_recommend_ laws to the king, they must await his pleasure in order even
to discuss them openly, and enlist the public feeling in their behalf.
The responsibility of the ministers was proposed _ad captandum_, like
the abolition of the conscription, but neither has been found convenient
in practice.[13]
Footnote 13:
When the ministers of Charles X. were tried, it was without law, and
they would probably have escaped punishment altogether, on this plea,
had not the condition of the public mind required a concession.
The electors of France are said to be between eighty and one hundred
thousand. The qualifications of a deputy being much higher than those of
an elector, it is computed that the four hundred and fifty members must
be elected from among some four or five thousand available candidates.
It is not pretended that France does not contain more than this number
of individuals who pay a thousand francs a year in direct taxes, for
taxation is so great that this sum is soon made up; but a deputy must be
forty years old, a regulation which at once excludes fully one half the
men, of itself; and then it will be recollected that many are
superannuated, several hundreds are peers, others cannot quit their
employments, &c., &c. I have seen the number of available candidates
estimated as low, even, as three thousand.
The elections in France are conducted in a mode peculiar to the nation.
The electors of the highest class have two votes, or for representatives
of two descriptions. This plan was an after-thought of the king, for the
original charter contains no such regulation, but the munificent father
of the national liberties saw fit, subsequently, to qualify his gift.
Had Louis XVIII. lived a little longer, he would most probably have been
dethroned before this; the hopes and expectations which usually
accompany a new reign, having, most probably, deferred the crisis for a
few years. The electors form themselves into colleges, into which no one
who is not privileged to vote is admitted. This is a good regulation,
and might be copied to advantage at home. A law prescribing certain
limits around each poll, and rendering it penal for any but those
authorized to vote at that particular poll, to cross it, would greatly
purify our elections. The government, here, appoints the presiding
officer of each electoral college, and the selection is always carefully
made of one in the interests of the ministry, though in what manner such
a functionary can influence the result, is more than I can tell you. It
is, however, thought to be favourable to an individual’s own election to
get this nomination. The vote is by ballot, though the charter secures
no such privilege. Indeed that instrument is little more than a
declaration of rights, fortified by a few general constituent laws.
The same latitude exists here, in the constructions of the charter, as
exists at home, in the constructions of the constitution. The French
have, however, one great advantage over us, in daring to think for
themselves; for, though there is a party of _doctrinaires_, who wish to
imitate England, too, it is neither a numerous nor a strong party. These
_doctrinaires_, as the name implies, are men who wish to defer to
theories, rather than facts; a class, that is to be found all over the
world. For obvious reasons, the English system has admirers throughout
Europe, as well as in America, since nothing can be more agreeable, for
those who are in a situation to look forward to such an advantage, than
to see themselves elevated into, as La Fayette expresses, so many
“little legitimacies.” The peerage, with its exclusive and hereditary
benefits, is the aim of all the nobility of Europe, and wishes of this
sort make easy converts to any philosophy that may favour the desire.
One meets, here, with droll evidences of the truth of what I have just
told you. I have made the acquaintance of a Russian of very illustrious
family, and he has always been loud and constant in his eulogiums of
America and her liberty. Alluding to the subject, the other day, he
amused me by _naïvely_ observing, “Ah, you are a happy people—you are
_free_—and so are the _English_. Now, in Russia, all rank depends on the
commission one bears in the army, or on the will of the Emperor. I am a
Prince; my father was a Prince; my grandfather, too; but it is of no
avail. I get no privileges by my birth; whereas, in England, where I
have been, it is _so_ different—and I dare say it is different in
America, too?” I told him it was, indeed, “very different in America.”
He sighed, and seemed to envy me.
The party of the _doctrinaires_ is the one that menaces the most serious
evil to France. It is inherently the party of aristocracy; and, in a
country as far advanced as France, it is the combinations of the few,
that, after all, are most to be apprehended. The worst of it is, that,
in countries where abuses have so long existed, the people get to be so
disqualified for entertaining free institutions, that even the
disinterested and well-meaning are often induced to side with the
rapacious and selfish, to prevent the evils of reaction.
In a country so much inclined to speculate, to philosophize, and to
reason on every thing, it is not surprising that a fundamental law, as
vaguely expressed as the charter, should leave ample room for
discussion. We find that our own long experience in these written
instruments, does not protect us from violent differences of opinion,
some of which are quite as extravagant as any that exist here, though
possibly less apt to lead to as grave consequences.[14]
Footnote 14:
The discussion which grew out of the law to protect American industry,
affords a singular instance of the manner in which clever men can
persuade themselves and others, into any notion, however extravagant.
The uncouth doctrine of nullification turned on the construction that
might be put on the intimacy of the relations created by the Union,
and on the nature of the sovereignties of the states.
Because the constitution commences with a declaration, that it is
formed and adopted by “we the people of the United States,”
overlooking, not only all the facts of the case, but misconceiving the
very meaning of the words they quote, one party virtually contended,
that the instrument was formed by a consolidated nation. On this point
their argument, certainly sustained in part by unanswerable truth,
mainly depends.
The word “people” has notoriously several significations. It means a
“population;” it means the “vulgar;” it means any particular portion
of a population, as “rich people,” “poor people,” “mercantile people,”
&c. &c. In a political sense, it has always been understood to mean
that portion of the population of a country, which is possessed of
_political rights_. On this sense, then, it means a _constituency_ in
a representative government, and so it has always been understood in
England, and is understood to-day in France. When a question is
referred to the “people” at an election in England, it is not referred
to a tithe of the population, but to a particular portion of it. In
South Carolina and Louisiana, in the popular sense of Mr. Webster,
there is no “people” to refer to, a majority of the men of both states
possessing no civil rights, and scarcely having a civil existence.
Besides “people,” in its broad signification, includes men, women and
children, and no one will contend, that the two latter had any thing
to do with the formation of our constitution. It follows, then, that
the term has been used in a limited sense, and we must look to
incidental facts to discover its meaning.
The convention was chosen not by any common constituency, but by the
constituencies of the several states, which, at that time, embraced
every gradation between a democratical and an aristocratical polity.
Thirteen states existed in 1787, and yet the constitution was to go
into effect when it was adopted by any nine of them. It will not be
pretended that this decision would be binding on the other four, and
yet it is possible that these four dissenting states should contain
more than half of all the population of the confederation. It would be
very easy to put a proposition, in which it might be demonstrated
arithmetically, that the constitution could have been adopted against
a considerable majority of whole numbers. In the face of such a fact,
it is folly to suppose the term “people” is used in any other than a
conventional sense. It is well known, in addition to the mode of its
adoption, that every provision of the constitution can be altered,
with a single exception, by three-fourths of the states. Perhaps more
than half of the entire population, (excluding the Territories and the
District,) is in six of the largest states, at this moment. But
whether this be so or not, such a combination could easily be made, as
would demonstrate that less than a third of the population of the
country, can at any time alter the constitution.
It is probable that the term “we the people,” was used in a sort of
contra-distinction to the old implied right of the sovereignty of the
king, just as we idly substituted the words “God save the people,” at
the end of a proclamation, for “God save the king.” It was a form.
But, if it is desirable to affix to them any more precise
signification, it will not do to generalize, according to the argument
of one party; but we are to take the words, in their limited and
appropriate meaning, and with their accompanying facts. They can only
allude to the constituencies, and these constituencies existed only
_through_ the states, and were as varied as their several systems. If
the meaning of the term “we the people” was misconceived, it follows
that the argument which was drawn from the error was worthless. The
constitution of the United States was not formed by the _people_ of
the United States, but by such a portion of them as it suited the
several states to invest with political powers, and under such
combinations as gave the decision to any thing but a majority of the
nation. In other words, the constitution was certainly formed by the
_states_ as _political bodies_, and without any necessary connection
with any general or uniform system of polity.
Any theory based on the separate sovereignties of the states, has, on
the other hand, a frail support. The question was not _who_ formed the
constitution, but _what_ was formed. All the great powers of
sovereignty, such as foreign relations, the right to treat, make war
and peace, to control commerce, to coin money, &c. &c. are expressly
ceded. But these are not, after all, the greatest blows that are given
to the doctrine of reserved sovereignty. A power to _alter_ the
constitution, as has just been remarked, has been granted, by which
even the _dissenting states_ have become bound. The only right
reserved, is that of the equal representation in the senate, and it
would follow, perhaps, as a legitimate consequence, the preservation
of the confederated polity; but South Carolina could, under the theory
of the constitution, be stripped of her right to control nearly every
social interest; every man, woman and child in the state dissenting.
It is scarcely worth while to construct a sublimated theory, on the
sovereignty of a community so situated by the legitimate theory of the
government, under which it actually exists!
No means can be devised, that will always protect the weak from the
aggressions of the strong, under the forms of law; and nature has
pointed out the remedy, when the preponderance of good is against
submission; but one cannot suppress his expression of astonishment, at
finding any respectable portion of a reasoning community, losing sight
of this simple and self evident truth, to uphold a doctrine as weak as
that of nullification, viewed as a legal remedy.
If the American statesmen, (_quasi_ and real,) would imitate, the good
curate and the bachelor of Don Quixote, by burning all the political
heresies, with which their libraries, not to say their brains, are now
crammed, and set seriously about studying the terms, and the nature of
the national compact, without reference to the notions of men who had
no connection with the country, the public would be the gainers, and
occasionally one of them might stand a chance of descending to
posterity in some other light than that of the mere leader of a
faction.
LETTER IX.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.
I have said nothing to you of La Grange, though I have now been there no
less than three times. Shortly after our arrival in Paris, Gen. La
Fayette had the kindness to send us an invitation, but we were deterred
from going, for some time, by the indisposition of one of the family. In
the autumn of 1826 I went, however, alone; in the spring I went again,
carrying Mrs. —— with me; and I have now just returned from a third
visit, in which I went with my wife, accompanied by one or two more of
the family.
It is about twenty-seven miles from Paris to Rosay, a small town that is
a league from the castle. This is not a post-route, the great road
ending at Rosay, and we were obliged to go the whole distance with the
same horses. Paris is left by the _Boulevard de la Bastile_, the
_Barrière du Trone_, and the _château_ and woods of Vincennes. The
second time I went into _Brie_, it was with the general himself, and in
his own carriage. He showed me a small pavilion, that is still standing
in a garden near the old site of the Bastile, and which he told me once
belonged to the hotel that _Beaumarchais_ inhabited, when in his glory,
and in which pavilion this witty writer was accustomed to work. The roof
was topped by a vane, to show which way the wind blew, and in pure
_fanfaronade_, or to manifest his contempt for principles, the author of
Figaro had caused a large copper _pen_ to do the duty of a weather-cock,
and there it stands to this day, a curious memorial equally of his wit
and of his audacity.
At the _Barrière du Trone_ the general pointed out to me the spot where
two of his female connexions suffered under the _guillotine_, during the
reign of terror. On one occasion, in passing, we entered the castle of
Vincennes, which is a sort of citadel for Paris, and which has served
for a state prison since the destruction of the Bastile. Almost all of
these strong old places were formerly the residences of the kings, or of
great nobles, the times requiring that they should live constantly
protected by ditches and walls.
