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Title: Gleanings in Europe
France, vol. 1 of 2
Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Release date: November 23, 2025 [eBook #77304]
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. I.
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.
PREFACE.
It may seem to be late in the day, to give an account of the more
ordinary characteristics of Europe. But the mass of all nations can form
their opinions of others through the medium of testimony only; and as no
two travellers see precisely the same things, or, when seen, view them
with precisely the same eyes, this is a species of writing, after all,
that is not likely to pall, or cease to be useful. The changes, that are
constantly going on every where, call for as constant repetitions of the
descriptions; and although the pictures may not always be drawn and
coloured equally well, so long as they are taken in good faith, they
will not be without their value.
It is not a very difficult task to make what is commonly called an
amusing book of travels. Any one who will tell, with a reasonable degree
of graphic effect, what he has seen, will not fail to carry the reader
with him; for the interest we all feel in personal adventure is, of
itself, almost success. But it is much more difficult to give an honest
and a discriminating summary of what one has seen. The mind so naturally
turns to exceptions, that an observer has great need of self-distrust,
of the powers of analysis, and, most of all, of a knowledge of the
world, to be what the lawyers call a safe witness.
I have no excuse of haste, or of a want of time, to offer for the
defects of these volumes. All I ask is that they may be viewed as no
more than they profess to be. They are the _gleanings_ of _a harvest
already gathered_, thrown together in a desultory manner and, without
the slightest, or at least a very small, pretension to any of those
arithmetical and statistical accounts, that properly belong to works of
a graver character. They contain the passing remarks of one who has
certainly seen something of the world, whether it has been to his
advantage or not, who had reasonably good opportunities to examine what
he saw, and who is not conscious of being, in the slightest degree,
influenced “by fear, favour, or the hope of reward.” His _compte rendu_
must pass for what it is worth.
FRANCE.
LETTER I.
TO CAPTAIN SHUBRICK, U. S. N.
MY DEAR SHUBRICK—
“Passengers by the Liverpool, London and Havre packets, are informed
that a steam-boat will leave the White Hall wharf precisely at 11, A. M.
to-morrow, June 1st.” If to this notice be added the year, 1826, you
have the very hour and place of our embarkation. We were nominally of
the London party, it being our intention, however, to land at Cowes,
from which place we proposed crossing the channel to Havre. The reason
for making this variation from the direct route was the superior comfort
of the London ship; that of the French line for the 1st June, though a
good vessel and well commanded, being actually the least commodious
packet that plied between the two hemispheres.
We were punctual to the hour, and found one of the smaller steamers
crowded with those who, like ourselves, were bound to the “old world,”
and the friends who had come to take the last look at them. We had our
leave-takings too, which are sufficiently painful when it is known that
years must intervene before there is another meeting. As is always done
by good Manhattenese, the town house had been given up on the first of
May, since which time, we had resided at a hotel. The furniture had been
principally sold at auction, and the entire month had passed in what I
believed to be very ample preparations. It may be questioned if there is
any such thing as being completely prepared for so material a change; at
all events, we found a dozen essentials neglected at the last moment,
and as many oversights to be repaired in the same instant.
On quitting the hotel, some fifty or a hundred volumes and pamphlets lay
on the floor of my bed-room. Luckily you were to sail on a cruise, in a
day or two, and as you promised not only to give them a berth, but to
read them one and all, they were transferred forthwith to the Lexington.
They were a dear gift, if you kept your word! John was sent with a note,
with orders to be at the wharf in half an hour. I have not seen him
since. Then Abigail was to be discharged. We had long debated whether
this excellent woman should, or should not, be taken. She was an
American, and, like most of her country-women, who will consent to serve
in a household, a most valuable domestic. She wished much to go, but, on
the other side, was the conviction that a woman who had never been at
sea, would be useless during the passage, and then we were told so many
fine things of the European servants, that the odds were unfortunately
against her. The principal objection, however, was her forms of speech.
Foreign servants would of themselves be a great aid in acquiring the
different languages, and poor Abigail, at the best, spoke that least
desirable of all corruptions of the English tongue, the country dialect
of New England. Her New England morals and New England sense, in this
instance, were put in the balance against her “bens,” “_an_-gels,”
“doozes,” “nawthings,” “noans,” and even her “virtooes,” (in a family of
children, no immaterial considerations,) and the latter prevailed. We
had occasion to regret this decision. A few years later, I met in
Florence, an Italian family of high rank, which had brought with them
from Philadelphia, two female domestics, whom they prized above all the
other servants of a large establishment. Italy was not good enough for
them, however, and after resisting a great deal of persuasion, they were
sent back. What was Florence or Rome to Philadelphia! But then these
people spoke good English, better, perhaps, than common English nursery
maids, the greatest of their abuses in orthoepy, being merely to teach a
child to call its mother a “mare.”
It was a flat calm, and the packets were all dropping down the bay with
the ebb. The day was lovely, and the view of the harbour, which _has_ so
many, while it _wants_ so many of the elements of first rate scenery,
was rarely finer. All estuaries are most beautiful, viewed in the calm;
but this is peculiarly true of the Bay of New York—neither the colour of
the water, nor its depth, nor the height of the surrounding land being
favourable to the grander efforts of nature. There is little that is
sublime in either the Hudson, or its mouth, but there is the very
extreme of landscape beauty.
Experience will teach every one, that without returning to scenes that
have made early impressions, after long absences, and many occasions to
examine similar objects elsewhere, our means of comparison are of no
great value. My acquaintance with the Hudson has been long and very
intimate; for to say that I have gone up and down its waters a hundred
times, would be literally much within the truth. During that journey,
whose observations and events are about to fill these volumes, I
retained a lively impression of its scenery, and, on returning to the
country, its current was ascended with a little apprehension, that an
eye which had got to be practised in the lights and shades of the Alps
and Appenines, might prove too fastidious for our own river. What is
usually termed the grandeur of the Highlands was certainly much
impaired; but other parts of the scenery gained in proportion, and, on
the whole, I found the passage between New York and Albany to be even
finer than it had been painted by memory. I should think, there can be
little doubt that, if not positively the most beautiful river, the
Hudson possesses some of the most beautiful river scenery, of the known
world.
Our ship was named after this noble stream. We got on board of her, off
Bedlow’s, and dropped quietly down as far as the quarantine ground,
before we were met by the flood. Here we came to, to wait for a wind,
more passengers, and that important personage, whom man-of-war’s men
term the master, and landsmen the captain. In the course of the
afternoon, we had all assembled, and began to reconnoitre each other,
and to attend to our comforts.
To get accustomed to the smell of the ship, with its confined air, and
especially to get all their little comforts about them in smooth water,
is a good beginning for your novices. If to this be added, moderation in
food, and especially in drink; as much exercise as one can obtain;
refraining from reading and writing until accustomed to one’s situation,
and paying great attention to the use of aperients, I believe all is
said, that an old traveller and an old sailor, too, can communicate on a
subject so important to those who are unaccustomed to the sea. Can your
experience suggest any thing more?
We lay that night at the quarantine ground; but early on the morning of
the 2nd, all hands were called to heave-up. The wind came in puffs over
the heights of Staten, and there was every prospect of our being able to
get to sea, in two or three hours. We hove short, and sheeted home and
hoisted the three topsails; but the anchor hung, and the people were
ordered to get their breakfasts, leaving the ship to tug at her ground
tackle with a view to loosen her hold of the bottom.
Every thing was now in motion. The little Don Quixote, the Havre ship
just mentioned, was laying through the narrows, with a fresh breeze from
the south-west. The Liverpool ship was out of sight, and six or seven
sail were turning down with the ebb, under every stitch of canvass that
would draw. One fine vessel tacked directly on our quarter. As she
passed quite near our stern, some one cried from her deck—“A good run to
you, Mr. ——.” After thanking this well-wisher, I inquired his name. He
gave me that of an Englishman who resided in Cuba, whither he was bound.
“How long do you mean to be absent?” “Five years.” “You will never come
back.” With this raven-like prediction we parted; the wind sweeping his
vessel beyond the reach of the voice.
These words, “you will never come back!” were literally the last that I
heard on quitting my country. They were uttered in a prophetic tone, and
under circumstances that were of a nature to produce an impression. I
thought of them often, when standing on the western verge of Europe, and
following the course of the sun toward the land in which I was born; I
remembered them from the peaks of the Alps, when the subtle mind,
outstripping the senses, would make its mysterious flight westward
across seas and oceans, to recur to the past, and to conjecture the
future; and when the allotted five years were up, and found us still
wanderers, I really began to think, what probably every man thinks, in
some moment of weakness, that this call from the passing ship, was meant
to prepare me for the future. The result proved in my case, however, as
it has probably proved in those of most men, that Providence did not
consider me of sufficient importance to give me audible information of
what was about to happen. So strong was this impression to the last,
notwithstanding, that on our return, when the vessel passed the spot
where the evil-omened prediction was uttered, I caught myself muttering
involuntarily, “—— is a false prophet; I _have_ come back!”
We got our anchor as soon as the people were ready, and, the wind
drawing fresh through the narrows, were not long turning into lower bay.
The ship was deep, and had not a sufficient spread of canvass for a
summer passage, but she was well commanded, and exceedingly comfortable.
The wind became light in the lower bay. The Liverpool ship had got to
sea the evening before, and the Don Quixote was passing the Hook, just
as we opened the mouth of the Raritan. A light English bark was making a
fair wind of it, by laying out across the swash, and it now became
questionable whether the ebb would last long enough to sweep us round
the south-west spit, a _détour_ that our heavier draught rendered
necessary.
By paying great attention to the ship, however, the pilot, who was of
the dilatory school, succeeded, about 3 P.M. in getting us round that
awkward but very necessary buoy, which makes so many foul winds of fair
ones, when the ship’s head was laid to the eastward, with square yards.
In half an hour the vessel had ‘slapped’ past the low sandy spit of
land, that you have so often regarded with philosophical eyes, and we
fairly entered the Atlantic, at a point where nothing but water lay
between us and the rock of Lisbon. We discharged the pilot on the bar.
By this time the wind had entirely left us, the flood was making strong,
and there was a prospect of our being compelled to anchor. The bark was
nearly hull down in the offing, and the top-gallant-sails of the Don
Quixote were just settling into the water. All this was very provoking,
for there might be a good breeze to seaward, while we had it calm
in-shore. The suspense was short, for a fresh-looking line along the sea
to the southward, gave notice of the approach of wind, the yards were
braced forward, and in half an hour we were standing east southerly,
with strong head-way. About sunset we passed the light-vessel which then
lay moored several leagues from land, in the open ocean, an experiment
that has since failed. The highlands of Navesink disappeared with the
day.
The other passengers were driven below, before evening. The first mate,
a straight-forward Kennebunk-man, gave me a wink, (he had detected my
sea education by a single expression, that of “send it an end,” while
mounting the side of the ship,) and said, “a clear quarter-deck! a good
time to take a walk, sir.” I had it all to myself, sure enough, for the
first two or three days, after which our land-birds came crawling up,
one by one; but, long before the end of the passage, nothing short of a
double-reefed-top-sail breeze, could send the greater part of them
below. There was one man, however, who, the mate affirmed, wore the heel
of a spare top-mast smooth, by seating himself on it, as the precise
spot where the motion of the ship excited the least nausea. I got into
my berth at nine, but hearing a movement over head, about midnight, I
turned out again, with a sense of uneasiness I had rarely before
experienced at sea. The responsibility of a large family, acted, in some
measure, like the responsibility of command. The captain was at his
post, shortening sail, for it blew fresher; there was some rain; and
thunder and lightning were at work in the heavens; in the direction of
the adjacent continent; the air was full of wild, unnatural lucidity, as
if the frequent flashes left a sort of twilight behind them; and objects
were discernible at a distance of two or three leagues. We had been busy
in the first watch, as the omens denoted easterly weather; the English
bark was struggling along the troubled waters, already quite a league on
our lee-quarter.
I remained on deck half an hour, watching the movements of the master.
He was a mild, reasoning, Connecticut man, whose manner of ministering
to the wants of the female passengers, had given me already a good
opinion of his kindness and forethought, while it left some doubts of
his ability to manage the rude elements of drunkenness and
insubordination which existed among the crew, quite one half of whom
were Europeans. He was now on deck in a south-wester,[1] giving his
orders in a way effectually to shake all that was left of the “horrors”
out of the ship’s company. I went below, satisfied that we were in good
hands, and before the end of the passage, I was at a loss to say whether
nature had most fitted this truly worthy man to be a ship-master, or a
child’s-nurse, for he really appeared to me to be equally skilful in
both capacities.
Footnote 1:
Doric—_sow_-wester.
Such a temperament is admirably suited to the command of a packet, a
station in which so many different dispositions, habits, and prejudices
are to be soothed, at the same time that a proper regard is to be had to
the safety of their persons. If any proof is wanting, that the
characters of seamen in general, have been formed under adverse
circumstances, and without sufficient attention, or, indeed, any
attention to their real interests, it is afforded in the fact, that the
officers of the packet-ships, men usually trained like other mariners,
so easily adapt their habits to their new situation, and become more
mild, reflecting, and humane. It is very rare to hear a complaint
against an officer of one of these vessels; yet it is not easy to
appreciate the embarrassments they have frequently to encounter from
whimsical, irritable, ignorant, and exacting passengers. As a rule, the
eastern men of this country, make the best packet-officers. They are
less accustomed to sail with foreigners than those who have been trained
in the other ports, but acquire habits of thought and justice, by
commanding their countrymen; for, of all the seamen of the known world,
I take it the most subordinate, the least troublesome, and the easiest
to govern, so long as he is not oppressed, is the native American. This,
indeed, is true, both ashore and afloat, for very obvious reasons: they
who are accustomed to reason themselves, being the most likely to submit
to reasonable regulations; and they who are habituated to plenty are the
least likely to be injured by prosperity, which causes quite as much
trouble in this world as adversity. It is this prosperity, too suddenly
acquired, which spoils most of the labouring Europeans who emigrate,
while they seldom acquire the real, frank, independence of feeling which
characterizes the natives. They adopt an insolent and rude manner as its
substitute, mistaking the shadow for the substance. This opinion of the
American seamen is precisely the converse of what is generally believed
in Europe, however, and more particularly in England; for, following out
the one-sided political theories, in which they have been nurtured,
disorganization, in the minds of the inhabitants of the old world, is
inseparable from popular institutions.
The early part of the season of 1826, was remarkable for the quantities
of ice that had drifted from the north into the track of European and
American ships. The Crisis, a London packet, had been missing nearly
three months, when we sailed. She was known to have been full of
passengers, and the worst fears were felt for her safety; ten years have
since elapsed, and no vestige of this unhappy ship has ever been found!
Our master prudently decided that safety was of much more importance
than speed, and he kept the Hudson well to the southward. Instead of
crossing the banks, we were as low as 40°, when in their meridian; and
although we had some of the usual signs, in distant piles of fog, and
exceedingly chilly and disagreeable weather, for a day or two, we saw no
ice. About the fifteenth, the wind got round to the southward and
eastward, and we began to fall-off more than we wished even, to the
northward.
All the charts for the last fifty years, have three rocks laid down, to
the westward of Ireland, which are known as the “Three Chimneys.” Most
American mariners have little faith in their existence, and yet, I
fancy, no seaman draws near the spot where they are said to be, without
keeping a good look-out for the danger. The master of the Hudson, once
carried a lieutenant of the English navy, as a passenger, who assured
him that he had actually seen these “Three Chimneys.” He may have been
mistaken, and he may not. Our course lay far to the southward of them,
but the wind gradually hauled ahead, in such a way as to bring us as
near as might be to the very spot where they ought to appear, if
properly laid down. The look-outs of a merchant ship are of no great
value, except in serious cases, and I passed nearly a whole night on
deck, quite as much incited by my precious charge, as by curiosity, in
order to ascertain all that eyes could ascertain, under the
circumstances. No signs of these rocks, however, were seen from the
Hudson.
It is surprising in the present state of commerce, and with the vast
interests which are at stake, that any facts affecting the ordinary
navigation between the two hemispheres, should be left in doubt. There
is a shoal, and I believe a reef, laid down near the tail of the Great
Bank, whose existence is still uncertain. Seamen respect this danger
more than that of the “Three Chimneys,” for it lies very much in the
track of ships between Liverpool and New York; still, while tacking, or
giving it a berth, they do not know whether they are not losing a wind
for a groundless apprehension! Our own government would do well to
employ a light cruiser, or two, in ascertaining just these facts (many
more might be added to the list,) during the summer months. Our own
brief naval history is pregnant with instances of the calamities that
befall ships. No man can say when, or how, the Insurgente, the
Pickering, the Wasp, the Epervier, the Lynx, and the Hornet,
disappeared. We know that they are gone, and of all the brave spirits
they held, not one has been left to relate the histories of the
different disasters. We have some plausible conjectures, concerning the
manner in which the two latter were wrecked; but an impenetrable mystery
conceals the fate of the four others. They may have run on unknown
reefs. These reefs may be constantly heaving up from the depths of the
ocean, by subterranean efforts; for a marine rock is merely the summit
of a sub-marine mountain.[2]
Footnote 2:
There is a touching incident connected with the fortunes of two young
officers of the navy, that is not generally known. When the Essex
frigate was captured in the Pacific, by the Phœbe and Cherub, two of
the officers of the former were left in the ship, in order to make
certain affidavits that were necessary to the condemnation. The
remainder were paroled and returned to America. After a considerable
interval, some uneasiness was felt at the protracted absence of those
who had been left in the Essex. On inquiry, it was found, that, after
accompanying the ship to Rio Janeiro, they had been exchanged,
according to agreement, and suffered to go where they pleased. After
some delay, they took passage in a Swedish brig bound to Norway, as
the only means which offered to get to Europe, whence they intended to
return home. About this time, great interest was also felt for the
sloop Wasp. She had sailed for the mouth of the British channel, where
she fell-in with, and took the Reindeer, carrying her prisoners into
France. Shortly after, she had an action with, and took the Avon, but
was compelled to abandon her prize by others of the enemies’ cruisers,
one of which (the Castillian,) actually came up with her and gave her
a broadside. About twenty days after the latter action, she took a
merchant brig, near the Western Islands, and sent her into
Philadelphia. This was the last that had been heard of her. Months and
even years went by, and no farther intelligence was obtained. All this
time, too, the gentlemen of the Essex were missing. Government ordered
inquiries to be made in Sweden, for the master of the brig in which
they had embarked. He was absent on a long voyage, and a weary period
elapsed before he could be found. When this did happen he was required
to give an account of his passengers. By producing his log book and
proper receipts, he proved that he had fallen in with the Wasp, near
the line, about a fortnight after she had taken the merchant brig,
named, when the young officers in question, availed themselves of the
occasion to return to their flag. Since that time, a period of
twenty-one years, the Wasp has not been heard of.
We were eighteen days out, when, early one morning, we made an American
ship, on our weather quarter. Both vessels had every thing set that
would draw, and were going about five knots, close on the wind. The
stranger made a signal to speak us, and, on the Hudson’s main-topsail
being laid to the mast, he came down under our stern, and ranged up
along-side to leeward. He proved to be a ship called the “London
Packet,” from Charleston, bound to Havre, and his chronometer having
stopped, he wanted to get the longitude.
When we had given him our meridian, a trial of sailing commenced, which
continued without intermission for three entire days. During this time,
we had the wind from all quarters, and of every degree of force from the
lightest air to a double-reefed-topsail breeze. We were never a mile
separated, and frequently we were for hours within a cable’s length of
each other. One night the two ships nearly got foul, in a very light
air. The result showed, that they sailed as nearly alike, one being deep
and the other light, as might well happen to two vessels. On the third
day, both ships being under reefed topsails, with the wind at east, and
in thick weather, after holding her own with us for two watches, the
London Packet edged a little off the wind, while the Hudson still hugged
it, and we soon lost sight of our consort in the mist.
We were ten days longer struggling with adverse winds. During this time,
the ship made all possible traverses, our vigilant master resorting to
every expedient of an experienced seaman to get to the eastward. We were
driven up as high as fifty-four, where we fell into the track of the St.
Lawrence traders. The sea seemed covered with them, and I believe we
made more than a hundred, most of which were brigs. All these we passed
without difficulty. At length a stiff breeze came from the south-west,
and we laid our course for the mouth of the British Channel under
studding-sails.
On the 28th, we got the bottom in about sixty fathoms water. The 29th
was thick weather, with a very light, but a fair wind; we were now quite
sensibly within the influence of the tides. Towards evening the horizon
brightened a little, and we made the Bill of Portland, resembling a
faint bluish cloud. It was soon obscured, and most of the landsmen were
incredulous about its having been seen at all. In the course of the
night, however, we got a good view of the Eddystone.
Going on deck early, on the morning of the 30th, a glorious view
presented itself. The day was fine, clear, and exhilarating, and the
wind was blowing fresh from the westward. Ninety-seven sail, which had
come into the channel, like ourselves, during the thick weather, were in
plain sight. The majority were English, but we recognised the build of
half the maritime nations of Christendom in the brilliant fleet. Every
body was busy, and the blue waters were glittering with canvass. A
frigate was in the midst of us, walking through the crowd like a giant
stepping among pigmies. Our own good vessel left every thing behind her,
also, with the exception of two or three other bright-sided ships, which
happened to be as fast as herself.
I found the master busy with the glass, and soon as he caught my eye, he
made a sign for me to come forward. “Look at that ship directly ahead of
us.” The vessel alluded to, led the fleet, being nearly hull down to the
eastward. It was the Don Quixote, which had left the port of New York,
one month before, about the same distance in our advance. “Now look
here, in-shore of us,” added the master. “It is an American, but I
cannot make her out.” “Look again: she has a new cloth in her
main-top-gallant-sail.” This was true enough, and by that sign, the
vessel was our late competitor, the London Packet!
As respects the Don Quixote, we had made a journey of some five thousand
miles, and not varied our distance, on arriving, a league. There was
probably, some accident in this; for the Don Quixote had the reputation
of a fast ship, while the Hudson was merely a pretty fair sailer. We had
probably got the best of the winds. But a hard and close trial of three
days had shown that neither the Hudson nor the London Packet, in their
present trims, could go ahead of the other, in any wind. And yet, here,
after a separation of ten days, during which time our ship had tacked
and wore fifty times, had calms, foul winds and fair, and had run fully
a thousand miles, there was not a league’s difference between the two
vessels!
I have related these circumstances, because I think they are connected
with causes that have a great influence on the success of American
navigation. On passing several of the British ships to-day, I observed
that their officers were below, or at least out of sight; and in one
instance, a vessel of a very fair mould, and with every appearance of a
good sailer, actually lay with some of her light sails aback, long
enough to permit us to come up with, and pass her. The Hudson probably
went with this wind some fifteen or twenty miles farther than this
loiterer, while I much question if she could have gone as far, had the
latter been well attended to. The secret is to be found in the fact,
that so large a portion of American ship-masters are also ship-owners,
as to have erected a standard of activity and vigilance, below which few
are permitted to fall. These men work for themselves, and, like all
their countrymen, are looking out for something more than a mere
support.
About noon we got a Cowes pilot. He brought no news, but told us the
English vessel, I have just named, was sixty days from Leghorn, and that
she had been once a privateer. We were just thirty from New York.
We had distant glimpses of the land all day, and several of the
passengers determined to make their way to the shore, in the pilot boat.
These channel craft are sloops of about thirty or forty tons, and are
rather picturesque and pretty boats, more especially when under low
sail. They are usually fitted to take passengers, frequently earning
more in this way than by their pilotage. They have the long sliding
bowsprit, a short lower mast, very long cross-trees, with a taunt
top-mast, and, though not so “wicked” to the eye, I think them prettier
objects at sea, than our own schooners. The party from the Hudson had
scarcely got on board their new vessel when it fell calm, and the master
and myself paid them a visit. They looked like a set of smugglers
waiting for the darkness to run in. On our return we rowed round the
ship. One cannot approach a vessel at sea, in this manner, without being
struck with the boldness of the experiment, which launched such massive
and complicated fabrics on the ocean. The pure water is a medium almost
as transparent as the atmosphere, and the very keel is seen, usually, so
near the surface, in consequence of refraction, as to give us but a very
indifferent opinion of the security of the whole machine. I do not
remember ever looking at my own vessel, when at sea, from a boat,
without wondering at my own folly in seeking such a home.
In the afternoon, the breeze sprang up again, and we soon lost sight of
our friends, who were hauling in for the still distant land. All that
afternoon and night, we had a fresh and a favourable wind. The next day,
I went on deck, while the people were washing the ship. It was Sunday,
and there was a flat calm. The entire scene admirably suited a day of
rest. The channel was like a mirror, unruffled by a breath of air, and
some twenty or thirty vessels lay scattered about the view, with their
sails festooned and drooping, thrown into as many picturesque positions
by the eddying waters. Our own ship had got close in with the land; so
near, indeed, as to render a horse, or a man, on the shore distinctly
visible. We were on the coast of Dorsetshire. A range of low cliffs lay
directly abeam of us, and as the land rose to a ridge behind them, we
had a distinct view of a fair expanse of nearly houseless fields. We had
left America verdant and smiling; but we found England brown and
parched, there having been a long continuance of dry easterly winds.