Vincennes, like the tower of London, is a collection of old buildings,
enclosed within a wall, and surrounded by a ditch. The latter, however,
is dry. The most curious of the structures, and the one which gives the
place its picturesque appearance, in the distance, is a cluster of
exceedingly slender, tall, round towers, in which the prisoners are
usually confined, and which is the _donjon_ of the hold. This building,
which contains many vaulted rooms piled on each other, was formerly the
royal abode, and it has even now a ditch of its own, though it stands
within the outer walls of the place. There are many other high towers on
the walls, and until the reign of Napoleon there were still more, but he
caused them to be razed to the level of the walls, which of themselves
are sufficiently high.
The chapel is a fine building, being Gothic. It was constructed in the
time of Charles V. There are also two or three vast _corps de
bâtiments_, which are almost palaces in extent and design, though they
are now used only as quarters for officers, &c. &c. The _donjon_ dates
from the same reign. The first room in this building is called the
_salle de la question_, a name which sufficiently denotes its infernal
use. That of the upper story is the room in which the kings of France
formerly held their councils. The walls are sixteen feet thick, and the
rooms are thirty feet high. As there are five stories, this _donjon_
cannot be less than a hundred and forty or fifty feet in elevation. The
view from the summit is very extensive, though it is said that, in the
time of Napoleon, a screen was built around the battlement, to prevent
the prisoners, when they took the air, from enjoying it. As this
conqueror was cruel from policy alone, it is probable this was merely a
precaution against signals; for it is quite apparent, if he desired to
torment his captives, France has places better adapted to the object
than even the _donjon_ of Vincennes. I am not his apologist, however;
for, while I shall not go quite as far as the Englishman who maintained,
in a laboured treatise, that Napoleon was the beast of the Revelations,
I believe he was any thing but a god.
Vincennes was a favourite residence of St. Louis, and there is a
tradition that he used to take his seat under a particular oak, in the
adjoining forest, where all who pleased were permitted to come before
him, and receive justice from himself. Henry V. of England died in the
_donjon of Vincennes_, and I believe his successor, Henry VI. was born
in the same building. One gets a better notion of the state of things,
in the ages of feudality, by passing an hour in examining such a hold,
than in a week’s reading. After going through this habitation, and
studying its barbarous magnificence, I feel much more disposed to
believe that Shakspeare has not outraged probability in his dialogue
between Henry and Catharine, than if I had never seen it, bad as that
celebrated love scene is.
Shortly after quitting Vincennes, the road crosses the Marne, and
stretches away across a broad bottom. There is little of interest
between Paris and Rosay. The principal house is that of Gros Bois, which
once belonged to Moreau, I believe, but is now the property of the
Prince de Wagram, the young son of Berthier. The grounds are extensive,
and the house is large, though I think neither in very good taste, at
least so far as one could judge in passing.
There are two or three ruins on this road, of some historical interest,
but not of much beauty. There is usually a nakedness, unrelieved by
trees or other picturesque accessories, about the French ruins, which
robs them of half their beauty, and dirty, squalid, hamlets and
villages, half the time, come in to render the picture still less
interesting.
At Rosay another route is taken, and La Grange is approached by the
rear, after turning a small bit of wood. It is possible to see the tops
of the towers, for an instant, on the great road before reaching the
town.
It is not certainly known in what age the _château_ was built, but, from
its form, and a few facts connected with its origin, whose dates _are_
ascertained, it is thought to be about five hundred years old. It never
was more than a second-rate building of its class, though it was clearly
intended for a baronial hold. Originally, the name was _La Grange en
Brie_, but by passing into a new family it got the appellation of La
Grange Bléneau, by which it is known at present. You are sufficiently
familiar with French to understand that _grange_ means barn or granary,
and that a liberal translation would make it Bleneau-farm.
In 1399, a marriage took place between the son of the lord of La Grange
en Brie, with a daughter of a branch of the very ancient and great
family of _Courtenay_, which had extensive possessions, at that time, in
Brie. It was this marriage which gave the new name to the castle, the
estate in consequence passing into the line of _Courtenay-Bléneau_. In
1595 the property, by another marriage with an heiress, passed into the
well-known family _d’Aubussons, Comtes de la Feuillade_. The first
proprietor of this name was the grandfather of the _Marèschal de la
Feuillade_, the courtier who caused the _Place de la Victoire_ to be
constructed at Paris, and he appropriated the revenues of the estate,
which, in 1686, were valued at nine thousand francs, to the support and
completion of his work of flattery. The property at that time was,
however, much more extensive than it is at present. The son of this
courtier dying without issue in 1725, the estate was purchased by M.
Dupré, one of the judges of France.
With this magistrate commences, I believe, the connexion of the
ancestors of the La Fayettes with the property. The only daughter
married M. d’Aguesseau; and her daughter again, married the duc de
Noailles-d’Ayen, carrying with her, as a marriage portion, the lands of
Fontenay, La Grange, &c. &c., or in other words, the ancient possessions
of M. de la Feuillade. The Marquis de La Fayette married one of the
Mesdemoiselles de Noailles, while he was still a youth, and when the
estate, after a short sequestration, was restored to the family, General
La Fayette received the _château_ of La Grange, with some six or eight
hundred acres of land around it, as his wife’s portion.[15]
Footnote 15:
Mr. Adams, in his Eulogy on La Fayette, has called the duc de
Noailles, the first peer of France. The fact is of no great moment,
but accuracy is always better than error. I believe the duc de
Noailles was the youngest of the old _ducs_ _et pairs_ of France. The
duc d’Uzés, I have always understood was the oldest.
Although the house is not very spacious for a _château_ of the region in
which it stands, it is a considerable edifice, and one of the most
picturesque I have seen in this country. The buildings stand on three
sides of an irregular square. The fourth side must have been either a
high wall, or a range of low offices formerly, to complete the court and
the defences, but every vestige of them has long since been removed. The
ditch, too, which originally encircled the whole castle, has been filled
in, on two sides, though still remaining on the two others, and greatly
contributing to the beauty of the place, as the water is living, and is
made to serve the purposes of a fish-pond. We had carp from it, for
breakfast, the day after our arrival.
La Grange is constructed of hewn stone, of a good greyish colour, and in
parts of it there are some respectable pretensions to architecture. I
think it probable that one of its fronts has been rebuilt, the style
being so much better than the rest of the structure. There are five
towers, all of which are round, and have the plain, high, pyrimidal
roof, so common in France. They are without cornices, battlements of any
sort, or, indeed, any relief to the circular masonry. One, however, has
a roof of a square form, though the exterior of the tower itself is, at
least, in part, round. All the roofs are of slate.
The approach to the castle is circuitous, until quite near it, when the
road enters a little thicket of evergreens, crosses a bridge, and passes
beneath an arch to the court, which is paved. The bridge is now
permanent, though there was once a draw, and the grooves of a
port-cullis are still visible beneath the arch. The shortest side of the
square is next the bridge, the building offering here but little more
than the two towers, and the room above the gate-way. One of these
towers forms the end of this front of the castle, and the other is of
course, at an angle. On the exterior, they are both buried in ivy, as
well as the building which connects them. This ivy was planted by
Charles Fox, who, in company with General Fitzpatrick visited La Grange,
after the peace of Amiens. The windows, which are small and irregular on
this side, open beautifully through the thick foliage, and as this is
the part of the structure that is occupied by the children of the
family, their blooming faces thrust through the leafy apertures have a
singularly pleasing effect. The other three towers stand, one near the
centre of the principal _corps de bâtiment_, one at the other angle, and
the third at the end of the wing opposite that of the gate. The towers
vary in size, and are all more or less buried in the walls, though still
so distinct as greatly to relieve the latter, and every where to rise
above them. On the open side of the court there is no ditch, but the
ground, which is altogether park-like, and beautifully arranged, falls
away, dotted with trees and copses, towards a distant thicket.
Besides the _rez de chaussée_, which is but little above the ground,
there are two good stories all round the building, and even more in the
towers. The dining-room and offices are below, and there is also a small
oratory, or chapel, though I believe none of the family live there. The
entrance to the principal apartments is opposite the gate, and there is
also here, an exterior door which communicates directly with the lawn,
the ditch running behind the other wing, and in front of the gate only.
The great stair-case is quite good, being spacious, easy of ascent, and
of marble, with a handsome iron railing. It was put there by the mother
of Madame La Fayette, I believe, and the general told me, it was nearly
the only thing of value, that he found among the fixtures, on taking
possession. It had escaped injury.
I should think the length of the house on the side of the square which
contains the stair-case, might be ninety feet, including the tower at
the end, and the tower at the angle; and perhaps the side which contains
the offices, may be even a little longer; though this will also include
the same tower in the same angle, as well as the one at the opposite
corner; while the side in which is the gate-way can scarcely exceed
sixty feet. If my estimates, which are merely made by the eye, are
correct, including the towers, this would give an outside wall of two
hundred and fifty feet, in circuit. Like most French buildings, the
depth is comparatively much less. I question if the outer drawing-room
is more than eighteen feet wide, though it is near thirty long. This
room has windows on the court and on the lawn, and is the first
apartment one enters after ascending the stairs. It communicates with
the inner drawing-room, which is in the end tower of this side of the
_château_, is quite round, of course, and may be twenty feet in
diameter.
The General’s apartments are on the second floor. They consist of his
bed-room, a large cabinet, and the library. The latter is in the tower
at the angle, on the side of the stair-case. It is circular, and from
its windows overlooks the moat, which is beautifully shaded by willows
and other trees. It contains a respectable collection of books, besides
divers curiosities.
The only bed-rooms I have occupied are, one in the tower, immediately
beneath the library, and the other in the side tower, or the only one
which does not stand at an angle, or at an end of the building. I
believe, however, that the entire edifice, with the exception of the
oratory, the offices, the dining-room, which is a large apartment on the
_rez de chaussée_, the two drawing-rooms, two or three cabinets, and the
library, and perhaps a family-room or two, such as a school-room,
painting-room, &c., is subdivided into sleeping apartments, with the
necessary cabinets and dressing-rooms. Including the family, I have
known thirty people to be lodged in the houses besides servants, and I
should think it might even lodge more. Indeed its hospitality seems to
know no limits, for every new comer appears to be just as welcome as all
the others.
The cabinet of La Fayette communicates with the library, and I passed
much of the time during our visit, alone with him, in these two rooms. I
may say that this was the commencement of a confidence with which he has
since continued to treat me, and of a more intimate knowledge of the
amiable features and simple integrity of his character, that has greatly
added to my respect. No one can be pleasanter in private, and he is full
of historical anecdotes, that he tells with great simplicity, and
frequently with great humour. The cabinet contains many portraits, and,
among others, one of Mad. de Stael, and one of his own father. The
former I am assured is exceedingly like; it is not the resemblance of a
very fascinating woman. In the latter I find more resemblance to some of
the grand children than to the son, although there is something about
the shape of the head that is not unlike that of La Fayette’s.