The cliffs terminated suddenly, a little way ahead of the ship, and the
land retired inward, with a wide sweep, forming a large, though not a
very deep bay, that was bounded by rather low shores. It was under these
very cliffs, on which we were looking with so much pleasure and
security, and at so short a distance, that the well known and terrible
wreck of an Indiaman occurred, when the master, with his two daughters,
and hundreds of other lives, were lost. The pilot pointed out the
precise spot where that ill-fated vessel went to pieces. But the sea in
its anger, and the sea at rest, are very different powers. The place had
no terrors for us.
Ahead of us, near twenty miles distant, lay a high hazy bluff, that was
just visible. This was the western extremity of the Isle of Wight, and
the end of our passage in the Hudson. A sloop of war was pointing her
head in towards this bluff, and all the vessels in sight now began to
take new forms, varying and increasing the picturesque character of the
view. We soon got a light air ourselves, and succeeded in laying the
ship’s head off shore, towards which we had been gradually drifting
nearer than was desirable. The wind came fresh and fair about ten, when
we directed our course towards the distant bluff. Every thing was again
in motion. The cliffs behind us gradually sunk, as those before us rose,
and lost their indistinctness; the blue of the latter soon became gray,
and ere long white as chalk; this being the material of which they are,
in truth, composed.
We saw a small whale, (it might have been a large grampus) floundering
ahead of us, and acting as an extra pilot, for he appeared to be
steering, like ourselves, for the Needles. These Needles, are fragments
of the chalk cliffs, that have been pointed and rendered picturesque, by
the action of the weather, and our course lay directly past them. They
form a line from the extremity of the Isle of Wight, and are awkwardly
placed for vessels that come this way in thick weather, or in the dark.
The sloop of war got round them first, and we were not far behind her.
When fairly within the Needles the ship was embayed, our course now
lying between Hampshire and the Isle of Wight, through a channel of no
great width. The country was not particularly beautiful, and still
looked parched, though we got a distant view of one pretty town,
Lymington, in Hampshire. This place, in the distance, appeared not
unlike a large New England village, though there was less glare to the
houses. The cliffs, however, were very fine, without being of any
extraordinary elevation. Though much inferior to the shores of the
Mediterranean, they as much surpass any thing I remember to have seen on
our own coast, between Cape Anne and Cape Florida; which, for its
extent, a part of India, perhaps, excepted, is, I take it, just the
flattest, and tamest, and least interesting coast in the entire world.
The master pointed out a mass of dark herbage, on a distant height,
which resembled a copse of wood that had been studiously clipped into
square forms, at its different angles. It was visible only for a few
moments, through a vista in the hills. This was Carisbrooke Castle,
buried in ivy.
There was another little castle, on a low point of land, which was
erected by Henry VIII., as a part of a system of marine defence. It
would scarcely serve to scale the guns of a modern twenty-four pounder
frigate, judging of its means of resistance and annoyance by the eye.
These things are by-gones for England, a country that has little need of
marine batteries.
About three, we reached a broad basin, the land retiring on each side of
us. The estuary to the northward is called Southampton Water, the town
of that name, being seated on its margin. The opening in the Isle of
Wight is little more than a very wide mouth to a very diminutive river,
or creek, and Cowes, divided into East and West, lines its shores. The
anchorage, in the arm of the sea off this little haven, was well filled
with vessels, chiefly the yachts of amateur seamen, and the port itself
contained little more than pilot boats and crafts of a smaller size. The
Hudson brought up among the former. Hauling up the fore-course of a
merchant ship, is like lifting the curtain again on the drama of the
land. These vessels rarely furl this sail; and they who have not
experienced it, cannot imagine what a change it produces on those who
have lived a month, or six weeks, beneath its shadow. The sound of the
chain running out was very grateful, and I believe, though well
satisfied with the ship as such, that every body was glad to get a
nearer view of our great mother earth.
It was Sunday, but we were soon visited by boats from the town. Some
came to carry us ashore, others to see that we carried nothing off with
us. At first, the officer of the customs manifested a desire to make us
all go without the smallest article of dress, or any thing belonging to
our most ordinary comforts; but he listened to remonstrances, and we
were eventually allowed to depart with our night bags. As the Hudson was
to sail immediately for London, all our effects were sent within the
hour to the custom house. At 3 P. M. July 2nd, 1826, we put foot in
Europe, after a passage of thirty-one days from the quarantine ground.
LETTER II.
TO MRS. POMEROY, COOPERSTOWN, NEW YORK.
We were no sooner on English ground, than we hurried to one of the two
or three small inns of West Cowes, or the principal quarter of the
place, and got rooms at the Fountain. Mr. and Mrs. —— had preceded us,
and were already in possession of a parlour adjoining our own. On
casting an eye out at the street, I found them, one at each window of
their own room, already engaged in a lively discussion of the
comparative merits of Cowes and Philadelphia! This propensity to
exaggerate the value of whatever is our own, and to depreciate that
which is our neighbours’, a principle that is connected with the very
ground-work of poor human nature, forms a material portion of the
travelling equipage of nearly every one who quits the scenes of his own
youth, to visit those of other people. A comparison between Cowes and
Philadelphia, is even more absurd than a comparison between New York and
London, and yet, in this instance, it answered the purpose of raising a
lively controversy, between an American wife and a European husband.
The consul at Cowes had been an old acquaintance at school, some
five-and-twenty years before, and an inquiry was set on foot for his
residence. He was absent in France, but his deputy soon presented
himself with an offer of services. We wished for our trunks, and it was
soon arranged that there should be an immediate examination. Within an
hour, we were summoned to the store-house, where an officer attended on
behalf of the customs. Every thing was done in a very expeditious and
civil manner, not only for us, but for a few steerage passengers, and
this, too, without the least necessity for a _douceur_, the usual _passe
partout_ of England. America sends no manufactures to Europe; and, a
little smuggling in tobacco excepted, there is probably less of the
contraband in our commercial connexion with England, than ever before
occurred between two nations that have so large a trade. This, however,
is only in reference to what goes eastward, for immense amounts of the
smaller manufactured articles of all Europe, find their way, duty free,
into the United States. There is also a regular system of smuggling
through the Canadas, I have been told.
While the ladies were enjoying the negative luxury of being liberated
from a ship, at the Fountain Inn, I strolled about the place. You know
that I had twice visited England, professionally, before I was eighteen;
and, on one occasion, the ship I was in, anchored off this very island,
though not at this precise spot. I now thought the people altered. There
had certainly been so many important changes in myself, during the same
period, that it becomes me to speak with hesitation on this point; but
even the common class seemed less peculiar, less English, _less
provincial_, if one might use such an expression, as applied to so great
a nation; in short, more like the rest of the world, than formerly.
Twenty years before, England was engaged in a war, by which she was, in
a degree, isolated from most of Christendom. This insulated condition,
sustained by a consciousness of wealth, knowledge, and power, had served
to produce a decided peculiarity of manners, and even of appearance. In
the article of dress, I could not be mistaken. In 1806, I had seen all
the lower classes of the English, clad in something like _costumes_. The
channel waterman wore the short dowlas petticoat; the Thames’ waterman,
a jacket and breeches of velveteen, and a badge; the gentleman and
gentlewoman, attire such as was certainly to be seen in no other part of
the Christian world, the English colonies excepted. Something of this
still remained, but it existed rather as the exception, than as the
rule. I then felt, at every turn, that I was in a foreign country;
whereas, now, the idea did not obtrude itself, unless I was brought in
immediate contact with the people.
America, in my time, at least, has always had an active and swift
communication with the rest of the world. As a people, we are, beyond a
question, decidedly provincial, but our provincialism is not exactly one
of external appearance. The men are negligent of dress, for they are
much occupied, have few servants, and clothes are expensive, but the
women dress remarkably near the Parisian _modes_. We have not sufficient
confidence in ourselves to set fashions. All our departures from the
usages of the rest of mankind, are the results of circumstances, and not
of calculation, unless, indeed, it be one that is pecuniary. Those,
whose interest it is to produce changes, cause fashions to travel fast,
and there is not so much difficulty, or more cost, in transporting any
thing from Havre to New York, than there is in transporting the same
thing from Calais to London; and far less difficulty in causing a new
_mode_ to be introduced, since, as a young people, we are essentially
imitative. An example or two, will better illustrate what I mean.
When I visited London, with a part of my family, in 1828, after passing
near two years on the continent of Europe, Mrs. —— was compelled to
change her dress—at all times simple, but then, as a matter of course,
Parisian—in order not to be the subject of unpleasant observation. She
might have gone in a carriage attired as a French woman, for they who
ride in England, are not much like those who walk. But to walk in the
streets, and look at objects, it was far pleasanter to seem English than
to seem French. Five years later, we took London on our way to America,
and even then, something of the same necessity was felt. On reaching
home, with dresses fresh from Paris, the same party was only in the
_mode_; with _toilettes_ a little, and but very little, better arranged,
it is true, but in surprising conformity with those of all around them.
On visiting our own little retired mountain-village, these Parisian-made
dresses were scarcely the subject of remark to any but to your
_connoisseurs_. My family struck me as being much less peculiar, in the
streets of C——, than they had been, a few months before, in the streets
of London. All this must be explained by the activity of the intercourse
between France and America, and by the greater facility of the
Americans, in submitting to the despotism of foreign fashions.
Another fact will show you another side of the subject. While at Paris,
a book of travels in America, written by an Englishman, (Mr. Vigne,)
fell into my hands. The writer, apparently a well-disposed and sensible
man, states that he was dancing _dos-à-dos_ in a _quadrille_, at New
York, when he found, by the embarrassment of the rest of the set, he had
done something wrong. Some one kindly told him that they no longer
danced _dos-à-dos_. In commenting on this trifling circumstance, the
writer ascribes the whole affair to the false delicacy of our women!
Unable to see the connexion between the cause and the effect, I pointed
out the paragraph to one of my family, who was then in the daily
practice of dancing, and that too in Paris, itself, the very court of
Terpsichore. She laughed, and told me that the practice of dancing
_dos-à-dos_, _had gone out at Paris a year or two before_, and that
doubtless the newer _mode_ had reached New York before it reached Mr.
Vigne! These are trifles, but they are the trifles that make up the sum
of national peculiarities, ignorance of which lead us into a thousand
fruitless and absurd conjectures. In this little anecdote we learn the
great rapidity with which new fashions penetrate American usages, and
the greater ductility of American society in visible and tangible
things, at least; and the heedless manner with which even those who
write in a good spirit of America, jump to their conclusions. Had Capt.
Hall, or Mrs. Trollope, encountered this unlucky _quadrille_, they would
probably have found some clever means of imputing the _nez-à-nez_
tendencies of our dances, to the spirit of democracy! The latter, for
instance, is greatly outraged by the practice of wearing hats in
Congress, and of placing the legs on tables; and, yet, both have been
practised in Parliament from time immemorial! She had never seen her own
Legislature, and having a set of theories cut and dried for Congress,
every thing that struck her as novel, was referred to one of her
preconceived notions. In this manner are books manufactured, and by such
means are nations made acquainted with each other!
Cowes resembles a toy-town. The houses are tiny, the streets, in the
main, are narrow and not particularly straight, while every thing is
neat as wax. Some new avenues, however, are well planned, and long ere
this, are probably occupied: and there were several small marine villas
in, or near, the place. One was shown me, that belonged to the Duke of
Norfolk. It had the outward appearance of a medium-sized American
country house. The bluff King Hal caused another castle to be built
here, also, which I understood was inhabited at the time, by the family
of the Marquis of Anglesey, who was said to be its governor. A part of
the system of the English government-patronage is connected with these
useless castles, and nominally fortified places. Salaries are attached
to the governments, and the situations are usually bestowed on military
men. This is a good, or a bad, regulation, as the patronage is used. In
a nation of extensive military operations, it might prove a commendable
and a delicate way of rewarding services; but, as the tendency of
mankind is to defer to intrigue, and to augment power rather than to
reward merit, the probability is that these places are rarely bestowed,
except in the way of political _quids pro quos_.
I was, with one striking exception, greatly disappointed in the general
appearance of the females that I met in the streets. While strolling in
the skirts of the town, I came across a group of girls and boys, in
which a laughable scene of nautical gallantry was going on. The boys,
lads of fourteen or fifteen, were young sailors, and among the girls,
who were of the same age and class, was one of bewitching beauty. There
had been some very palpable passages of coquetry between the two
parties, when one of the young sailors, a tight lad of thirteen or
fourteen, rushed into the bevy of petticoats, and, borne away by an
ecstasy of admiration, but certainly guided by an excellent taste, he
seized the young Venus round the neck, and dealt out some as hearty
smacks as I remember to have heard. The working of emotion in the face
of the girl was a perfect study. Confusion and shame came first;
indignation followed; and, darting out from among her companions, she
dealt her robust young admirer such a slap in the face, that it sounded
like the report of a pocket pistol. The blow was well meant, and
admirably administered. It left the mark of every finger on the cheek of
the sturdy little fellow. The lad clenched his fist, seemed much
disposed to retort in kind, and ended by telling his beautiful
antagonist that it was very fortunate for her she was not a boy. But it
was the face of the girl herself that drew my attention. It was like a
mirror which reflected every passing thought. When she gave the blow, it
was red with indignation. This feeling instantly gave way to a kinder
sentiment, and her colour softened to a flush of surprise at the
boldness of her own act. Then came a laugh, and a look about her, as if
to inquire if she had been very wrong; the whole terminating in an
expression of regret in the prettiest blue eyes in the world, which
might have satisfied any one that an offence occasioned by her own sweet
face, was not unpardonable. The sweetness, the ingenuousness, the spirit
mingled with softness, exhibited in the countenance of this girl, are, I
think, all characteristic of the English female countenance, when it has
not been marble-ized by the over-wrought polish of high breeding.