Gen. La Fayette never knew his father, who was killed, when he was quite
an infant, at the battle of Minden. I believe the general was an only
child, for I have never heard him speak of any brother or sister, nor
indeed of any relative at all, as I can remember, on his own side,
though he often alludes to the connexions he made by his marriage. I
asked him how his father happened to be styled the _Comte_ de La
Fayette, and he to be called the _Marquis_. He could not tell me: his
grandfather was the _Marquis_ de La Fayette, his father the _Comte_, and
he again was termed the _Marquis_. “I know very little about it,” said
he, “beyond this. I found myself a little _Marquis_, as I grew to know
any thing, and boys trouble themselves very little about such matters;
and then I soon got tired of the name, after I went to America. I cannot
explain all the foolish distinctions of the feudal times, but I very
well remember that when I was quite a boy, I had the honour to go
through the ceremony of appointing the _curé_ of a very considerable
town in _Auvergne_, of which I was the _Seigneur_. My conscience has
been quite easy about the nomination, however, as my guardians must
answer for the sin, if there be any.”
I was at a small dinner given by the _Comte de Ségur_, just before we
went to La Grange, and at which Gen. La Fayette and M. Alexander de
Lameth were also guests. The three had served in America, all of them
having been colonels while little more than boys. In the course of the
conversation, M. de Lameth jokingly observed that the Americans paid the
greater deference to Gen. La Fayette because he was a _Marquis_. For a
long time there had been but one Marquis in England, (Lord Rockingham)
and the colonists appreciating all other Marquises by this standard, had
at once thought they would do no less than make the _Marquis_ de La
Fayette a general. “As for myself, though I was the senior colonel, and
(as I understood him to say) his superior in personal rank, I passed for
nobody, because I was only a _chevalier_.” This sally was laughed at, at
the time, though there is something very unsettled in the use of those
arbitrary personal distinctions on which the French formerly laid so
much stress. I shall not attempt to explain them. I contented myself by
whispering to M. de Lameth, that we certainly knew very little of such
matters in America, but I questioned if we were ever so ignorant as to
suppose there was only _one Marquis_ in France. On the contrary, we are
a little too apt to fancy every Frenchman a _Marquis_.
There was formerly a regular parish church attached to the _château_,
which is still standing. It is very small, and is within a short
distance of the gate-way. The congregation was composed solely of the
inhabitants of the _château_, and the people of the farm. The church
contains epitaphs and inscriptions in memory of three of the
_d’Aubussons_, whose hearts were buried here, viz. Leon, Comte de la
Feuillade, a lieutenant-general; Gabriel, Marquis de Montargis; and Paul
d’Aubusson, a knight of Malta; all of whom were killed young, in battle.
The general has about three hundred and fifty acres in cultivation, and
more than two in wood, pasture and meadow. The place is in very
excellent condition, and seems to be well attended to. I have galloped
all over it, on a little filly belonging to one of the young gentlemen,
and have found beauty and utility as nicely blended, as is often to be
met with, even in England, the true country of _fermes ornées_, though
the name is imported.
The third day of our visit, we all drove three or four leagues across
the country, to see an old ruin of a royal castle called Vivier. This
name implies a pond, and sure enough we found the remains of the
buildings in the midst of two or three pools of water. This has been a
considerable house, the ruins being still quite extensive and rather
pretty. It was originally the property of a great noble, but the kings
of France were in possession of it, as early as the year 1300. Charles
V. had a great affection for Vivier, and very materially increased its
establishment. His son, Charles VI., who was at times deranged, was
often confined here, and it was after his reign, and by means of the
long wars that ravaged France, that the place came to be finally
abandoned as a royal abode. Indeed it is not easy to see why a king
should ever have chosen this spot at all for his residence, unless it
might be for the purpose of hunting, for even now it is in a retired,
tame, and far from pleasant part of the country.
There are the ruins of a fine chapel and of two towers of considerable
interest, beside extensive fragments of more vulgar buildings. One of
these towers, being very high and very slender, is a striking object;
but, from its form and position, it was one of those narrow wells that
were attached to larger towers, and which contained nothing but the
stairs. They are commonly to be seen in the ruins of edifices built in
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, in France; and, what is worthy
of remark, in several instances, notwithstanding their slender forms, I
have met with them standing, although their principals have nearly
disappeared. I can only account for it, by supposing that their use and
delicacy of form have required more than ordinary care in the
construction.
The ruins of Vivier, belong to M. Parquin, a distinguished lawyer of
Paris. This gentleman has a small country house near by, and General La
Fayette took us all to see him. We found him at home, and met, quite as
a matter of course, with a polite reception. M. Parquin gave us much
curious information about the ruin, and took us to see some of the
subterraneous passages that he has caused to be opened.
It is thought that some of these artificial caverns were prisons, and
that others were intended merely as places for depositing stores. The
one we entered was of beautiful masonry, vaulted with the nicest art,
and seemed to communicate with the ruins, although the outlet was in the
open field and some distance from the walls. It might have been intended
for the double purpose of a storehouse and an outlet; for it is rare to
meet with a palace, or a castle, that has not, more or less, of these
private means of entrance and retreat. The Tuileries is said to abound
with them, and I have been shown the line of an under-ground passage,
between that palace and one of the public hotels, which must be fully a
quarter of a mile in length.
Du Laure gives an extract from a report of the state of the _château_ of
Vivier, made about the year 1700, with a view to know whether its
condition were such as to entitle the place to preserve certain of its
privileges. In this document, the castle is described as standing in the
centre of a marsh, surrounded by forest, and as so remote from all
civilization, as to be nearly forgotten. This, it will be remembered, is
the account of a royal abode, that stands within thirty miles of Paris!
In the very heart of the French capital, are the remains of an extensive
palace of one of the Roman Emperors, and yet it may be questioned if one
in a thousand, of those who live within a mile of the spot, have the
least idea of the origin of the buildings. I have inquired about it, in
its immediate neighbourhood, and it was with considerable difficulty, I
could discover any one who even knew that there was such a ruin at all,
in the street. The great number of similar objects, and the habit of
seeing them daily, has some such effect on one, as the movement of a
crowd in a public thoroughfare, where images pass so incessantly before
the eye, as to leave no impression of their peculiarities. Were a
solitary bison to scamper through the _rue St. Honoré_, the worthy
Parisians would transmit an account of his exploits to their children’s
children, while the way-farer on the prairies takes little heed of the
flight of a herd. As we went to La Grange, we stopped at a tavern,
opposite to which was the iron gate of a small _château_. I asked the
girl who was preparing our _gouter_, to whom the house belonged. “I am
sorry I cannot tell you, sir,” she answered; and then seeing suspicion
in my face, she promptly added—“for do you see, sir, I have only been
here _six weeks_.” Figure to yourself an American girl, set down
opposite an iron gate, in the country, and how long do you imagine she
would be ignorant of the owner’s name? If the blood of those pious
inquisitors, the puritans, were in her veins, she would know more, not
only of the gate, but of its owner; his wife, his children, his means,
his hopes, wishes, intentions and thoughts, than he ever knew himself,
or would be likely to know. But if this prominent love of meddling,
which in its very nature must of necessity lead to what is worse than
contented ignorance, gossipping error, and a wrong estimate of our
fellow creatures, it has, at least, the advantage of keeping a people
from falling asleep over their every day facts. There is no question
that the vulgar and low bred propensity of conjecturing, meddling,
combining, with their unavoidable companion, _inventing_, exists to a
vice, among a portion of our people; but, on the other hand, it is
extremely inconvenient when one is travelling, and wishes to know the
points of the compass, as has happened to myself, if he should ask a
full grown woman whereabouts the sun rises in that neighbourhood, he is
repulsed with the answer, that—“Monsieur ought to know that better than
a poor garden-woman like me!”
We returned to Paris, after a pleasant visit of three days at La Grange,
during which we had delightful weather, and altogether a most agreeable
time. The habits of the family are very regular and simple, but the
intercourse has the freedom and independence of a country house. We were
all in the circular drawing-room, a little before ten, breakfast being
served between ten and eleven. The table was French, the morning repast
consisting of light dishes of meat, _compôtes_, fruits, and sometimes
_soupe au lait_; one of the simplest and best things for such a meal,
that can be imagined. As a compliment to us Americans, we had fish fried
and broiled, but I rather think this was an innovation. Wine, to drink
with water, as a matter of course, was on the table. The whole ended
with a cup of _café au lait_. The morning then passed as each one saw
fit. The young men went shooting, the ladies drove out, or read, or had
a little music, while the general and myself were either walking about
the farm, or were conversing in the library. We dined at six, as at
Paris, and tea was made in the drawing-room about nine.
I was glad to hear from General La Fayette, that the reports of
Americans making demands on his purse, like so many other silly rumours
that are circulated, merely because some one has fancied such a thing
might be so, are untrue. On the contrary, he assures me that
applications of this nature are very seldom made, and most of those that
have been made have proved to come from Englishmen, who have thought
they might swindle him in this form. I have had at least a dozen such
applications myself, but I take it nothing is easier, in general, than
to distinguish between an American, and a native of Great Britain. It
was agreed between us, that in future, all applications of this nature,
should be sent to me for investigation.[16]
Footnote 16:
Under this arrangement, two or three years later, an applicant was
sent for examination, under very peculiar circumstances. The man
represented himself to be a shopkeeper of Baltimore, who had come to
England with his wife and child, to purchase goods. He had been robbed
of all he had, according to his account of the matter, about a
thousand pounds in sovereigns, and was reduced to want, in a strange
country. After trying all other means, in vain, he bethought him of
coming to Paris, to apply to General La Fayette, for succour. He had
just money enough to do this, having left his wife in Liverpool. He
appeared with an English passport, looked like an Englishman, and had
even caught some of the low English idioms, such as, “I am agreeable,”
for “it is agreeable to me,” or, “I agree to do so,” &c. &c. The
writer was exceedingly puzzled to decide as to this man’s nationality.
At length, in describing his journey to Paris, he said, “they took my
passport from me, when we got _to the lines_.” This settled the
matter, as no one but an American would call a _frontier_, the
_lines_. He proved, in the end, to be an American, and a great rogue.
LETTER X.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.
We all went to bed, a night or two since, as usual, and awoke to learn
that there had been a fight in the capital. One of the countless
underplots had got so near the surface, that it threw up smoke. It is
said, that about fifty were killed and wounded, chiefly on the part of
the populace.
The insecurity of the Bourbons is little understood in America. It is
little understood even by those Americans, who pass a few months in the
country, and in virtue of frequenting the _cafés_, and visiting the
theatres, fancy they know the people. Louis XVIII. was more than once on
the point of flying, again, between the year 1815 and his death; for
since the removal of the allied troops, there is really no force for a
monarch to depend on, more especially in and around the capital, the
army being quite as likely to take sides against them, as for them.
The government has determined on exhibiting vigour, and there was a
great show of troops the night succeeding the combat. Curious to see the
effect of all this, two or three of us got into a carriage and drove
through the streets, about nine o’clock. We found some two or three
thousand men on the _boulevards_, and the _rue St. Denis_, in
particular, which had been the scene of the late disorder, was watched
with jealous caution. In all, there might have been four or five
thousand men under arms. They were merely in readiness, leaving a free
passage for carriages, though in some of the narrow streets, we found
the bayonets pretty near our faces.
An American being supposed _ex officio_, as it were, to be a well-wisher
to the popular cause, there is, perhaps, a slight disposition to look at
us with distrust. The opinion of our _travellers’_ generally favouring
liberty is, in my judgment, singularly erroneous, the feelings of a
majority being, on the whole, just the other way, for, at least, the
first year or two of their European experience; though, I think, it is
to be noticed, by the end of that time, that they begin to lose sight of
the personal interests which, at home, have made them any thing but
philosophers on such subjects, and to see and appreciate the immense
advantages of freedom over exclusion, although the predominance of the
former may not always favour their own particular views. Such, at least,
has been the result of my own observations, and so far from considering
a fresh arrival from home, as being likely to be an accession to our
little circle of liberal principles, I have generally deemed all such
individuals as being more likely to join the side of the aristocrats, or
the exclusionists in politics. This is not the moment to enter into an
examination of the causes that have led to so singular a contradiction
between opinions and facts, though I think the circumstance is not to be
denied, for it is now my intention to give you an account of the manner
in which matters are managed here, rather than enter into long
investigations of the state of society at home.
Not long after my arrival in France, a visit was announced, from a
person who was entirely unknown to me, but who called himself a
_littérateur_. The first interview passed off, as such interviews
usually do, and circumstances not requiring any return on my part, it
was soon forgotten. Within a fortnight, however, I received visit the
second, when the conversation took a political turn, my guest freely
abusing the Bourbons, the aristocrats, and the present state of things
in France. I did little more than listen. When the way was thus opened,
I was asked if I admired Sir Walter Scott, and particularly what I
thought of Ivanhoe, or, rather, if I did not think it an indifferent
book. A little surprised at such a question, I told my _littérateur_,
that Ivanhoe appeared to me to be very unequal, the first half being
incomparably the best, but that, as a whole, I thought it stood quite at
the head of the particular sort of romances to which it belonged. The
Antiquary, and Guy Mannering, for instance, were both much nearer
perfection, and, on the whole, I thought both better books; but Ivanhoe,
especially its commencement, was a noble poem. But did I not condemn the
want of historical truth in its pictures? I did not consider Ivanhoe as
intended to be history; it was a work of the imagination, in which all
the fidelity that was requisite, was enough to be probable and natural,
and that requisite I thought it possessed in an eminent degree. It is
true, antiquarians accused the author of having committed some
anachronisms, by confounding the usages of different centuries, which
was perhaps a greater fault, in such a work, than to confound mere
individual characters; but of this I did not pretend to judge, not being
the least of an antiquarian myself. Did I not think he had done gross
injustice to the noble and useful order of the Templars? On this point I
could say no more than on the preceding, having but a very superficial
knowledge of the Templars, though I thought the probabilities seemed to
be perfectly well respected. Nothing could _seem_ to be more true, than
Scott’s pictures. My guest then went into a long vindication of the
Templars, stating that Scott had done them gross injustice, and
concluding with an exaggerated compliment, in which it was attempted to
persuade me that I was the man to vindicate the truth, and to do justice
to a subject that was so peculiarly connected with liberal principles. I
disclaimed the ability to undertake such a task, at all; confessed that
I did not wish to disturb the images which Sir Walter Scott had left,
had I the ability; and declared I did not see the connection between his
accusation, admitting it to be true, and liberal principles. My visitor
soon after went away, and I saw no more of him for a week, when he came
again. On this occasion, he commenced by relating several _piquant_
anecdotes of the _Bourbons_ and their friends, gradually and ingeniously
leading the conversation, again, round to his favourite Templars. After
pushing me, for half an hour, on this point, always insisting on my
being the man to vindicate the order, and harping on its connection with
liberty, he took advantage of one of my often repeated protestations of
ignorance of the whole matter, suddenly to say—“well, then, _Monsieur,
go and see for yourself_, and you will soon be satisfied that my account
of the order is true.” “Go and see what?” “The Templars.” “There are no
longer any.” “They exist still.” “Where?” “Here, in Paris.” “This is new
to me; I do not understand it.” “The Templars exist; they possess
documents to prove how much Scott has misrepresented them, and—but, you
will remember that the actual government has so much jealousy, of
everything it does not control, that secrecy is necessary—and, to be
frank with you, M. ——, I am commissioned by the Grand Master, to invite
you to be present, at a secret meeting, this very week.”
Of course, I immediately conjectured that some of the political
agitators of the day had assumed this taking guise, in order to combine
their means, and carry out their plans.[17] The proposition was gotten
rid of, by my stating, in terms that could not be misunderstood, that I
was a traveller, and did not wish to meddle with any thing that required
secrecy, in a foreign government; that I certainly had my own political
notions, and if pushed, should not hesitate to avow them anywhere; that
the proper place for a writer to declare his sentiments, was in his
books, unless under circumstances which authorized him to act; that I
did not conceive foreigners were justifiable in going beyond this; that
I never had meddled with the affairs of foreign countries, and that I
never would; and that the fact of this society’s being secret, was
sufficient to deter me from visiting it. With this answer, my guest
departed, and he never came again.
Footnote 17:
Since the revolution of 1830, these Templars have made public, but
abortive efforts, to bring themselves into notice, by instituting some
ceremonies, in which they appeared openly in their robes.
Now, the first impression was, as I have told you, and I supposed my
visitor, although a man of fifty, was one of those who innocently lent
himself to these silly exaggerations; either as a dupe, or to dupe
others. I saw reason, however, to change this opinion.
At the time these visits occurred, I scarcely knew any one in Paris, and
was living in absolute retirement—being, as you know already, quite
without letters. About ten days after I saw the last of my
_littérateur_, I got a letter from a high functionary of the government,
sending me a set of valuable medals. The following day, these were
succeeded by his card, and an invitation to dinner. Soon after, another
person, notoriously connected with court intrigues, sought me out, and
overwhelmed me with civilities. In a conversation that shortly after
occurred between us, this person gave a pretty direct intimation, that
by pushing a little, a certain decoration that is usually conferred on
literary men, was to be had, if it were desired. I got rid of all these
things, in the straight-forward manner, that is the best for upsetting
intrigues; and having really nothing to conceal, I was shortly permitted
to take my own course.
I have now little doubt that the _littérateur_ was a _spy_, sent, either
to sound me on some point connected with La Fayette and the republicans,
or possibly to lead me into some difficulty, though I admit that this is
no more than conjecture. I give you the facts, which, at the time,
struck me as, at least, odd, and you may draw your own conclusions.
This, however, is but one of a dozen adventures, more or less similar,
that have occurred, and I think it well to mention it, by way of giving
you an insight into what sometimes happens here.[18]
Footnote 18:
A conversation, which took place _after_ the revolution of 1830, with
one of the parties named, leaves little doubt as to the truth of the
original conjecture.
My rule has been, whenever I am pushed on the subject of politics, to
deal honestly and sincerely with all with whom I am brought in contact,
and in no manner to leave the impression, that I think the popular form
of government an unavoidable evil, to which America is obliged to
submit. I do not shut my eyes to the defects of our own system, or to
the bad consequences that flow from it, and from it alone; but, the more
I see of other countries, the more I am persuaded, that, under
circumstances which admit but of a choice of evils, we are greatly the
gainers by having adopted it. Although I do not believe every other
nation is precisely fitted to imitate us, I think it is their misfortune
they are not so. If the inhabitants of other countries do not like to
hear such opinions, they should avoid the subject with Americans.
It is very much the custom here, whenever the example of America is
quoted in favour of the practicability of republican institutions, to
attribute our success to the fact of society’s being so simple, and the
people so virtuous. I presume I speak within bounds, when I say that I
have heard the latter argument urged a hundred times, during the last
eighteen months. One lady, in particular, who is exceedingly clever, but
who has a dread of all republics, on account of having lost a near
friend during the reign of terror, was especially in the practice of
resorting to this argument, whenever, in our frequent playful
discussions of the subject, I have succeeded in disturbing her
inferences, by citing American facts. “_Mais, Monsieur, l’Amérique est
si jeunes, et vous avez les vertues que nous manquons_,” &c., &c., has
always been thought a sufficient answer. Now, I happen to be one of
those who do not entertain such extravagant notions of the exclusive and
peculiar virtues of our own country. Nor, have I been so much struck
with the profound respect of the Europeans, in general, for those very
qualities that, nevertheless, are always quoted as the reason of the
success of what is called the “American experiment.” Quite the contrary:
I have found myself called on, more than once, to repel accusations
against our morality of a very serious nature; accusations that we do
_not_ deserve; and my impression certainly is, that the American people,
so far as they are at all the subjects of observation, enjoy any thing
but a good name, in Europe. Struck by this flagrant contradiction, I
determined to practice on my female friend, a little; a plan that was
successfully carried out, as follows.
Avoiding all allusion to politics, so as to throw her completely off her
guard, I took care to introduce such subjects, as should provoke
comparisons on other points, between France and America; or rather,
between the latter and Europe generally. As our discussions had a tinge
of philosophy, neither being very bigoted, and both preserving perfect
good humour, the plot succeeded admirably. After a little time, I took
occasion to fortify one of my arguments by a slight allusion to the
_peculiar virtues_ of the American people. She was too well-bred to
controvert this sort of reasoning at first, until, pushing the point,
little by little, she was so far provoked as to exclaim, “you lay great
stress on the exclusive virtues of your countrymen, Monsieur, but I have
yet to learn that they are so much better than the rest of the world!”
“I beg a thousand pardons, Madame, if I have been led into an
indiscretion on this delicate subject; but you must ascribe my error to
your own eloquence, which, contrary to my previous convictions, had
persuaded me into the belief that we have some peculiar unction of this
nature, that is unknown in Europe. I now begin to see the mistake, and
to understand _que nous autres Américains_, are to be considered
_virtuous_, only where there is question of the practicability of
maintaining a republican form of government, and, as great rogues on all
other occasions.” Madame de —— was wise enough, and good tempered
enough, to laugh at the artifice, and the allusion to “_nous autres
vertueux_,” has got to be a _mot d’ordre_ with us. The truth is, that
the question of politics is exclusively one of personal advantages, with
a vast majority of the people of Europe; one set selfishly struggling to
maintain their present superiority, while the other is as selfishly, and
in some respects as blindly, striving to overturn all that is
established, in order to be benefited by the scramble that will follow;
and religion, justice, philosophy, and practical good, are almost
equally remote from the motives of both parties.
From reflecting on such subjects, I have been led into a consideration
of the influence of political institutions on the more ordinary
relations of society. If the conclusions are generally in favour of
popular rights, and what is called freedom, there can be little question
that there are one or two weak spots, on our side of the question, that
it were better did they not exist. Let us, for the humour of the thing,
look a little into these points.
It is a common remark of all foreigners, that there is less social
freedom in America than in most other countries of Christendom. By
social freedom, I do not mean as relates to the mere forms of society,
for in these we are loose rather than rigid; but that one is less a
master of his own acts, his own mode of living, his own time, being more
rigidly amenable to public opinion, on all these points, than elsewhere.