Similar countenances occur in America, though, I think, less frequently
than here, and I believe them to be quite peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon
race. The workings of such a countenance are like the play of lights and
shades in a southern sky.
From the windows of the inn we had a very good view of a small
castellated dwelling that one of the King’s architects had caused to be
erected for himself. The effect of gray towers seen over the tree-tops,
with glimpses of the lawn, visible through vistas in the copses, was
exceedingly pretty, though the indescribable influence of association
prevented us from paying that homage to turrets and walls of the
nineteenth, that we were ready so devotedly to pay to any thing of the
thirteenth, or fourteenth, centuries.
We broke bread, for the first time in Europe, that evening, having made
an early and a hurried dinner on board the ship. The Isle of Wight is
celebrated for its butter, and yet we found it difficult to eat it! The
English, and many other European nations, put no salt in their table
butter, and we, who had been accustomed to the American usage, exclaimed
with one voice against its insipidity. A near relation of A——’s, who
once served in the British army, used to relate an anecdote on the
subject of tastes, that is quite in point. A brother officer, who had
gone safely through the celebrated siege of Gibraltar, landed at
Portsmouth, on his return home. Among the other privations of his recent
service, he had been compelled to eat butter whose fragrance scented the
whole Rock. Before retiring for the night, he gave particular orders to
have hot rolls and Isle of Wight butter served for breakfast. The first
mouthful disappointed him, and of course the unlucky waiter suffered.
The latter protested that he had executed the order to the letter.
“Then, take away your Isle of Wight butter,” growled the officer, “and
bring me some that _has a taste_.”
Like him of Gibraltar, we were ready to exclaim, “take away your Isle of
Wight butter, and bring us some from the good ship Hudson,” which,
though not quite as fragrant as that which had obtained its odour in a
siege, was not entirely without a taste. This little event, homely as it
may appear, is connected with the principle that influences the
decisions of more than half of those who visit foreign nations. Usages
are condemned because they are not our own; practices are denounced if
their connexion with fitness is not self-apparent to our inexperience;
and men and things are judged by rules that are of local origin and
local application. The moral will be complete when I add, that we, who
were so fastidious about the butter at Cowes, after an absence of nearly
eight years from America, had the salt regularly worked out of all we
ate, for months after our return home, protesting there was no such
thing as good butter in America. Had Mrs. —— introduced the Philadelphia
butter, however, I think her husband must have succumbed, for I believe
it to be the best in the world, not even excepting that of Leyden.
Towards evening, the Hudson having landed all her cabin passengers, and
the most of those who were in the steerage, went round the eastern point
of the little port, on her way to London.
After taking an early breakfast, we all got into a carriage called a
sociable, which is very like a larger sort of American coachee, and went
to Newport, the principal town of the island. The road ran between
hedges, and the scenery was strictly English. Small enclosures, copses,
a sward clipped close as velvet, and trees (of no great size or beauty,
however) scattered in the fields, with an effect nearly equal to
landscape gardening, were the predominant features. The drought had less
influence on the verdure here than in Dorsetshire. The road was narrow
and winding, the very _beau idéal_ of a highway; for, in this
particular, the general rule obtains that what is agreeable is the least
useful. Thanks to the practical good sense and perseverance of Mr.
M‘Adam, not only the road in question, but nearly all the roads of Great
Britain have been made, within the last five-and-twenty years, to
resemble, in appearance, but really to exceed in solidity and strength,
the roads one formerly saw in the grounds of private gentlemen. These
roads are almost flat, and when they have been properly constructed the
wheel rolls over them as if passing along a bed of iron. Apart from the
levels, which, of course, are not so rigidly observed, there is not, in
fact, any very sensible difference between the draft on a really good
M‘Adamized road and on a rail-road. We have a few roads in America that
are nearly as good as most one meets with, but we have nothing that
deserves to be termed a real imitation of the system of Mr. M‘Adam.
The distance to Newport was only four or five miles. The town itself, a
borough, but otherwise of little note, lies in a very sweet vale, and is
neat but plain, resembling, in all but its greater appearance of
antiquity and the greater size of its churches, one of our own
provincial towns of the same size. A—— and myself took a fly, and went,
by a very rural road, to Carisbrooke, a distance of about a mile, in
quest of lodgings. Carisbrooke is a mere village, but the whole valley
in this part of the island is so highly cultivated, and so many pretty
cottages meet the eye—not cottages of the poor, but cottages of the
rich—that it has an air of finish and high cultivation that we are
accustomed to see only in the immediate vicinity of large towns, and not
always even there.
On reaching the hamlet of Carisbrooke we found ourselves immediately
beneath the castle. There was a fine old village church, one of those
picturesque rustic edifices which abound in England, a building that
time had warped and twisted in such a way as to leave few parallel
lines, or straight edges, or even regular angles, in any part of it.
They told us, also, that the remains of a ruined priory were at hand. We
have often laughed since at the eagerness and delight with which we
hurried off to look at these venerable objects. It was soon decided,
however, that it was a pleasure too exquisite to be niggardly enjoyed
alone, and the carriage was sent back with orders to bring up the whole
party.
While the fly—a Liliputian coach, drawn by a single horse; a sort of
diminutive buggy—was absent, we went in quest of the priory. The people
were very civil, and quite readily pointed out the way. We found the
ruin in a farm yard. There was literally nothing but a very small
fragment of a blind wall, but with these materials we went to work with
the imagination, and soon completed the whole edifice. We might even
have peopled it, had not Carisbrooke, with its keep, its gate-way, and
its ivy-clad ramparts, lay in full view, inviting us to something less
ideal. The church, too, the rude, old, humpbacked church was already
opened, waiting to be inspected.
The interior of this building was as ancient, in appearance at least,
and quite as little in harmony with right lines and regular angles, as
its exterior. All the wood work was of unpainted oak, a colour, however,
that was scarcely dark enough to be rich; a circumstance which, to
American eyes, at least, eyes on whose lenses paint is ever present,
gave it an unfinished look. Had we seen this old building five years
later, we might have thought differently. As for the English oak, of
which one has heard so much, it is no great matter; our own common oaks
are much prettier, and did we understand their beauty, there would not
be a village church in America, that, in this particular, would not
excel the finest English cathedral. I saw nothing, in all Europe, of
this nature, that equalled the common oaken doors of the hall at C——,
which you know so well.
A movement in the church-yard called us out, and we became pained
witnesses of the interment of two of the “unhonoured dead.” The air,
manner, and conduct of these funerals, made a deep impression on us
both. The dead were a woman and a child, but of different families.
There were three or four mourners belonging to each party. Both the
bodies were brought in the same horse cart, and they were buried by the
same service. The coffins were of some coarse wood stained with black,
in a way to betray poverty. It was literally _le convoi du pauvre_.
Deference to their superiors, and the struggle to maintain appearances,
for there was a semblance of the pomp of wo, even in these extraordinary
groups, of which all were in deep mourning, contrasted strangely with
the extreme poverty of the parties, the niggardly administration of the
sacred offices, and the business-like manner of the whole _transaction_.
The mourners evidently struggled between natural grief and the
bewilderment of their situation. The clergyman was a goodlooking young
man, in a dirty surplice. Most probably he was a curate. He read the
service in a strong voice, but without reverence, and as if he were
doing it by the job. In every way, short-measure was dealt out to the
poor mourners. When the solemn words of “dust to dust, ashes to ashes,”
were uttered, he bowed hastily towards each grave,—he stood between
them,—and the assistants met his wholesale administration of the rites
with a wholesale sympathy.
The ceremony was no sooner over, than the clergyman and his clerk
retired into the church. One or two of the men cast wistful eyes toward
the graves, neither of which was half filled, and reluctantly followed.
I could scarcely believe my senses, and ventured to approach the door.
Here I met such a view as I had never before seen, and hope never to
witness again. On one side of me two men were filling the graves; on the
opposite, two others were actually paying the funeral fees. In one ear
was the hollow sound of the clod on the coffin; in the other the
chinking of silver on the altar! Yea, literally on the altar! We are
certainly far behind this great people in many essential particulars;
our manners are less formed; our civilization is less perfect; but
thanks to the spirit which led our ancestors into the wilderness, such
mockery of the Almighty and his worship, such a mingling of God and
Mammon, never yet disgraced the temple within the wide reach of the
American borders.
We were joined by the whole party before the sods were laid on the
graves of the poor; but some time after the silver had been given for
the consolations of religion. With melancholy reflections we mounted to
the castle. A—— had been educated in opinions peculiarly favourable to
England, but I saw, as we walked mournfully away from the spot, that one
fact like this, did more to remove the film from her eyes, than volumes
of reading.
Carisbrooke has been too often described to need many words. Externally,
it is a pile of high battlemented wall, completely buried in ivy,
forming within a large area, that was once subdivided into courts, of
which, however, there are, at present, scarcely any remains. We found an
old woman as warder, who occupied a room or two, in a sort of cottage
that had been made out of the ruins. The part of the edifice which had
been the prison of Charles I. was a total ruin, resembling any ordinary
house without roof, floors, or chimneys. The aperture of the window,
through which he attempted to escape, is still visible. It is in the
outer wall, against which the principal apartments had been erected. The
whole work stands on a high irregular ridge of a rocky hill, the keep
being much the most elevated. We ascended to the sort of bastion which
its summit forms, whence the view was charming. The whole vale, which
contains Carisbrooke and Newport, with a multitude of cottages, villas,
farm-houses, and orchards, with meads, lawns, and shrubberies, lay in
full view, and we had distant glimpses of the water. The setting of this
sweet picture, or the adjacent hills, was as naked and brown, as the
vale itself was crowded with objects and verdant. The Isle of Wight, as
a whole, did not strike me as being either particularly fertile, or
particularly beautiful, while it contains certain spots that are
eminently both. I have sailed entirely round it, more than once, and
judging from the appearance of its coasts, and from what was visible in
this little excursion, I should think that it had more than a usual
amount of waste, treeless land. The sea-views are fine, as a matter of
course, and the air is pure and bracing. It is consequently much
frequented in summer. It were better to call it the “watering place,”
than to call it the “garden of England.”
We had come in quest of a house where the family might be left, for a
few days, while I went up to London. But the whole party was anxious to
put their feet in _bonâ fide_ old England, before they crossed the
channel, and the plan was changed to meet their wishes. We slept that
night at Newport, therefore, and returned in the morning to Cowes, early
enough to get on board a steam-boat for Southampton. This town lies
several miles up an estuary that receives one or two small streams.
There are a few dwellings on the banks of the latter, that are about the
size and of the appearance of the better sort of country houses on the
Hudson, although more attention appears to have been generally paid to
the grounds. There were two more of Henry VIIIth’s forts, and we caught
a glimpse of a fine, ruined, Gothic window, in passing Netley Abbey.
We landed on the pier at Southampton about one, and found ourselves
truly in England. “Boat, sir, boat?” “Coach, sir, coach?” “London, sir,
London?”—“No—we have need of neither!”—“Thank ‘ee, sir—thank ’ee, sir.”
These few words, in one sense, are an epitome of England. They rang in
our ears for the first five minutes after landing. Pressing forward for
a livelihood, a multitude of conveniences, a choice of amusements, and a
trained, but a heartless and unmeaning civility. “No, I do not want a
boat.” “Thank ’ee, sir.” You are just as much “thank ’ee” if you do not
employ the man, as if you did. You are thanked for condescending to give
an order, for declining, for listening. It is plain to see that such
thanks dwell only on the lips. And yet we so easily get to be
sophisticated; words can be so readily made to supplant things;
deference, however unmeaning, is usually so grateful, that one soon
becomes accustomed to all this, and even begins to complain that he is
not imposed on.
We turned into the first clean-looking inn that offered. It was called
the Vine, and though a second-rate house, for Southampton even, we were
sufficiently well served. Every thing was neat, and the waiter, an old
man with a powdered head, was as methodical as a clock, and a most busy
servitor to human wants. He told me he had been twenty-eight years doing
exactly the same things daily, and in precisely the same place. Think of
a man crying “coming, sir,” and setting table, for a whole life, within
an area of forty feet square! Truly, this was not America.
The principal street in Southampton, though making a sweep, is a broad,
clean avenue, that is lined with houses having, with very few
exceptions, bow-windows, as far as an ancient gate, a part of the old
defences of the town. Here the High Street is divided into “Above-bar”
and “Below-bar.” The former is much the most modern, and promises to be
an exceedingly pretty place, when a little more advanced. “Below-bar” is
neat and agreeable too. The people appeared singularly well dressed,
after New York. The women, though less fashionably attired than our own,
taking the Paris modes for the criterion, were in beautiful English
chintzes, spotlessly neat, and the men all looked as if they had been
born with hat-brushes and clothes-brushes in their hands, and yet every
one was in a sort of sea-shore _costume_. I saw many men whom my
nautical instinct detected at once to be naval officers,—some of whom
must have been captains—in round-abouts; but it was quite impossible to
criticise toilettes that were so faultlessly neat, and so perfectly well
arranged.
We ordered dinner, and sallied forth in quest of lodgings. Southampton
is said to be peculiar for “long passages, bow-windows, and old maids.”
I can vouch that it merits the two first distinctions. The season had
scarcely commenced, and we had little difficulty in obtaining rooms, the
bow-window and long passage included. These lodgings comprise one or
more drawing-rooms, the requisite number of bed-rooms, and the use of
the kitchen. The people of the house, ordinarily trades-people, do the
cooking and furnish the necessary attendance. We engaged an extra
servant, and prepared to take possession that evening.
When we returned to the Vine, we found a visiter, in this land of
strangers. Mrs. R——, of New York, a relative and an old friend, had
heard that Americans of our name, were there, and she came doubting, and
hoping, to the Vine. We found that the windows of our own drawing-room
looked directly into those of hers. A few doors below us, dwelt Mrs.
L——, a still nearer relative, and a few days later, we had _vis-à-vis_,
Mrs. M‘A——, a sister of A——’s, on whom we all laid eyes for the first
time in our lives! Such little incidents recall to mind the close
consanguinity of the two nations, although for myself, I have always
felt as a stranger in England. This has not been so much from the want
of kindness and a community of opinion on many subjects, as from a
consciousness, that in the whole of that great nation, there is not a
single individual, with whom I could claim affinity. And yet, with a
slight exception, we are purely of English extraction. Our father was
the great-great-grand-son of an Englishman. I once met with a man, (an
Englishman,) who bore so strong a resemblance to him, in stature, form,
walk, features, and expression, that I actually took the trouble to
ascertain his name. He even had our own. I had no means of tracing the
matter any farther, but here was physical evidence to show the affinity
between the two people. On the other hand, A—— comes of the Huguenots.
She is purely American by every intermarriage, from the time of Louis
XIVth, down, and yet she found cousins, in England, at every turn, and
even a child of the same parents, who was as much of an English woman,
as she herself was an American.
We drunk to the happiness of America, at dinner. That day, fifty years,
she declared herself a nation; that very day, and nearly, at that hour,
two of the co-labourers in the great work we celebrated, departed in
company for the world of spirits!
A day or two was necessary to become familiarized to the novel objects
around us, and my departure for London was postponed. We profited by the
delay, to visit Netley Abbey, a ruin of some note, at no great distance
from Southampton. The road was circuitous, and we passed several pretty
country houses, few of which exceeded in size or embellishments,
shrubbery excepted, similar dwellings at home. There was one, however,
of an architecture much more ancient than we had been accustomed to see,
it being, by all appearance, of the time of Elizabeth or James. It had
turrets and battlements, but was otherwise plain.
The Abbey was a fine, without being a very imposing, ruin, standing in
the midst of a field of English neatness, prettily relieved by woods.
The window already mentioned, formed the finest part. The effect of
these ruins on us proved the wonderful power of association. The greater
force of the past than of the future on the mind, can only be the result
of questionable causes. Our real concern with the future is incalculably
the greatest, and yet we are dreaming over our own graves, on the events
and scenes which throw a charm around the graves of those who have gone
before us! Had we seen Netley Abbey, just as far advanced towards
completion, as it was, in fact, advanced towards decay, our speculations
would have been limited by a few conjectures on its probable appearance,
but gazing at it, as we did, we peopled its passages, imagined
Benedictines stalking along its galleries, and fancied that we heard the
voices of the choir, pealing among its arches.
Our fresh American feelings were strangely interrupted by the sounds of
junketting. A party of Southampton cocknies, (there are cocknies even in
New York,) having established themselves on the grass, in one of the
courts, were lighting a fire, and were deliberately proceeding to make
tea! “To tea, and ruins,” the invitations most probably run. We
retreated into a little battery of the bluff King Hal, that was near by,
a work that sufficiently proved the state of nautical warfare in the
sixteenth century.
LETTER III.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.
At a very early hour, one of the London coaches stopped at the door. I
had secured a seat by the side of the coachman, and we went through the
“bar” at a round trot. The distance was about sixty miles, and I had
paid a guinea for my place. There were four or five other passengers,
all on the outside.
The road between Southampton and London, is one of little interest; even
the highway itself is not as good as usual, for the first twenty or
thirty miles, being made chiefly of gravel, instead of broken stones.
The soil for a long distance was thirsty, and the verdure was nearly
gone. England feels a drought sooner than most countries, probably from
the circumstance of its vegetation being so little accustomed to the
absence of moisture, and to the comparative lightness of the dews. The
wind, until just before the arrival of the Hudson, had been blowing from
the eastward for several weeks, and in England this is usually a dry
wind. The roads were dusty, the hedges were brown, and the fields had
nothing to boast of over our own verdure. Indeed, it is unusual to see
the grasses of New York so much discoloured, so early in the season.
I soon established amicable relations with my companion on the box. He
had been ordered at the Vine to stop for an American, and he soon began
to converse about the new world. “Is America any where near Van Dieman’s
Land?” was one of his first questions. I satisfied him on this head, and
he apologized for the mistake, by explaining that he had a sister
settled in Van Dieman’s Land, and he had a natural desire to know
something about her welfare! We passed a house which had more the air of
a considerable place than any I had yet seen, though of far less
architectural pretensions than the miniature castle near Cowes. This my
companion informed me, had once been occupied by George IVth, when
Prince of Wales. “Here his Royal Highness enjoyed what I call the
perfection of life, sir; women, wine, and fox-hunting!” added the
professor of the whip, with the leer of a true amateur.
These coachmen are a class by themselves. They have no concern with
grooming the horses, and keep the reins for a certain number of relays.
They dress in a particular way, without being at all in livery or
uniform, like the continental postillions, talk in a particular way, and
act in a particular way. We changed this personage for another, about
half the distance between Southampton and London. His successor proved
to be even a still better specimen of his class. He was a thorough
cockney, and altogether the superior of his country colleague; he was
clearly the oracle of the boys, delivering his sentiments in the manner
of one accustomed to dictate to all in and about the stables. In
addition to this, there was an indescribable, but ludicrous salvo to his
dignity, in the way of surliness. Some one had engaged him to carry a
black-bird to town, and caused him to wait. On this subject he sang a
Jeremiad in the true cockney key. “He didn’t want to _take_ the
_bla-a-a-ck-bud_, but if the man wanted to _send_ the _bla-a-a-ck-bud_,
why didn’t he _bring_ the _bla-a-a-ck-bud_?” This is one of the hundred
dialects of the lower classes of the English. One of the horses of the
last team was restiff, and it became necessary to restrain him by an
additional curb, before we ventured into the streets of London. I
intimated that I had known such horses completely subdued in America, by
filling their ears with cotton. This suggestion evidently gave offence,
and he took occasion soon after to show it. He wrung the nose of the
horse with a cord, attaching its end below, in the manner of a severe
martingale. While going through this harsh process, which, by the way,
effectually subdued the animal, he had leisure to tell him, that “he was
an _English_ horse, and not an _out-landish_ horse, and _he_ knew best
what was good for him,” with a great deal more similar sound
nationality.
Winchester was the only town of any importance on the road. It is
pleasantly seated in a valley, is of no great size, is but meanly built,
though extremely neat, has a cathedral and a bishop, and is the
shire-town of Hampshire. The assizes were sitting, and Southampton was
full of troops that had been sent from Winchester, in order to comply
with a custom which forbids the military to remain near the courts of
justice. England is full of these political mystifications, and it is
one of the reasons that she is so much in arrears in many of the great
essentials. In carrying out the practice in this identical case, a
serious private wrong was inflicted, in order, that, in form, an
abstract and perfectly useless principle might be maintained. The inns
at Southampton were filled with troops, who were billeted on the
publicans, will ye, nill ye, and not only the masters of the different
houses, but travellers were subjected to a great inconvenience, in order
that this abstraction might not be violated. There may be some small
remuneration, but no one can suppose, for a moment, that the keeper of a
genteel establishment of this nature, wishes to see his carriage-houses,
gate-ways, and halls, thronged with soldiers. Society oppresses him, to
maintain appearances! At the present day, the presence of soldiers might
be the means of sustaining justice, while there is not the smallest
probability that they would be used for contrary purposes, except in
cases in which this usage, or law—for I believe there is a statute for
it—would not be in the least respected. This is not an age, nor is
England the country, in which a judge is to be overawed by the roll of a
drum. All sacrifices of common sense, and all recourse to plausible
political combinations, whether of individuals, or of men, are uniformly
made at the expense of the majority. The day is certainly arrived when
absurdities like these should be done away with.
The weather was oppressively hot, nor do I remember to have suffered
more from the sun, than during this little journey. Were I to indulge in
the traveller’s propensity to refer every thing to his own state of
feeling, you might be told what a sultry place England is, in July. But
I was too old a sailor, not to understand the cause. The sea is always
more temperate than the land, being cooler in summer and warmer in
winter. After being thirty days at sea, we all feel this truth, either
in one way, or the other. I was quitting the coast, too, which is
uniformly cooler than the interior.
When some twelve or thirteen miles from town, the coachman pointed to a
wood enclosed by a wall, on our left. A rill trickled from the thicket,
and run beneath the road. I was told that Virginia Water lay there, and
that the evening before, a single foot-pad had robbed a coach in that
precise spot, or within a few hundred yards of the very place where the
King of England, at the moment, was amusing himself with the
fishing-rod. Highway robberies, however, are now of exceedingly rare
occurrence, that in question being spoken of as the only one within the
knowledge of my informant, for many years.
Our rate of travelling was much the same as that of one of our own
better sort of stages. The distance was not materially less than that
between Albany and C——n, the roads were not so hilly, and much better
than our own road, and yet, at the same season, we usually perform it,
in about the same time, that we went the distance between Southampton
and London. The scenery was tame, nor, with the exception of Winchester,
was there a single object of any interest visible, until we got near
London. We crossed the Thames, a stream of trifling expanse, and at Kew
we had a glimpse of an old German-looking edifice in yellow bricks, with
towers, turrets, and battlements. This was one of the royal palaces. It
stood on the opposite side of the river, in the midst of tolerably
extensive grounds. Here a nearly incessant stream of vehicles commenced.
I attempted to count the stage-coaches, and got as high as thirty-three,
when we met a line of mail-coaches that caused me to stop, in despair. I
think we met not less than fifty, within the last hour of our journey.
There were seven belonging to the mail, in one group. They all leave
London at the same hour, for different parts of the kingdom.
At Hyde Park corner, I began to recall objects known in my early visits
to London. Apsley House had changed owners, and had become the property
of one whose great name was still in the germ, when I had last seen his
present dwelling. The Parks, a gate-way or two excepted, were unchanged.
In the row of noble houses that line Piccadilly, in that
hospital-looking edifice, Devonshire-house, in the dingy, mean,
irregular, and yet interesting front of St. James’, in Brookes’,
White’s, the Thatched House, and various other historical _monuments_, I
saw no change. Buckingham-house had disappeared, and an unintelligible
pile was rising on its ruins. A noble “_palazzo-nonfinito_” stood at the
angle between the Green and St. James’ Parks, and, here and there, I
discovered houses of better architecture than London was wont, of old,
to boast. One of the very best of these, I was told, was raised in
honour of Mercury, and probably out of his legitimate profits. It is
called Crockford’s.
Our “_bla-a-a-ck-bud_” pulled up, in the Strand, at the head of
Adam-street, Adelphi, and I descended from my seat at his side. An extra
shilling brought the glimmering of a surly smile athwart his
blubber-cheeks, and we parted in good-humour. My fellow travellers were
all men of no very high class, but they had been civil, and were
sufficiently attentive to my wants, when they found I was a stranger, by
pointing out objects on the road, and explaining the usages of the inns.
One of them had been in America, and he boasted a little of his intimacy
with General This, and Commodore That. At one time, too, he appeared
somewhat disposed to institute comparisons between the two countries, a
good deal at our expense, as you may suppose; but as I made no answers,
I soon heard him settling it with his companions, that, after all, it
was quite natural a man should not like to hear his own country abused;
and so he gave the matter up. With this exception, I had no cause of
complaint, but, on the contrary, good reason to be pleased.