The fact, I believe, out of all question, is true; at least it appears
to be true, so far as my knowledge of our own, and of other countries
extends. Admitting then the fact to be so, it is worth while to throw
away a moment in inquiring into the consequent good and evil of such a
state of things, as well as in looking for the causes. It is always a
great assistant in our study of others, to have some tolerable notions
of ourselves.
The control of public opinion has, beyond question, a salutary influence
on the moral _exterior_ of a country. The great indifference which the
French, and indeed the higher classes of most European countries,
manifest to the manner of living of the members of their different
circles, so long as certain appearances are respected, may do no
affirmative good to society, though at the same time it does less
positive harm than you may be disposed to imagine. But this is not the
point to which I now allude. Europeans maintain that, in things,
_innocent in themselves_, but which are closely connected with the
independence of action and tastes of men, the American is less his own
master than the inhabitant of this part of the world; and this is the
fact I, for one, feel it necessary to concede to them. There can be no
doubt that society meddles much more with the private affairs of
individuals, and affairs too, over which it properly has no control, in
America than in Europe. I will illustrate what I mean, by an example.
About twenty years since there lived in one of our shire-towns a family,
which, in its different branches, had numerous female descendants, then
all children. A member of this family, one day, went to a respectable
clergyman, his friend, and told him that he and his connections had so
many female children, whom it was time to think of educating, that they
had hit upon the plan of engaging some suitable instructress, with the
intention of educating their girls all together, both for economy’s sake
and for convenience, as well as that such near connections might be
brought up in a way to strengthen the family tie. The clergyman warmly
remonstrated against the scheme, assuring his friend, _that the
community would not bear it, and that it would infallibly make enemies_!
This was the feeling of a very sensible man, and of an experienced
divine, and I was myself the person making the application. This is
religiously true, and I have often thought of the circumstance since,
equally with astonishment and horror.
There are doubtless many parts of America, even, where such an
interference with the private arrangement of a family would not be
dreamt of; but there is a large portion of the country in which the
feeling described, by my clerical friend, does prevail. Most observers
would refer all this to democracy, but I do not. The interference would
not proceed from the humblest classes of society at all, but from those
nearer one’s own level. It would proceed from a determination to bring
all within the jurisdiction of a common opinion, or to be revenged on
delinquents, by envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. There is no
disposition in America, to let one live as he or she may happen to
please to live; the public choosing, though always in its proper circle,
to interfere, and say _how_ you must live. It is folly to call this by
terms as sounding as republicanism or democracy, which inculcate the
doctrine of as much personal freedom as at all comports with the public
good. He is, indeed, a most sneaking democrat, who finds it necessary to
consult a neighbourhood before he can indulge his innocent habits and
tastes. It is sheer _meddling_, and no casuistry can fitly give it any
other name.
A portion of this troublesome quality is owing, beyond question, to our
provincial habits, which are always the most exacting; but I think a
large portion, perhaps I ought to say the largest, is inherited from
those pious but exaggerated religionists who first peopled the country.
These sectaries extended the discipline of the church to all the
concerns of life. Nothing was too minute to escape their cognizance, and
a parish sat in judgment on the affairs of all who belonged to it. One
may easily live so long in the condition of society that such an origin
has entailed on us, as to be quite unconscious of its peculiarities, but
I think they can hardly escape one who has lived much beyond its
influence.
Here, perhaps, the fault is to be found in the opposite extreme, though
there are so many virtues consequent on independence of thought and
independence of habits, that I am not sure the good does not equal the
evil. There is no canting, and very little hypocrisy, in mere matters of
habits, in France; and this, at once, is abridging two of our own most
besetting vices. Still the French can hardly be called a very original
people. Convention ties them down mercilessly in a great many things.
They are less under the influence of mere fashion, in their intercourse,
it is true, than some of their neighbours, reason and taste exercising
more influence over such matters, in France, than almost any where else;
but they are mannerists in the fine arts, in their literature, and in
all their _feelings_, if one can use such an expression. The gross
exaggerations of the romantic school that is, just now, attracting so
much attention, are merely an effort to liberate themselves. But, after
allowing for the extreme ignorance of the substratum of society, which,
in France, although it forms so large a portion of the whole, should no
more be taken into the account in speaking of the national qualities,
than the slaves of Carolina should be included in an estimate of the
character of the Carolinians, there is, notwithstanding this mannerism,
a personal independence here, that certainly does not exist with us. The
American goes and comes when he pleases, and no one asks for a passport;
he has his political rights; talks of his liberty; swaggers of his
advantages, and yet does less as he pleases, even in innocent things,
than the Frenchman. His neighbours form a police, and a most troublesome
and impertinent one it sometimes proves to be. It is also unjust, for
having no legal means of arriving at facts, it half the time condemns on
conjecture.
The truth is, our institutions are the result of facts and accidents,
and, being necessarily an imitative people, there are often gross
inconsistencies between our professions and our practice; whereas the
French have had to struggle through their apprenticeship in political
rights, by the force of discussions and appeals to reason, and theory is
still too important to be entirely overlooked. Perhaps no people
understand the _true_ private characters of their public men so little
as the Americans, or any people so well as the French. I have never
known a distinguished American, in whom it did not appear to me that his
popular character was a false one; or a distinguished Frenchman whom the
public did not appear to estimate very nearly as he deserved to be. Even
Napoleon, necessary as he is to the national pride, and dazzling as is
all military renown, seems to me to be much more justly appreciated at
Paris, than any where else. The practice of meddling can lead to no
other result. They who wish to stand particularly fair before the
public, resort to deception, and I have heard a man of considerable
notoriety in America confess that he was so much afraid of popular
comments, that he always acted as if an enemy were looking over his
shoulder. With us, no one scruples to believe that he knows all about a
public man, even to the nicest traits of his character; all talk of him,
as none should talk but those who are in his intimacy, and, what between
hypocrisy on his part—an hypocrisy to which he is in some measure driven
by the officious interference with his most private interests—and
exaggerations and inventions, that ingenious tyrant, public opinion,
comes as near the truth as a fortune teller who is venturing his
prediction in behalf of a stranger.[19]
Footnote 19:
I can give no better illustration of the state of dependence to which
men are reduced in America, by this spirit of meddling, than by the
following anecdote. A friend was about to build a new town house, and
letting me know the situation, he asked my advice as to the mode of
construction. The inconveniences of an ordinary American town house
were pointed out to him,—its unfitness for the general state of
society, the climate, the other domestic arrangements, and its
ugliness. All were admitted, and the plan proposed in place of the old
style of building was liked, but still my friend hesitated about
adopting it. “It will be a genteeler and a better looking house than
the other.” “Agreed.” “It will be really more convenient.” “I think
so, too.” “It will be cheaper.” “Of that there is no question.” “Then
why not adopt it?” “To own the truth, I _dare not build differently
from my neighbours_!”
In France the right of the citizen to discuss all public matters is not
only allowed but _felt_. In America it is not _felt_, though it is
allowed. A homage must be paid to the public, by assuming the disguise
of acting as a public agent, in America; whereas, in France, individuals
address their countrymen, daily, under their own signatures. The
impersonality of _we_, and the character of public journalists, is
almost indispensable, with us, to impunity, although the mask can
deceive no one, the journalists notoriously making their prints
subservient to their private passions and private interests, and being
_impersonal_ only in the use of the imperial pronoun. The
_representative_, too, in America, is privileged to teach, in virtue of
his collective character, by the very men who hold the extreme and
untenable doctrine of instruction! It is the fashion to say in America,
_that the people will rule_; it would be nearer the truth, however, to
say, _the people will seem to rule_.
I think that these distinctions are facts, and they certainly lead to
odd reflections. We are so peculiarly situated as a nation, that one is
not to venture on conclusions too hastily. A great deal is to be imputed
to our provincial habits; much to the circumstance of the disproportion
between surface and population, which, by scattering the well-bred and
intelligent, a class at all times relatively small, serves greatly to
lessen their influence in imparting a tone to society; something to the
inquisitorial habits of our pious forefathers, who appear to have
thought that the charities were nought, and, in the very teeth of
revelation, that Heaven was to be stormed by impertinences; while a good
deal is to be conceded to the nature of a popular government whose
essential spirit is to create a predominant opinion, before which, right
or wrong, all must bow until its _cycle_ shall be completed. Thus it is,
that we are always, more or less, under one of two false influences, the
blow or its rebound; action that is seldom quite right, or reaction that
is always wrong; sinning heedlessly, or repenting to fanaticism. The
surest process in the world, of “riding on to fortune” in America, is to
get seated astride a lively “reaction,” which is rather more likely to
carry with it a unanimous sentiment, than even the error to which it
owes its birth.
As much of this weakness as is inseparable from humanity exists here,
but it exists under so many modifying circumstances, as, in this
particular, to render France as unlike America as well may be. Liberty
is not always pure philosophy nor strict justice, and yet, as a whole,
it is favourable to both. These are the spots on the political sun. To
the eye which seeks only the radiance and warmth of the orb, they are
lost, but he who studies it, with calmness and impartiality, sees them,
too plainly, to be in any doubt of their existence.
LETTER XI.
TO JAMES E. DE KAY, M. D.
Although we have not been without our metaphysical hallucinations in
America, I do not remember to have heard that “animal magnetism” was
ever in vogue among us. A people who are not very quick to feel the
poetry of sentiment, may well be supposed exempt from the delusions of a
doctrine which comprehends the very poetry of physics. Still, as the
subject is not without interest, and as chance has put me in the way of
personally inquiring into this fanciful system, I intend, in this
letter, to give you an account of what I have both heard and seen.
I shall premise by saying that I rank “animal magnetism” among the
“arts” rather than among the “sciences.” Of its theory I have no very
clear notion, nor do I believe that I am at all peculiar in my
ignorance; but until we can say what is that other “magnetism” to which
the world is indisputably so much indebted for its knowledge and
comforts, I do not know that we are to repudiate this, merely because we
do not understand it. Magnetism is an unseen and inexplicable influence,
and that is “metallic” while this is “animal;” _voilà tout_. On the
whole, it may be fairly mooted which most controls the world, the animal
or the metallic influence.
To deal gravely with a subject that, at least, baffles our
comprehension, there are certainly very extraordinary things related of
animal magnetism, and apparently on pretty good testimony. Take, for
instance, a single fact. _M. Jules Cloquet_ is one of the cleverest
practitioners of Paris, and is in extensive business. This gentleman
publicly makes the following statement. I write it from memory, but have
heard it and read it so often, that I do not think my account will
contain any essential error.