I was set down at the Adam-street Hotel, a house much frequented by
Americans. The respectable woman who has so long kept it, received me
with quiet civility, saw that I had a room, and promised me a dinner in
a few minutes. While the latter was preparing, having got rid of the
dust, I went out into the streets. The lamps were just lighted, and I
went swiftly along the Strand, recalling objects at every step. In this
manner I passed, at a rapid pace, Somerset-house, St. Clements-le-Dane,
St. Mary-le-Strand, Temple-bar, Bridge-street, Ludgate Hill, pausing
only before St. Paul’s. Along the whole of this line, I saw but little
change. A grand bridge, Waterloo, with a noble approach to it, had been
thrown across the river just above Somerset-house, but nearly every
thing else remained unaltered. I believe my manner, and the eagerness
with which I gazed at long remembered objects, attracted attention, for
I soon observed I was dogged around the church, by a suspicious-looking
fellow. He either suspected me of evil, or, attracted by my want of a
London air, he meditated evil himself. Knowing my own innocence, I
determined to bring the matter to an issue. We were alone, in a retired
part of the place, and, first making sure that my watch, wallet, and
handkerchief had not already disappeared, I walked directly up to him,
and looked him intently in the face, as if to recognise his features. He
took the hint, and, turning on his heels, moved nimbly off. It is
surprising how soon an accustomed eye will distinguish a stranger, in
the streets of a large town. On mentioning this circumstance next day to
——, he said that the Londoners pretend to recognise a rustic air in a
Countess, if she has been six months from town. Rusticity, in such
cases, however, must merely mean a little behind the fashions.
I had suffered curiosity to draw me two miles from my dinner, and was as
glad to get back, as just before I had been to run away from it. Still,
the past, with the recollections which crowded on the mind, bringing
with them a flood of all sorts of associations, prevented me from
getting into a coach, which would, in a measure, have excluded objects
from my sight. I went to bed that night with the strange sensation of
being again in London, after an interval of twenty years.
The next day, I set about the business which had brought me to the
English capital. Most of our passengers were in town, and we met, as a
matter of course. I had calls from three or four Americans established
here, some in one capacity, and some in others, for our country has long
been giving back its increase to England, in the shape of Admirals,
Generals, Judges, Artists, Writers, and _notion-mongers_. But what is
all this, compared to the constant accessions of Europeans among
ourselves? Eight years later, on returning home, I found New York, in
feeling, opinions, desires, (apart from profit,) and I might almost say,
in population, a foreign, rather than an American town.
I had passed months in London, when a boy, and yet had no knowledge of
Westminster Abbey! I cannot account for this oversight, for I was a
great devotee of Gothic architecture, of which, by the way, I knew
nothing except through the prints, and I could not reproach myself with
a want of proper curiosity on such subjects, for I had devoted as much
time to their examination as my duty to the ship would at all allow.
Still, all I could recall of the Abbey was an indistinct image of two
towers, with a glimpse in at a great door. Now that I was master of my
own movements, one of my first acts was to hurry to the venerable
church.
Westminster Abbey is built in the form of a cross, as is, I believe,
invariably the case with every catholic church of any pretension. At its
northern end, are two towers, and at its southern, is the celebrated
chapel of Henry VIIth. This chapel is an addition, which, allowing for a
vast difference in the scale, resembles, in its general appearance, a
school, or vestry room, attached to the end of one of our own churches.
A Gothic church is, indeed, seldom complete, without such a chapel. It
is not an easy matter to impress an American with a proper idea of
European architecture. Even while the edifice is before his eyes, he is
very apt to form an erroneous opinion of its comparative magnitude. The
proportions aid deception in the first place, and absence uniformly
exaggerates the beauty and extent of familiar objects. None but those
who have disciplined the eye, and who have accustomed themselves to
measure proportions by rules more definite than those of the fancy,
should trust to their judgments in descriptions of this sort.
Westminster itself is not large, however, in comparison with St. Paul’s,
and an ordinary parish church, called St. Magaret’s, which must be, I
think, quite as large as Trinity, New York, and stands within a hundred
yards of the Abbey, is but a pigmy compared with Westminster. I took a
position in St. Margaret’s church-yard, at a point where the whole of
the eastern side of the edifice might be seen, and for the first time in
my life, gazed upon a truly Gothic structure of any magnitude. It was
near sunset, and the light was peculiarly suited to the sombre
architecture. The material was a gray stone, that time had rendered
dull, and which had broad shades of black about its angles and faces.
That of the chapel was fresher, and of a warmer tint; a change well
suited to the greater delicacy of the ornaments.
The principal building is in the severer style of the Gothic, without,
however, being one of its best specimens. It is comparatively plain, nor
are the proportions faultless. The towers are twins, are far from being
high, and to me they have since seemed to have a crowded appearance, or
to be too near each other, a defect that sensibly lessens the grandeur
of the north front. A few feet, more or less, in such a case, may carry
the architect too much without, or too much within, the just
proportions. I lay claim to very little science on the subject, but I
have frequently observed since, that, to my own eye, (and the
uninitiated can have no other criterion,) these towers, as seen from the
parks, above the tops of the trees, have a contracted and pinched air.
But while the Abbey church itself is as plain as almost any similar
edifice I remember, its great extent, and the noble windows and doors,
rendered it to me, deeply impressive. On the other hand, the chapel is
an exquisite specimen of the most elaborated ornaments of the style. All
sorts of monstrosities have, at one period or another, been pressed into
the service of the Gothic, such as lizards, toads, frogs, serpents,
dragons, spitfires, and salamanders. There is, I believe, some typical
connexion between these offensive objects, and the different sins. When
well carved, properly placed, and not viewed too near, their effect is
far from bad. They help to give the edifice its fretted appearance, or a
look resembling that of lace. Various other features, which have been
taken from familiar objects, such as parts of castellated buildings,
port-cullises, and armorial bearings, help to make up the sum of the
detail. On Henry VIIth’s chapel, toads, lizards, and the whole group of
metaphorical sins are sufficiently numerous, without being offensively
apparent, while miniature port-cullises, escutcheons, and other
ornaments, give the whole the rich, and imaginative—almost fairy-like
aspect,—which forms the distinctive feature of the most ornamented
portions of the order. You have seen ivory work boxes from the east,
that were cut and carved in a way to render them so very complicated,
delicate and beautiful, that they please us without conveying any fixed
forms to the mind. It would be no great departure from literal truth,
were I to bid you fancy one of these boxes swelled to the dimensions of
a church, the material changed to stone, and, after a due allowance for
a difference in form, for the painted windows, and for the emblems, were
I to add, that such a box would probably give you the best idea of a
highly wrought Gothic edifice, that any comparison of the sort can
furnish.
I stood gazing at the pile, until I felt the sensation we term “a
creeping of the blood.” I knew that Westminster, though remarkable for
its chapel, was, by no means, a first rate specimen of its own style of
architecture; and, at that moment, a journey through Europe promised to
be a gradation of enjoyments, each more exquisite than the other. All
the architecture of America united, would not assemble a tithe of the
grandeur, the fanciful, or of the beautiful, (a few imitations of
Grecian temples excepted,) that were to be seen in this single edifice.
If I were to enumerate the strong and excited feelings which are
awakened by viewing novel objects, I should place this short visit to
the Abbey as giving birth in me, to sensation No. 1. The emotion of a
first landing in Europe had long passed; our recent “land-fall” had been
like any other ‘land-fall,’ merely pleasant; and I even looked upon St.
Paul’s as an old and a rather familiar friend. This was absolutely my
introduction to the Gothic, and it has proved to be an acquaintance
pregnant of more pure satisfaction, than any other it has been my good
fortune to make since youth.
It was too late to enter the church, and I turned away towards the
adjoining public buildings. The English kings had a palace at
Westminster, in the times of the Plantagenets. It was the ancient usage
to assemble the parliament, which was little more than a _lit de
justice_ previously to the struggle which terminated in the
commonwealth, in the royal residence, and, in this manner, Westminster
Palace became, permanently, the place for holding the meetings of these
bodies. The buildings, ancient and modern, form a cluster on the banks
of the river, and are separated from the Abbey by a street. I believe
their site was once an island.
Westminster Hall was built as the banquetting room of the palace. There
is no uniformity to the architecture of the pile, which is exceedingly
complicated and confused. My examination, at this time, was too hurried
for details, and I shall refer you to a later visit to England, for a
description. A vacant space at the Abbey end of the palace, is called
Old Palace Yard, which sufficiently indicates the locality of the
ancient royal residence; and a similar, but larger space, or square, at
the entrance to the Hall, is known as New Palace Yard. Two sides of the
latter are filled with the buildings of the pile; namely, the courts of
law, the principal part of the hall, and certain houses that are
occupied by some of the minor functionaries of the establishment, with
buildings to contain records, &c. The latter are mean, and altogether
unworthy of the neighbourhood. They were plaistered on the exterior, and
observing a hole in the mortar, I approached and found to my surprise,
that here, in the heart of the English capital, as a part of the
legislative and judicial structures, in plain view, and on the most
frequented square of the vicinity, were houses actually built of wood,
and covered with lath and mortar!
The next morning I sent for a hair dresser. As he entered the room, I
made him a sign, without speaking, to cut my hair. I was reading the
morning paper, and my operator had got half through with his job,
without a syllable being exchanged between us, when the man of the comb,
suddenly demanded, “What is the reason, sir, that the Americans think
every thing in their own country, so much better than it is every where
else?” You will suppose that the _brusquerie_ as well as the purport of
this interrogatory, occasioned some surprise. How he knew I was an
American, at all, I am unable to say, but the fellow had been fidgetting
the whole time to break out upon me with this question.
I mention the anecdote, in order to show you how lively and general the
feeling of jealousy has got to be among our transatlantic kinsmen.—There
will be a better occasion to speak of this hereafter.
London was empty. The fashionable streets were actually without a soul,
for minutes at a time, and, without seeing it, I could not have believed
that a town which, at certain times, is so crowded as actually to render
crossing its streets hazardous, was ever so like a mere wilderness of
houses. During these recesses in dissipation and fashion, I believe that
the meanest residents disappear for a few months.
Our fellow traveller, Mr. L——, however, was in London, and we passed a
day or two in company. As he is a votary of music, he took me to hear
Madame Pasta. I was nearly as much struck with the extent and
magnificence of the Operahouse, as I had been with the architecture of
the Abbey. The brilliant manner in which it was lighted, in particular,
excited my admiration, for want of light is a decided and a prominent
fault of all scenic exhibitions at home, whether they are made in
public, or in private. Madame Pasta played _Semiramide_. “How do you
like her?” demanded L——, at the close of the first act. “Extremely; I
scarce know which to praise the most, the command and the range of her
voice, or her powers as a mere actress. But, don’t you think her
exceedingly like the _Signorina_?” The present Madame Malibran was then
singing in New York, under the name of Signorina Garcia. L—— laughed,
and told me the remark was well enough, but I had not put the question
in exactly the proper form. “Do you not think the Signorina exceedingly
like Madame Pasta?” would have been better. I had got the matter wrong
end foremost.
L—— reminded me of our having amused ourselves, on the passage, with the
nasal tones of the chorus at New York. He now directed my attention to
the same peculiarity here. In this particular, I saw no difference; nor
should there be any, for I believe nearly all who are on the American
stage, in any character, are foreigners, and chiefly English.
The next day we went to old Drury, where we found a countryman and
townsman, Mr. Stephen Price, in the chair of Sheridan. The season was
over, but we were shown the whole of the interior. It is also a
magnificent structure in extent and internal embellishment, though a
very plain brick pile externally. It must have eight or ten times the
cubic contents of the largest American theatre. The rival building,
Covent Garden, is within a few hundred feet of it, and has much more of
architectural pretension, though neither can lay claim to much. The
taste of the latter is very well, but it is built of that penny-saving
material, stuccoed bricks.
We dined with Mr. Price, and on the table was some of our own justly
celebrated Madeira. L——, who is an oracle on these subjects, pronounced
it injured. He was told it was so lately arrived from New York, that
there had not been time to affect it. This fact, coupled with others
that have since come to my knowledge, induce me to believe that the
change of tastes, which is so often remarked in liquors, fruits, and
other eatables, is as much wrought on ourselves, as in the much abused
viands. Those delicate organs which are necessary to this particular
sense may readily undergo modifications by the varieties of temperature.
We know that taste and its sister-sense, smelling, are both temporarily
destroyed by colds. The voice is signally affected by temperature. In
cold climates it is clear and soft; in warm, harsh and deep. All these
facts would serve to sustain the probability of the theory that a large
portion of the strictures that are lavished on the products of different
countries, should be lavished on our own capricious organs. _Au reste_,
the consequence is much the same, let the cause be what it will.