A woman, who was subject to the magnetic influence, or who was what is
commonly called a _somnambule_, had a cancer in the breast. M. ——, one
of the principal magnetisers of Paris, and from whom, among others, I
have had an account of the whole affair, was engaged to magnetise this
woman, while M. Cloquet operated on the diseased part. The patient was
put asleep, or rather into the magnetic trance, for it can scarcely be
called sleep, and the cancer was extracted, without the woman’s
_manifesting the least terror, or the slightest sense of pain_! To the
truth of the substance of this account, M. Cloquet, who does not pretend
to explain the reason, nor profess to belong, in any way, to the school,
simply testifies. He says that he had such a patient, and that she was
operated on, virtually, as I have told you. Such a statement, coming
from so high a source, induced the Academy, which is certainly not
altogether composed of magnetisers, but many of whose members are quite
animal enough to comprehend the matter, to refer the subject to a
special committee, which committee, I believe, was comprised of very
clever men. The substance of their report was pretty much what might
have been anticipated. They said that the subject was inexplicable, and
that “animal magnetism” could not be brought within the limits of any
known laws of nature. They might have said the same thing of the comets!
In both cases we have facts, with a few established consequences, but
are totally without elementary causes.
Animal magnetism is clearly one of three things: it is what it pretends
to be, an unexplained and as yet incomprehensible physical influence; it
is delusion; or it is absolute fraud.
A young countryman of ours, having made the acquaintance of M. C——,
professionally, and being full of the subject, I have so far listened to
his entreaties as to inquire personally into the facts, a step I might
not have otherwise been induced to take.
I shall now proceed to the history of my own experience in this
inexplicable mystery. We found M. C—— buried in the heart of Paris, in
one of those vast old hotels, which give to this town the air of
generations of houses, commencing with the quaint and noble of the
sixteenth century, and ending with the more fashionable pavilion of our
own times. His cabinet looked upon a small garden, a pleasant transition
from the animal within to the vegetable without. But one meets with
gardens, with their verdure and shrubbery and trees, in the most
unexpected manner, in this crowded town.
M. C—— received us politely, and we found with him one of his
_somnambules_, but as she had just come out of a trance, we were told
she could not be put asleep again that morning. Our first visit
therefore went no farther than some discourse on the subject of “animal
magnetism,” and a little practical by-play, that shall be related in its
place.
M. C—— did not attempt ascending to first principles, in his
explanations. Animal magnetism was animal magnetism—it was a fact, and
not a theory. Its effects were not to be doubted; they depended on
testimony of sufficient validity to dispose of any mere question of
authenticity. All that he attempted was hypothesis, which he invited us
to controvert. He might as well have desired me to demonstrate that the
sun is not a carbuncle. On the _modus operandi_, and the powers of his
art, the doctor was more explicit. There were a great many gradations in
quality in his _somnambules_, some being better and some worse; and
there was also a good deal of difference in the _intensity_ of the
_magnetisers_. It appears to be settled that the best _somnambules_ are
females, and the best _magnetisers_ males, though the law is not
absolute. I was flattered with being, by nature, a first rate
magnetiser, and the doctor had not the smallest doubt of his ability to
put me to sleep; an ability, so far as his theory went, I thought it was
likely enough he might possess, though I greatly questioned his physical
means.
I suppose it is _primâ facie_ evidence of credulity, to take the trouble
to inquire into the subject at all; at any rate, it was quite evident I
was set down as a good subject, from the moment of my appearance. Even
the _somnambule_ testified to this, though she would not then consent to
be put into a trance in order to give her opinion its mystical sanction.
The powers of a really good _somnambule_ are certainly of a very
respectable class. If a lock of hair be cut from the head of an invalid,
and sent a hundred leagues from the provinces, such a _somnambule_
properly magnetised, becomes gifted with the faculty to discover the
seat of the disease, however latent; and, by practice, she may even
prescribe the remedy, though this is usually done by a physician, like
M. C——, who is regularly graduated. The _somnambule_ is, properly, only
versed in pathology, any other skill she may discover being either a
consequence of this knowledge, or the effects of observation and
experience. The powers of a somnambule extend equally to the _morale_ as
well as to the _physique_. In this respect a phrenologist is a pure
quack in comparison with a lady in a trance. The latter has no
dependence on bumps and organs, but she looks right through you, at a
glance, and pronounces _ex cathedrâ_ whether you are a rogue, or an
honest man; a well disposed, or an evil disposed child of Adam. In this
particular, it is an invaluable science, and it is a thousand pities all
young women were not magnetised before they pronounce the fatal vows, as
not a few of them would probably wake up, and cheat the parson of his
fee. Our sex is difficult to be put asleep, and are so obstinate, that I
doubt if they would be satisfied with a shadowy glimpse of the temper
and dispositions of their mistresses.
You may possibly think I am trifling with you, and that I invent as I
write. On the contrary, I have not related one half of the miraculous
powers which being magnetised imparts to the thoroughly good
_somnambule_, as they were related to me by M. C——, and vouched for by
four or five of his patients who were present, as well as by my own
companion, a firm believer in the doctrine. M. C—— added that
_somnambules_ improve by practice, as well as _magnetisers_, and that he
has such command over one of his somnambules that he can put her to
sleep, by a simple effort of the will, although she may be in her own
apartment, in an adjoining street. He related the story of M. Cloquet
and the cancer, with great unction, and asked me what I thought of that?
Upon my word, I did not very well know what I did think of it, unless it
was to think it very queer. It appeared to me to be altogether
extraordinary, especially as I knew M. Cloquet to be a man of talents,
and believe him to be honest.
By this time I was nearly magnetised with second-hand facts; and I
became a little urgent for one or two that were visible to my own
senses. I was promised more testimony, and a sight of the process of
magnetising some water that a patient was to drink. This patient was
present; the very type of credulity. He listened to every thing that
fell from M. C—— with a _gusto_ and a faith that might have worked
miracles truly, had it been of the right sort, now and then turning his
good-humoured marvel-eating eyes on me, as much as to say, “what do you
think of that, now?” My companion told me, in English, he was a man of
good estate, and of proved philanthropy, who had no more doubt of the
efficacy of animal magnetism than I had of my being in the room. He had
brought with him two bottles of water, and these M. C—— _magnetised_, by
pointing his fingers at their orifices, rubbing their sides, and ringing
his hands about them, as if washing them, in order to disengage the
subtle fluid that was to impart to them their healing properties, for
the patient drank no other water.
Presently a young man came in, of a good countenance, and certainly of a
very respectable exterior. As the _somnambule_ had left us, and this
person could not consult her, which was his avowed intention in coming,
M. C—— proposed to let me see his own power as a magnetiser, in an
experiment on this patient. The young man consenting, the parties were
soon prepared. M. C—— began by telling me, that he would, _by a
transfusion of his will_, into the body of the patient, compel him to
sit still, although his own desire should be to rise. In order to
achieve this, he placed himself before the young man, and threw off the
fluid from his fingers’ ends, which he kept in a cluster, by constant
forward gestures of the arms. Sometimes he held the fingers pointed at
some particular part of the body, the heart in preference, though the
brain would have been more poetical. The young man certainly did not
rise; neither did I, nor any one else in the room. As this experiment
appeared so satisfactory to every body else, I was almost ashamed to
distrust it, easy as it really seemed to sit still, with a man
flourishing his fingers before one’s eyes.
I proposed that the doctor should see if he could pin me down, in this
invisible fashion, but this he frankly admitted he did not think he
could do _so soon_, though he foresaw I would become a firm believer in
the existence of animal magnetism, ere long, and a public supporter of
its wonders. In time, he did not doubt his power to work the same
miracle on me. He then varied the experiment, by making the young man
raise his arm _contrary_ to his wishes. The same process was repeated,
all the fluid being directed at the arm, which, after a severe trial,
was slowly raised, until it pointed forward like a finger-board. After
this, he was made to stand up, in spite of himself. This was the hardest
affair of all, the doctor throwing off the fluid in handsful; the
magnetized refusing for some time to budge an inch. At length he
suddenly stood up, and seemed to draw his breath like one who finally
yields after a strong trial of his physical force.
Nothing, certainly, is easier than for a young man to sit still and to
stand up, pretending that he strives internally to resist the desire to
do either. Still if you ask me, if I think this was simple collusion, I
hardly know what to answer. It is the easiest solution, and yet it did
not strike me as being the true one. I never saw less of the appearance
of deception than in the air of this young man; his face, deportment,
and acts being those of a person in sober earnest. He made no
professions, was extremely modest, and really seemed anxious not to have
the experiments tried. To my question, if he resisted the will of M.
C——, he answered, as much as he could, and said, that when he rose, he
did it because he could not help himself. I confess myself disposed to
believe in his sincerity and good faith.
I had somewhat of a reputation, when a boy, of effecting my objects, by
pure dint of teasing. Many is the shilling I have abstracted, in this
way, from my mother’s purse, who, constantly affirmed, that it was sore
against her will. Now, it seems to me, that M. C——, may, very easily,
have acquired so much command over a credulous youth, as to cause him to
do things of this nature, as he many fancy, against his own will. Signs
are the substitutes of words, which of themselves are purely
conventional, and, in his case, the flourishing of the fingers are
merely so many continued solicitations to get up. When the confirmation
of a theory that is already received, and which is doubly attractive by
its mysticisms, depends, in some measure, on the result, the experiment
becomes still less likely to fail. It is stripping me of all pretensions
to be a physiognomist, to believe that this young man was not honest;
and I prefer getting over the difficulty in this way. As to the operator
himself, he might, or might not be the dupe of his own powers. If the
former, I think it would, on the whole, render him the more likely to
succeed with his subject.
After a visit or two, I was considered sufficiently advanced to be
scientifically examined. One of the very best of the _somnambules_ was
employed on the occasion, and every thing being in readiness, she was
put to sleep. There was a faithshaking brevity in this process, which,
to say the least, if not fraudulent, was ill-judged. The doctor merely
pointed his fingers at her once or twice, looking her intently in the
eye, and the woman gaped; this success was followed up by a flourish or
two of the hand, and the woman slept; or was magnetised. Now this was
hardly sufficient even for my theory of the influence of the
imagination. One could have wished the _somnambule_ had not been so
drowsy. But there she was, with her eyes shut, giving an occasional,
hearty gape and the doctor declared her perfectly fit for service. She
retained her seat, however, moved her body, laughed, talked, and, in all
other respects, seemed to be precisely the woman she was before he
pointed his fingers at her. At first, I felt a disposition to manifest
that more parade was indispensable to humbugging me (who am not the
Pope, you will remember,) but reflection said, the wisest way was to
affect a little faith, as the surest means of securing more experiments.
Moreover, I am not certain, on the whole, that the simplicity of the
operation is not in favour of the sincerity of the parties, for, were
deception deliberately planned, it would be apt to call in the aid of
more mummery, and this, particularly, in a case in which there was
probably a stronger desire than usual to make a convert.
I gave the _somnambule_ my hand, and the examination was commenced,
forthwith. I was first physically inspected, and the report was highly
favourable to the condition of the animal. I had the satisfaction of
hearing from this high authority, that the whole machinery of the mere
material man was in perfect order, every thing working well and in its
proper place. This was a little contrary to my own experience, it is
true, but as I had no means of seeing the interior clockwork of my own
frame, like the _somnambule_, had I ventured to raise a doubt, it would
have been overturned by the evidence of one who had ocular proofs of
what she said, and should, beyond question, have incurred the ridicule
of being accounted a _malade imaginaire_.
Modesty must prevent my recording all that this obliging _somnambule_
testified to, on the subject of my _morale_. Her account of the matter
was highly satisfactory, and I must have been made of stone, not to
credit her and her mysticisms. M. C—— looked at me, again and again,
with an air of triumph, as much as to say, “what do you think of all
that now; are you not _really_ the noble, honest, virtuous,
disinterested, brave creature, she has described you to be?” I can
assure you, it required no little self-denial to abstain from becoming a
convert to the whole system. As it is very unusual to find a man with a
good head, who has not a secret inclination to believe in phrenology, so
does he, who is thus purified by the scrutiny of animal magnetism, feel
disposed to credit its mysterious influence. Certainly, I might have
gaped, in my turn, and commenced the moral and physical dissection of
the _somnambule_, whose hand I held, and no one could have given me the
lie, for nothing is easier than to speak _ex cathedrâ_, when one has a
monopoly of knowledge.
Encouraged by this flattering account of my own condition, I begged hard
for some more indisputable evidence of the truth of the theory. I
carried a stopwatch, and as I had taken an opportunity to push the stop
on entering the room, I was particularly desirous that the _somnambule_
should tell me the time indicated by its hands, a common test of their
powers I had been told; but to this M. C—— objected, referring every
thing of this tangible nature to future occasions. In fine, I could get
nothing during three or four visits, but pretty positive assertions,
expressions of wonder that I should affect to doubt what had been so
often and so triumphantly proved to others, accounts physical and moral,
like the one of which I had been the subject myself, and which did not
admit of either confirmation or refutation, and often repeated
declarations, that the time was not distant when, in my own unworthy
person, I was to become one of the most powerful magnetisers of the age.
All this did very well to amuse, but very little towards convincing; and
I was finally promised, that at my next visit, the _somnambule_ would be
prepared to show her powers, in a way that would not admit of cavil.
I went to the appointed meeting with a good deal of curiosity to learn
the issue, and a resolution not to be easily duped. When I presented
myself, (I believe it was the fourth visit,) M. C—— gave me a sealed
paper, that was not to be opened for several weeks, and which, he said,
contained the prediction of an event that was to occur to myself,
between the present time and the day set for the opening of the letter,
and which the _somnambule_ had been enabled to foresee, in consequence
of the interest she took in me and mine. With this sealed revelation,
then, I was obliged to depart, to await the allotted hour.
M. C—— had promised to be present at the opening of the seal, but he did
not appear. I dealt fairly by him, and the cover was first formally
removed, on the evening of the day endorsed on its back, as the one when
it would be permitted. The _somnambule_ had foretold that, in the
intervening time, one of my children would be seriously ill, that I
should magnetise it, and that the child would recover. Nothing of the
sort had occurred. No one of the family had been ill, I had not
attempted to magnetise any one, or even dreamed of it, and of course,
the whole prediction was a complete failure.
To do M. C—— justice, when he heard the result, he manifested surprise
rather than any less confident feeling. I was closely questioned, first,
as to whether neither of the family had not been ill, and secondly,
whether I had not felt a secret desire to magnetise any one of them. To
all these interrogatories, truth compelled me to give unqualified
negatives. I had hardly thought of the subject during the whole time. As
this interview took place at my own house, politeness compelled me to
pass the matter off as lightly as possible. There happened to be several
ladies present, however, the evening M. C—— called, and, thinking the
occasion a good one for him to try his powers on some one besides his
regular _somnambules_, I invited him to magnetise any one of the party
who might be disposed to submit to the process. To this he made no
difficulty, choosing an English female friend as the subject of the
experiment. The lady in question raised no objection, and the doctor
commenced with great zeal, and with every appearance of faith in his own
powers. No effect, however, was produced on this lady, or on one or two
more of the party, all of whom obstinately refused even to gape. M. C——
gave the matter up, and soon after took his leave, and thus closed my
personal connection with animal magnetism.
If you ask me for the conclusions I have drawn from these facts, I shall
be obliged to tell you, that I am in doubt how far the parties concerned
deceived others, and how far they deceived themselves. It is difficult
to discredit entirely all the testimony that has been adduced in behalf
of this power; and one is consequently obliged to refer all the
established facts to the influence of the imagination. Then testimony
itself is but a precarious thing, different eyes seeing the same objects
in very different lights.
Let us take ventriloquism as a parallel case to that of animal
magnetism. Ventriloquism is neither more nor less than imitation; and
yet, aided by the imagination, perhaps a majority of those who know any
thing about it, are inclined to believe there is really such a faculty
as that which is vulgarly attributed to ventriloquism. The whole art of
the ventriloquist consists in making such sounds as would be produced by
a person, or thing, that should be actually in the circumstances that he
wishes to represent. Let there be, for instance, five or six sitting
around a table, in a room with a single door; a ventriloquist among
them, wishes to mislead his companions, by making them believe that
another is applying for admission. All he has to do is to make a sound
similar to that which a person on the outside would make, in applying
for admission. “Open the door, and let me in,” uttered in such a manner,
would deceive any one who was not prepared for the experiment, simply
because men do not ordinarily make such sounds when sitting near each
other, because the words themselves would draw the attention to the
door, and because the sounds would be suited to the fictitious
application. If there were _two_ doors, the person first moving his head
towards one of them, would probably give a direction to the imaginations
of all the others; unless, indeed, the ventriloquist himself, by his
words, or his own movements, as is usually the case, should assume the
_initiative_. Every ventriloquist takes especial care to _direct_ the
imagination of his listener to the desired point, either by what he
says, by some gesture, or by some movement. Such, undeniably, is the
fact in regard to ventriloquism; for we know enough of the philosophy of
sound, to be certain it can be nothing else. One of the best
ventriloquists of this age, after affecting to resist this explanation
of his mystery, candidly admitted to me, on finding that I stuck to the
principles of reason, that all his art consisted of no more than a power
to control the imagination by imitation, supported occasionally by
acting. And, yet I once saw this man literally turn a whole family out
of doors, in a storm, by an exercise of his art. On that occasion, so
complete was the delusion, that the good people of the house actually
fancied sounds which came from the ventriloquist, came from a point
considerably beyond the place where they stood, and on the side
_opposite_ to that occupied by the speaker, although they stood at the
top of a flight of steps, and he stood at the bottom. All this time, the
sounds appeared to me to come from the place whence, by the laws of
sound, except in cases of reverberation, and of the influence of the
imagination, they only could appear to come; or, in other words, from
the mouth of the ventriloquist himself. Now, if the imagination can
effect so much, even in crowded assemblies, composed of people of all
degrees of credulity, intelligence, and strength of mind, and when all
are prepared, in part at least, for the delusion, what may it not be
expected to produce on minds peculiarly suited to yield to its
influence, and this, too, when the prodigy take the captivating form of
mysticism and miracles.
In the case of the patient of M. Cloquet, we are reduced to the
alternatives of denying the testimony, of believing that recourse was
had to drugs, of referring all to the force of the imagination, or of
admitting the truth of the doctrine of animal magnetism. The character
of M. Cloquet, and the motiveless folly of such a course, compel us to
reject the first; the second can hardly be believed, as the patient had
not the appearance of being drugged, and the possession of such a secret
would be almost as valuable as the art in question itself. The doctrine
of animal magnetism we cannot receive, on account of the want of
uniformity and exactitude in the experiments, and I think, we are fairly
driven to take refuge in the force of the imagination. Before doing
this, however, we ought to make considerable allowances for
exaggerations, colouring, and the different manner in which men are apt
to regard the same thing. My young American friend, who _did_ believe in
animal magnetism, viewed several of the facts I have related with eyes
more favourable than mine, although even he was compelled to allow that
M. C—— had much greater success with himself, than with your humble
servant!
LETTER XII.
TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQUIRE, COOPERSTOWN.
We entered France in July, 1826, and having remained in and about the
French capital, until February, 1828, we thought it time to change the
scene. Paris is effectually the centre of Europe, and a residence in it,
is the best training an American can have, previously to visiting the
other parts of that quarter of the world. Its civilization, usages, and
facilities, takes the edge off of our provincial admiration, removes
prejudices, and prepares the mind to receive new impressions, with more
discrimination and tact. I would advise all our travellers to make this
their first stage, and then to visit the north of Europe, before
crossing the Alps, or the Pyrenees. Most people, however, hurry into the
south, with a view to obtain the best as soon as possible, but it is
with this, as in most of our enjoyments, a too eager indulgence defeats
its own aim.
We had decided to visit London, where the season, _or winter_, would
soon commence. The necessary arrangements were made, and we sent round
our cards of p. p. c., and obtained passports. On the very day we were
to quit Paris, an American friend wrote me a note to say that a young
connexion of his was desirous of going to London, and begged a place for
her in my carriage. It is, I believe, a peculiar and a respectable
trait, in the national character, that we so seldom hesitate about
asking, or acceding to, favours of this sort. Whenever woman is
concerned, our own sex yield, and usually without murmuring. At all
events, it was so with W——, who cheerfully gave up his seat in the
carriage to Miss ——, in order to take one in the _coupé_ of the
_diligence_. The notice was so short, and the hour so late, that there
was no time to get a passport for him, and, as he was included in mine,
I was compelled to run the risk of sending him to the frontiers without
one. I was a consul at the time: a titular one, as to duties, but, in
reality as much of a consul, as if I had ever visited my consulate.[20]
The only official paper I possessed, in connection with the office, the
commission and _exequatur_ excepted, was a letter from the _Préfet_ of
the Rhone, acknowledging the receipt of the latter. As this was strictly
a French document, I gave it to W——, as proof of my identity,
accompanied by a brief statement of the reasons why he was without a
passport, begging the authorities, at Need, to let him pass as far as
the frontier, where I should be in season to prove his character. This
statement I signed as consul, instructing W—— to show it, if applied to
for a passport, and if the _gensd’armes_ disavowed me, to show the
letter, by way of proving who I was. The expedient was clumsy enough,
but it was the best that offered.
Footnote 20:
There being so strong a propensity to cavil at American facts, lest
this book might fall into European hands, it may be well to explain a
little. The consulate of the writer was given to him solely to avoid
the appearance of going over to the enemy, during his residence
abroad. The situation conferred neither honour nor profit, there being
no salary, and, in his case, not fees enough to meet the expense of
the office opened by a deputy. The writer suspects he was much too
true to the character and principles of his native country, to be
voluntarily selected by its government as the object of its honours or
rewards, and it is certain he never solicited either. There are
favours, it would seem, that are reserved, in America, for those who
most serve the interests of her enemies! A day of retribution will
come.
This arrangement settled, we got into the carriage and took our leave of
Paris. Before quitting the town, however, I drove round to the _rue
d’Anjou_, to take my leave of General La Fayette. This illustrious man
had been seriously ill, for some weeks, and I had many doubts of my ever
seeing him again. He did not conceive himself to be in any danger,
however, but spoke of his speedy recovery as a matter of course, and
made an engagement with me for the ensuing summer. I bade him adieu,
with a melancholy apprehension that I should never see him again.