Mr. M——, an Englishman, who has many business concerns with America,
came in, while we were still at table, and I quitted the house in his
company. It was still broad day-light. As we were walking together, arm
and arm, my companion suddenly placed a hand behind him, and said, “My
fine fellow, you are there, are you?” A lad of about seventeen had a
hand in one of his pockets, feeling for his handkerchief. The case was
perfectly clear, for Mr. M—— had him still in his gripe, when I saw
them. Instead of showing apprehension or shame, the fellow began to
bluster and threaten. My companion, after a word or two of advice,
hurried me from the spot. On expressing the surprise I felt, at his
permitting such a hardened rogue to go at large, he said that our wisest
course was to get away. The lad was evidently supported by a gang, and
we might be beaten as well as robbed, for our pains. Besides, the
handkerchief was not actually taken, attendance in the courts was both
expensive and vexatious, and he would be bound over to prosecute. In
England, the complainant is compelled to prosecute, which is, in effect,
a premium on crime! We retain many of the absurdities of the common law,
and among others, some which depend on a distinction between the
intention and the commission of the act, but I do not know that any of
our states is so unjust as to punish a citizen, in this way, because he
has already been the victim of a rogue.
After all, I am not so certain our law is much better, but I believe
more of the _onus_ of obtaining justice falls on the injured party here,
than it does with us, still we are both too much under the dominion of
the common law.
The next day I was looking at a bronze statue of Achilles, at Hyde Park
corner, which had been erected in honour of the Duke of Wellington. The
place, like every other fashionable haunt at that season, was
comparatively deserted. Still, there might have been fifty persons in
sight. “Stop him! stop him!” cried a man, who was chasing another
directly towards me. The chase, to use nautical terms, began to lighten
ship, by throwing overboard, first one article and then another. As
these objects were cast in different directions, he probably hoped that
his pursuer, like Atalantis, might stop to pick them up. The last that
appeared in the air was a hat, when finding himself hemmed in between
three of us, the thief suffered himself to be taken. A young man had
been sleeping on the grass, and this land-pirate had absolutely
succeeded in getting his shoes, his handkerchief, and his hat; but an
attempt to _take off his cravat_ had awoke the sleeper. In this case,
the prisoner was marched off under sundry severe threats of vengeance,
for the _robbee_ was heated with the run, and really looked so
ridiculous that his anger was quite natural.
My business was now done, and I left London, in a night coach, for
Southampton. The place of rendezvous was the White Horse Cellar, in
Piccadilly, a spot almost as celebrated for those who are _in transitu_,
as was the Isthmus of Suez, of old. I took an inside seat, this time,
for the convenience of a nap. At first, I had but a single fellow
traveller. Venturing to ask him the names of one or two objects that we
passed, and fearing he might think my curiosity impertinent, I
apologized for it, by mentioning that I was a foreigner. “A foreigner!”
he exclaimed, “why, you speak English, as well as I do myself!” I
confess I had thought, until that moment, that the advantage, in this
particular, was altogether on my side; but it seems I was mistaken. By
way of relieving his mind, however, I told him I was an American. “An
American!” and he seemed more puzzled than ever. After a few minutes of
meditation, on what he had just heard, he civilly pointed to a bit of
meadow, through which the Thames meanders, and good naturedly told me it
was Runny Meade. I presume my manner denoted a proper interest, for he
now took up the subject of the English Barons, and entered into a long
account of their modern magnificence and wealth. This is a topic, that a
large class in England, who only know their aristocracy by report,
usually discuss with great unction. They appear to have the same pride
in the superiority of their great families, that the American slave is
known to feel in the importance of his master. I say this seriously, and
not with a view to sneer, but to point out to you a state of feeling
that, at first, struck me as very extraordinary. I suppose that the
feelings of both _castes_ depend on a very natural principle. The
Englishman, however, as he is better educated, has one respectable
feature in his deference. He exults, with reason, in the superiority of
his betters over the betters of most other people: in this particular,
he is fully borne out by the fact. Subsequent observation has given me
occasion to observe, that the English gentlemen, in appearance,
attainments, manliness, and perhaps I might add principles, although
this and deportment are points on which I should speak with less
confidence, stands as a rule, at the head of his class, in christendom.
This should not be, nor would it be, were the gentlemen of America equal
to their fortunes, which, unhappily, they are not. Facts have so far
preceded opinions, at home, as to leave but few minds capable of keeping
in their company. But this is a subject, to which we may also, have
occasion to return.
The coach stopped, and we took up a third inside. This man proved to be
a radical. He soon began to make side hits, at the “nobility and
gentry,” and, mingled with some biting truths, he uttered a vast deal of
nonsense. While he was in the midst of his denunciations, the coach
again stopped, and one of the outsides was driven into it by the night
air. He was evidently a gentleman, and the guard afterwards told me he
was a Captain Somebody, and a nephew of a Lord Something, to whose
country place he was going. The appearance of the captain checked the
radical, for a little while, but, finding that the other was quiet, he
soon returned to the attack. The aristocrat was silent, and the admirer
of aristocracy evidently thought himself too good to enter into a
dispute, with one of the mere people; for _to admire_ aristocracy was,
in his eyes, something like an _illustration_; but wincing under one of
the other’s home-pushes, he said, “These opinions may do very well for
this gentleman,” meaning me, who as yet had not uttered a syllable—“who
is an American; but I must say, I think them out of place, in the mouth
of an Englishman.” The radical regarded me a moment, and inquired if
what the other had just said was true. I answered that it was. He then
began an eulogium on America; which, like his Jeremiad on England, had a
good many truths blended with a great deal of nonsense. At length, he
unfortunately referred to me, to corroborate one of his most capital
errors. As this could not be done conscientiously, for his theory
depended on the material misconstruction of giving the whole legislative
power to Congress, I was obliged to explain the mistake into which he
had fallen. The captain and the _toady_, were both evidently pleased;
nor, can I say, I was sorry the appeal had been made, for it had the
effect of silencing a commentator, who knew very little of his subject.
The captain manifested his satisfaction, by commencing a conversation,
which lasted until we all went to sleep. Both the captain and the
radical quitted us in the night.
Men like the one just described, do the truth a great deal of harm.
Their knowledge does not extend to first principles, and they are always
for maintaining their positions by a citation of facts. One half of the
latter are imagined; and even that which is true is so enveloped with
collateral absurdities, that when pushed, they are invariably exposed.
These are the travellers who come among us Liberals, and go back Tories.
Finding that things fall short of the political Elysiums of their
imaginations, they fly into the opposite extreme, as a sort of _amende
honorable_ to their own folly and ignorance.
At the distance of a few miles from Winchester, we passed an encampment
of gipsies, by the way-side. They were better-looking than I had
expected to see them, though their faces were hardly perceptible in the
gray of the morning. They appeared well fed and very comfortably
bivouacked. Why do not these people appear in America? or, do they come,
and get absorbed like all the rest, by the humane and popular tendencies
of the country. What a homage will it be to the institutions, if it be
found that even a gipsy cease to be a gipsy, in such a country! Just as
the sun rose, I got out to our lodgings and went to bed.
After a sound sleep of two or three hours, I rose and went to the
drawing-room. A lady was in it, seated in a way to allow me to see no
more than a small part of her side-face. In that little, I saw the
countenance of your aunt’s family. It was the sister whom we had never
seen, and who had hastened out of Hertfordshire to meet us. There are
obvious reasons why such a subject cannot be treated in this letter, but
the study of two sisters who had been educated, the one in England and
the other in America, who possessed so much in common, and yet, who were
separated by so much that was not in common, was to me a matter of
singular interest. It showed me, at a glance, the manner in which the
distinctive moral and physical features of nations are formed; the
points of resemblance being just sufficient to render the points of
difference more obvious.
A new and nearer route to Netley, had been discovered during my absence,
and our unpractised Americans had done little else than admire ruins,
for the past week. The European who comes to America, plunges into the
virgin forest with wonder and delight, while the American who goes to
Europe finds his greatest pleasure, at first, in hunting up the
memorials of the past. Each is in quest of novelty, and is burning with
the desire to gaze at objects of which he has often read.
The steam-boat made but one or two voyages a week, between Southampton
and Havre, and we were obliged to wait a day or two for the next trip.
The intervening time was passed in the manner just named. Every place of
any importance in England, has some work or other written on the subject
of its history, its beauties, and its monuments. It is lucky to escape a
folio. Our works on Southampton, (which are of moderate dimensions,
however,) spoke of some Roman remains in the neighbourhood. The spot was
found, and, although the imagination was of greater use than common in
following the author’s description, we stood on the spot with a species
of antiquarian awe.
Southampton had formerly been a port of some importance. Many of the
expeditions sent against France embarked here, and the town had once
been well fortified, for the warfare of the period. A good deal of the
old wall remains. All of this was industriously traced out, while the
“bow-windows, long passages, and old maids,” found no favour in our
eyes.
One simple and touching memorial, I well remember. There is a ferry
between the town and the grounds near Netley Abbey. A lady had caught a
cold which terminated in death, in consequence of waiting on the shore,
during a storm, for the arrival of a boat. To protect others from a
similar calamity, she had ordered a very suitable defence against the
weather, to be built on the fatal spot, and to be kept in repair for
ever. The structure is entirely of stone, small and exceedingly simple
and ingenious. The ground plan is that of a Greek cross. On this
foundation are reared four walls, which, of course, cross each other in
the centre, at right angles, A little above the height of a man, the
whole is amply roofed. Let the wind blow which way it will, you perceive
there is always shelter. There is no external wall, and the diameter of
the whole does not exceed ten feet, if it be as much. This little work
is exceedingly English, and it is just as unlike any thing American as
possible. It has its origin in benevolence, is original in the idea, and
it is picturesque. We might accomplish the benevolence, but it would be
of a more public character: the picturesque is a thing of which we
hardly know the meaning; and as for the originality, the dread of doing
any thing different from his neighbour, would effectually prevent an
American from erecting such a shelter; even charity, with us, being
subject to the control of the general voice. On the other hand, what a
clever expedient would have been devised, in the first instance, in
America, to get across the ferry without taking cold! All these little
peculiarities have an intimate connexion with national character and
national habits. The desire to be independent and original, causes a
multitude of silly things to be invented here, while the apprehension of
doing any thing different from those around them, causes a multitude of
silly things to be _perpetuated_ in America, and yet, we are children of
the same parents! When profit is in view, we have but one soul, and that
is certainly inventive enough; but when money has been made, and is to
be spent, we really do not seem to know how to set about it, except by
routine.
LETTER IV.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.
On quitting England, we embarked from the very strand where Henry Vth
embarked for the fruitless field of Agincourt. A fearful rumour had gone
abroad, that the Camilla (the steam-boat,) had been shorn of a wing, and
there were many rueful faces in the boat that took us off to the vessel.
In plainer speech, one of the boilers was out of order, and the passage
was to be made with just half the usual propelling power. At that
season, or, indeed, at any season, the only probable consequence was
loss of time. With a strong head wind, it is true, the Camilla might
have been compelled to return, but this might also have happened with
the use of both the boilers.
Our adventurers did not see things in this light. The division of
employments, which produces prices so cheap and good, makes bad
travellers. Our boats’ cargo embarked with fear and trembling, and “she
has but one boiler!” passed from mouth to mouth, amid ominous faces. A
bachelor-looking personage of about fifty, with his person well swaddled
in July, declared in a loud voice that we were “all going on board, to
be drowned.” This startled A——, who, having full faith in my nautical
experience, asked what we were to think of it. It was a mere question
between ten hours and fifteen, and so I told her. The females who had
just before been trembling with alarm, brightened at this, and two or
three of them civilly thanked me, for the information they had thus
obtained incidentally!—“Boat, sir; boat?”—“Thank ’ee, sir; thank ’ee,
sir.”
We found two or three parties on board, of a higher condition than
common. Apprehension cast a shade over the cold marble-like polish of
even the English aristocrat; for if, as Mrs. Opie has well observed,
there is nothing “so like a lord in a passion, as a commoner in a
passion;” “your fear” is also a sad leveller. The boat was soon under
way, and gradually our cargo of mental apprehensions settled into the
usual dolorous physical suffering of landsmen, in rough water. So much
for excessive civilization. The want of a boiler, under similar
circumstances, would have excited no feeling whatever, among a similar
number of Americans, nineteen in twenty of whom, thanks to their
rough-and-tumble habits, would know exactly what to think of it.
I was seated, during a part of the day, near a group of young men, who
were conversing with a lady of some three or four and twenty. They
expressed their surprise at meeting her on board. She told them it was a
sudden whim; that no one knew of her movements; she meant only to be
gone a fortnight, to take a run into Normandy. In the course of the
conversation, I learned that she was single, and had a maid and a
footman with her. In this guise she might go where she pleased, whereas,
had she taken “an escort,” in the American fashion, her character would
have suffered. This usage, however, is English, rather than European.