We drove through the gates of Paris, amid the dreariness of a winter’s
evening. You are to understand that every body quits London and Paris
just as night sets in. I cannot tell you whether this is caprice, or
whether it is a usage that has arisen from a wish to have the day in
town, and a desire to relieve the monotony of roads so often travelled,
by sleep; but so it is. We did not fall into the fashion, simply because
it is a fashion, but the days are so short in February, in these high
latitudes, that we could not make our preparations earlier.
I have little agreeable to say concerning the first forty miles of the
journey. It rained, and the roads were, as usual, slippery with mud, and
full of holes. The old _pavés_ are beginning to give way, however, and
we actually got a bit of _terre_ within six posts of Paris. This may be
considered a triumph of modern civilization; for, whatever may be said
and sung in favour of Appian ways and Roman magnificence, a more cruel
invention for travellers and carriage wheels, than these _pavés_, was
never invented. A real Paris winter’s day is the most uncomfortable of
all weather. If you walk, no device of leather will prevent the moisture
from penetrating to your heart; if you ride, it is but an affair of mud
and _gras de Paris_. We enjoyed all this until nine at night, by which
time we had got enough of it, and in Beauvais, instead of giving the
order _à la poste_, the postilion was told to go to an inn. A warm
supper and good beds put us all in good humour, again.
In putting into the mouth of Falstaff, the words “shall I not take mine
ease, in mine inn,” Shakspeare may have meant no more than the drowsy
indolence of a glutton, but they recur to me with peculiar satisfaction,
whenever I get unbooted and with a full stomach, before the warm fire of
a hotel, after a fatiguing and chilling day’s work. If any man doubt
whether Providence has not dealt justly by all of us, in rendering our
enjoyments dependent on comparative rather than on positive benefits,
let him travel through a dreary day, and take his comfort at night, in a
house where every thing is far below his usual habits, and learn to
appreciate the truth. The sweetest sleep I have ever had, has been
caught on deck, in the middle watch, under a wet pee-jacket, and with a
coil of rope for a pillow.
Our next day’s work carried us as far as Abbeville, in Picardy. Here we
had a capital supper of game, in a room that set us all shivering with
good honest cold. The beds, as usual, were excellent. The country
throughout all this part of France is tame and monotonous, with wide
reaches of grainlands, that are now brown and dreary, here and there a
wood, and the usual villages of dirty stone houses. We passed a few
hamlets, however, that were more than commonly rustic and picturesque,
and in which the dwellings seemed to be of mud, and were thatched. As
they were mostly very irregular in form, the street winding through them
quite prettily, they would have been good in their way, had there been
any of the simple expedients of taste to relieve their poverty. But the
French peasants of this province appear to think of little else but
their wants. There was occasionally a venerable and generous old vine,
clinging about the door, however, to raise some faint impressions of
happiness.
We passed through, or near, the field of Cressy. By the aid of the
books, we fancied we could trace the positions of the two armies, but it
was little more than very vague conjecture. There was a mead, a breadth
of field well adapted to cavalry, and a wood. The river is a mere brook,
and could have offered but little protection, or resistance to the
passage of any species of troops. I saw no village, and we may not have
been within a mile of the real field, after all. Quite likely no one
knows where it is. It is very natural that the precise sites of great
events should be lost, though our own history is so fresh and full, that
to us it is apt to appear extraordinary. In a conversation with a
gentleman of the Stanley family, lately, I asked him if Latham-house, so
celebrated for its siege in the civil wars, was still in the possession
of its ancient proprietors. I was told it no longer existed, and that,
until quite recently, its positive site was a disputed point, and one
which had only been settled by the discovery of a hole in a rock, in
which shot had been cast during the siege, and which hole was known to
have formerly been in a court. It is no wonder that doubts exist as to
the identity of Homer, or the position of Troy.
We have anglicized the word Cressy, which the French term _Crécy_, or,
to give it a true Picard orthography, _Créci_. Most of the names that
have this termination are said to be derived from this province. Many of
them have become English, and have undergone several changes in the
spelling. Tracy, or Tracey; de Courcy, or de Courcey; Montmorency, and
Lacy or Lacey, were once _Traci_, _Courci_, _Montmorenci_ and
_Laci_.[21] The French get over the disgrace of their ancient defeats,
very ingeniously, by asserting that the English armies of old were
principally composed of Norman soldiers, and that the chivalrous
nobility which performed such wonders were of purely Norman blood. The
latter was probably more true than the former.
Footnote 21:
The celebrated Sir William Draper was once present when the subject
turned on the descent of families, and the changes that names
underwent. “Now my own is a proof of what I say,” he continued, with
the intention to put an end to a discourse that was getting to savour
of family pride—“my family being directly derived from King Pepin.”
“How do you make that out, Sir William?” “By self evident
orthographical testimony—as you may see—Pepin, Pipkin, Napkin, Diaper,
Draper.”
As we drew nearer to the coast, the country became more varied.
Montreuil and Saumer are both fortified, and one of these places,
standing on an abrupt, rocky eminence, is quite picturesque and quaint.
But we did not stop to look at any thing very minutely, pushing forward,
as fast as three horses could draw us, for the end of our journey. A
league or two from Boulogne, we were met by a half dozen mounted runners
from the different inns, each inviting us to give our custom to his
particular employer. These fellows reminded me of the wheatrunners on
the hill at Albany, though they were as much more clamorous and earnest,
as a noisy protestation-making Frenchman is more obtrusive than a
shrewd, quiet calculating Yankee. We did not stop in Boulogne, to try
how true were the voluble representations of these gentry, but, changing
horses at the post, went our way. The town seemed full of English, and
we gazed about us, with some curiosity, at a place that has become so
celebrated by the great demonstration of Napoleon. There is a high
monument standing at no great distance from the town, to commemorate one
of his military parades. The port is small and crowded, like most of the
harbours on both sides of the channel.
We had rain, and chills and darkness, for the three or four posts that
succeeded. The country grew more and more tame, until after crossing an
extensive plain of moist meadow land, we passed through the gate of
Calais. I know no place that will give you a more accurate notion of
this celebrated port than Powles Hook. It is, however, necessary to
enlarge the scale greatly, for Calais is a town of some size, and the
hommock on which it stands, and the low land by which it is environed,
are much more considerable in extent than the spot just named.
We drove to the inn that Sterne has immortalized, or, one at least that
bears the same name, and found English comfort united with French
cookery and French taste. After all, I do not know why I may not say
French comforts, too; for in many respects they surpass their island
neighbours even in this feature of domestic comfort. It is a comfort to
have a napkin even when eating a muffin; to see one’s self entire in a
mirror, instead of _edging_ the form into it, or out of it, sideways; to
drink good coffee; to eat good _côtelettes_, and to be able to wear the
same linen for a day, without having it soiled. The Bible says, “comfort
me with flaggons or apples,” I really forget which,—and if either of
these is to be taken as authority, a _côtelette_ may surely be admitted
into the _carte de conforts_.
We found Calais a clean town, and possessing a certain medium aspect,
that was as much English as French. The position is strong, though I was
not much struck with the strength of the works. England has no motive to
wish to possess it, now that conquest on the continent is neither
expedient nor possible. The port is good for nothing, in a warlike
sense, except to protect a privateer or two; though the use of steam
will probably make it of more importance in any future war, than it has
been for the last two centuries.
We found W—— safely arrived. At one of the frontier towns he had been
asked for his passport, and, in his fright, he gave the letter of the
Prefet of the Rhone, instead of the explanation I had so cleverly
devised. This letter commenced with the words “_Monsieur le Consul_” in
large letters, and occupying, according to French etiquette, nearly half
of the first page. The _gensdarme_, a _vieux moustache_, held his
lantern up to read it, and seeing this ominous title, it would seem that
Napoleon and Marengo, and all the glories of the Consulate arose in his
imagination. He got no further than those three words, which he
pronounced aloud, and, then folding the letter, he returned it with a
profound bow, asking no further questions. As the _diligence_ drove on,
W—— heard him say—“_apparemment vous avez un homme tres considérable, là
dedans, Monsieur le Conducteur_.” So much for our fears, for passports,
and for _gensd’armes_!
We went to bed, with the intention of embarking for England in the
morning.
END OF VOL. II.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD
Have lately published new editions of the following works
by Mr. COOPER:
THE SPY: a Tale of the Neutral Ground.
THE PIONEERS, or the Sources of the Susquehanna: a descriptive Tale.
THE PILOT: a Tale of the Sea.
LIONEL LINCOLN; or the Leaguer of Boston.
THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS: a Narrative of 1757.
THE PRAIRIE: a Tale.
THE RED ROVER: a Tale.
THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH: a Tale.
THE WATER WITCH: or the Skimmer of the Seas.
THE BRAVO: a Tale.
NOTIONS OF THE AMERICANS: Picked up by a Travelling Bachelor.
THE HEIDENMAUER; or the Benedictines. A Legend of the Rhine.
THE HEADSMAN; or the Abbaye des Vignerons: a Tale.
THE MONIKINS: Edited by the Author of “The Spy.”
PRECAUTION: a Novel, revised and corrected.
CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD
HAVE LATELY PUBLISHED
SKETCHES OF SWITZERLAND. By J. FENNIMORE COOPER, Author of “The Spy,”
&c. &c. in 2 vols. 12mo.
A RESIDENCE IN FRANCE, with an Excursion up the Rhine, and a Second
Visit to Switzerland. By the same Author. In 2 vols. 12mo.
“As we take up the pen to note down our impressions of these volumes,
we feel as though we had just returned from an excursion in
Switzerland, with a companion full to overflowing with an intense love
of nature, and an exquisite taste for the picturesque. We cannot give
our thanks and praise a more cordial emphasis—but if we could, we
would; for so much pleasure are we indebted to Mr. Cooper. After the
dull flats and dreary wastes of reading, of which there is abundance
in all seasons, how “refreshing” (the word is unavoidable) to ascend
with such a guide into the mountainous regions of literature. To those
who are at all acquainted with the bold and vivid style of Mr.
Cooper’s descriptions of natural marvels and magnificence—and to whom
are his original powers of imagery and expression unknown?—we need
only say, that these powers have been unsparingly employed in the
present volumes. It is only necessary to remind the reader of what Mr.
Cooper can do, when his enthusiasm is kindled, to bid him recollect
that the scene of the author’s excursions is Switzerland. Upon such a
subject as the scenery of Switzerland, how could Mr. Cooper fail to
write with infinite freshness, grace, energy, and poetic ardour. Many
of the letters moreover (for the work is in that form) have the
advantage of being written under the immediate feelings excited by a
first, unfading view of the beauties and wonders described. In short,
this is just the work for every body to read and every body to relish.
Mr. Cooper has attempted, in these letters, little beyond descriptions
of external nature. Switzerland, as he remarks, enjoying probably the
sublimest as well as the most diversified beauties of this sort that
exist on the globe, would seem to have a claim to be treated sui
generis. Man, says the writer, appears almost to sink to a secondary
rank in such a country. We feel all the force of this remark, and are
quite content that Mr. Cooper should have confined the range of his
genius to the higher ground. He has found room and reward there, much
as it had been described before.”—_Court Journal._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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