Single women on the continent, except in extraordinary cases, are
obliged to maintain far greater reserve even than with us; and there,
single or married, they cannot travel under the protection of any man,
who is not very nearly connected with them, domestics and dependants
excepted.
The debates about proceeding at all, had detained us so long, and the
“one boiler” proved to be so powerless, that night set in, and we had
not yet made the coast of France. The breeze had been fresh, but it
lulled towards sunset, though not before we began to feel the influence
of the tides. About midnight, however, I heard some one exclaim, “Land!”
and we all hastened on deck, to take a first look at France.
The boat was running along beneath some cliffs. The moon was shining
bright, and her rays lighted up the chalky sides of the high coast,
giving them a ghostly hue. The towers of two light-houses, also,
glittered on a head-land near by. Presently, a long sea-wall became
visible, and rounding its end, we shot into smooth water. We entered the
little port of Havre, between artificial works, on one of which stands a
low, massive, circular tower, that tradition attributes to no less a
personage than Julius Cæsar.
What a change, in so short a time! On the other side of the channel,
beyond the usual demands for employment, which were made in a modest
way, and the eternal “Thank ’ee, sir,” there was a quiet in the people,
that was not entirely free from a suspicion of surliness. Here, every
man seemed to have two voices, both of which he used, as if with no
other desire than to hear himself speak. Notwithstanding the hour, which
was past midnight, the quay was well lined, and a dozen officials poured
on board the boat to prevent our landing. Custom-house officers,
_gens-d’armes_, with enormous hats, and female _commissionaires_, were
counteracting each other, at every turn. At length we were permitted to
land, being ordered up to a building, near by. Here the females were
taken into a separate room, where their persons were examined, by
functionaries of their own sex, for contraband goods! This process has
been described to me, as being, to the last degree, offensive and
humiliating. My own person was respected, I know not why, for we were
herded like sheep. As we were without spot, at least so far as smuggling
was concerned, we were soon liberated. All our effects were left in the
office, and we were turned into the streets, without even a rag, but
what we had on. This was an inauspicious commencement, for a country so
polished, and yet, when one comes to look at the causes, it is not easy
to point out an alternative. It was our own fault that we came so late.
The streets were empty, and the tall gray houses, narrow avenues, and
the unaccustomed objects, presented a strange spectacle, by the placid
light of the moon. It appeared as if we had alighted in a different
planet. Though fatigued and sleepy, the whole party would involuntarily
stop to admire some novelty, and our march was straggling and irregular.
One house refused us after another, and it soon became seriously a
question whether the night was not to be passed in the open air. P—— was
less than three years old, and as we had a regular gradation from that
age upward, our _début_ in France promised to be any thing but
agreeable. The guide said his resources were exhausted, and hinted at
the impossibility of getting in. Nothing, but the inns, was open, and at
all these we were refused. At length I remembered that, in poring over
an English guide-book, purchased in New York, a certain _Hotel de
l’Angleterre_ had been recommended as the best house in Havre.
“_Savez-vous mon ami, ou est l’hôtel de l’Angleterre?_” “_Ma fois, oui;
c’est tout près._” This “_ma fois, oui_,” was ominous, and the “_c’est
tout pres_,” was more so still. Thither we went, however, and we were
received.—Then commenced the process of climbing. We ascended several
stories, by a narrow crooked stair-case, and were shown into rooms on
the fifth floor.
The floors were of waxed tiles, without carpets or mats, and the
furniture was tawdry. We got into our beds, which fatigue could scarcely
render it possible to endure, on account of the bugs. A more infernal
night I never passed, and I have often thought since, how hazardous it
is to trust to first impressions. This night, and one or two more passed
at Havre, and one other passed between Rouen and Paris, were among the
most uncomfortable I can remember; and yet if I were to name a country
in which one would be the most certain to get a good and a clean bed, I
think I should name France!
The next morning I arose, and went down the ladder, for it was little
better, to the lower world. The servant wished to know if we intended to
use the _table d’hôte_, which he pronounced excellent. Curiosity induced
me to look at the appliances. It was a dark, dirty and crowded room, and
yet not without certain savory smells. French cookery can even get the
better of French dirt. It was the only place about the house, the
kitchen excepted, where a tolerable smell was to be found, and I mounted
to the upper regions, in self-defence.
An hour of two afterwards, the consul did me the favour to call. I
apologized for the necessity of causing him to clamber up so high. “It
is not a misfortune here,” was the answer, “for the higher one is, the
purer is the atmosphere,” and he was right enough. It was not necessary
to explain that we were in an inferior house, and certainly every thing
was extremely novel. At breakfast, however, there was a sensible
improvement. The linen was white as snow; we were served with silver
forks—it was a breakfast _à la fourchette_—spotlessly clean napkins,
excellent rolls, and delicious butter, to say nothing of _côtelettes_
that appeared to have been cooked by magic. Your aunt and myself looked
at each other with ludicrous satisfaction when we came to taste the
coffee, which happened to be precisely at the same instant. It was the
first time either of us had ever tasted French coffee—it would scarcely
be exaggeration to say, that either of us had ever tasted coffee, at
all. I have had many French cooks since; have lived years in the capital
of France itself, but I could never yet obtain a servant who understood
the secret of making _café au lait_, as it is made in most of the inns
and _cafés_, of that country. The discrepancy between the excellence of
the table, and the abominations of the place, struck them all, so
forcibly, that the rest of the party did little else but talk about it.
As for myself, I wished to do nothing but eat.
I had now another specimen of national manners. It was necessary to get
our luggage through the custom house. The consul recommended a
_commissionaire_ to help me. “You are not to be surprised,” he said,
laughing, as he went away, “if I send you one in petticoats.” In a few
minutes, sure enough, one of the _beau sexe_ presented herself. Her name
was _Désirée_, and an abler negotiator was never employed. She scolded,
coaxed, advised, wrangled, and uniformly triumphed. The officers were
more civil, by day-light, than we had found them under the influence of
the moon, and our business was soon effected.
W—— had brought with him a spy-glass. It was old and of little value,
but it was an heir-loom of the family. It came from the Hall at C——n,
and had become historical for its service in detecting deer, in the
lake, during the early years of the settlement. This glass had
disappeared. No inquiry could recover it. “Send for _Désirée_,” said the
consul. _Désirée_ came, received her orders, and in half an hour the
glass was restored. There was an oversight in not getting a passport,
when we were about to quit Havre. The office hours were over, and the
steam-boat could not wait. “Where is _Désirée_?” Désirée was made
acquainted with the difficulty, and the passport was obtained.
“_Désirée, ou est Désirée?_” cried some one in the crowd, that had
assembled to see the Camilla start for England, the day after our
arrival. “Here is an Englishman who is too late to get his passport
_visèd_” said this person to Désirée, so near me that I heard it all,
“the boat goes in ten minutes—what is to be done?” “_Ma foi_—it is too
late!” “Try, _ma bonne_—it’s a pity he should lose his passage—_voici_.”
The Englishman gave his fee. Désirée looked about her, and then taking
the idler by the arm, she hurried him through the crowd, this way and
that way, ending by putting him aboard without any passport at all. “It
is too late to get one,” she said; “and they can but send you back.” He
passed undetected. France has a plenty of these managing females, though
Désirée is one of the cleverest of them all. I understood this woman had
passed a year or two in England, expressly to fit herself for her
present occupation, by learning the language.
While engaged in taking our passages on board the steam-boat for Rouen,
some one called me by name, in English. The sound of the most familiar
words, in one’s own language, soon get to be startling in a foreign
country. I remember, on returning to England, after an absence of five
years, that it was more than a week before I could persuade myself I was
not addressed, whenever a passer by spoke suddenly. On the present
occasion, I was called to by an old school-boy acquaintance, Mr. H——r,
who was a consul in England, but who had taken a house on what is called
the _Côte_, a hill-side, just above Ingouville, a village at no great
distance from the town. We went out to his pretty little cottage, which
enjoyed a charming view. Indeed I should particularize this spot, as the
one which gave me the first idea of one species of distinctive European
scenery. The houses cling to the declivity, rising above each other in a
way that might literally enable one to toss a stone into his neighbour’s
chimney-top. They are of stone, but being white-washed, and very
numerous, they give the whole mountain-side the appearance of a pretty
hamlet, scattered without order in the midst of gardens. Italy abounds
with such little scenes; nor are they unfrequent in France, especially
in the vicinity of towns, though whitened edifices are far from being
the prevailing taste of that country.
That evening we had an infernal clamour of drums in the principal
street, which happened to be our own. There might have been fifty,
unaccompanied by any wind instrument. The French do not use the fife,
and when one is treated to the drum, it is generally in large potions,
and nothing but drum. This is a relick of barbarism, and is quite
unworthy of a musical age. There is more or less of it, in all the
garrisoned towns of Europe. You may imagine the satisfaction with which
one listens to a hundred or two of these plaintive instruments, beat
between houses six or eight stories high, in a narrow street, and with
desperate perseverance! The object is to recall the troops to their
quarters.
Havre, is a tide-harbour. In America, where there is, on an average, not
more that five feet of rise and fall to the water of the sea, such a
haven would, of course, be impracticable for large vessels. But the
majority of the ports on the British channel, are of this character, and
indeed, a large portion of the harbours of Great Britain. Calais,
Boulogne, Havre and Dieppe, are all inaccessible at low water. The
cliffs are broken by a large ravine, a creek makes up the gorge, or a
small stream flows outward into the sea, a basin is excavated, the
entrance is rendered safe by moles which project into deep water, and
the town is crowded around this semi-artificial port, as well as
circumstances will allow. Such is, more or less, the history of them
all. Havre, however, is, in some measure, an exception. It stands on a
plain, that I should think had once been a marsh. The cliffs are near
it, seaward, and towards the interior there are fine receding hills,
leaving a sufficient site, notwithstanding, for a town of large
dimensions.
The port of Havre has been much improved of late years. Large basins
have been excavated, and formed into regular wet-docks. They are nearly
in the centre of the town. The mole stretches out several hundred yards,
on that side of the entrance of the port which is next the sea. Here
signals are regularly made to acquaint vessels in the offing with the
precise number of feet that can be brought into the port. These signals
are changed at the rise or fall of every foot, according to a graduated
scale which is near the signal pole. At dead low water the entrance to
the harbour, and the outer harbour itself, are merely beds of soft mud.
Machines are kept constantly at work, to deepen them.
The ship from sea makes the lights, and judges of the state of the tide
by the signals. She rounds the Mole-Head at the distance of fifty or
sixty yards, and sails along a passage too narrow to admit another
vessel, at the same moment, into the harbor. Here she finds from
eighteen to twenty, or, even twenty-four feet of water, according to
circumstances. She is hauled up to the gates of a dock, which are opened
at high water only. As the water falls, one gate is shut, and the
entrance to the dock becomes a lock: vessels can enter, therefore, as
long as there remains sufficient water in the outer harbour for a ship
to float. If caught outside, however, she must lie in the mud until the
ensuing tide.
Havre is the sea-port of Paris, and is rapidly increasing in importance.
There is a project for connecting the latter with the sea, by a
ship-channel. Such a project is hardly suited to the French impulses,
which imagine a thousand grand projects, but hardly ever convert any of
them to much practical good. The opinions of the people are formed on
habits of great saving, and it requires older calculations, greater
familiarity with risks, and more liberal notions of industry, and,
possibly, more capital than is commonly found in their enterprises, to
induce the people to encounter the extra charges of these improvements,
when they can have recourse to what, in their eyes, are simpler and safer
means of making money. The government employs men of science, who
conceive well; but their conceptions are but indifferently sustained by
the average practical intellect of the country. In this particular,
France is the very converse of America.
The project of making a sea-port of Paris, is founded on a principle
that is radically wrong. It is easier to build a house on the sea-side,
than to carry the sea into the interior. But the political economy of
France, like that of nearly all the continental nations, is based on a
false principle, that of forcing improvements. The intellects of the
mass should first be acted on, and when the public mind is sufficiently
improved to benefit by innovations, the public sentiment might be
trusted to decide the questions of locality and usefulness. The French
system looks to a concentration of every thing in Paris. The political
organization of the country favours such a scheme, and in a project of
this sort, the interests of all the northern and western departments
would be sacrificed to the interests of Paris. As for the departments
east and south of Paris, they would in no degree be benefited by making
a port of Paris, as goods would still have to be transhipped to reach
them. A system of canals and rail-roads is much wanted in France, and
most of all a system of general instruction, to prepare the minds of the
operatives to profit by such advantages. When I say that we are behind
our facts in America, I do not mean in a physical, but in a moral,
sense. All that is visible and tangible is led by opinion; in all that
is purely moral, the facts precede the notions of the people.
I found, at a later day, many droll theories broached in France, more
especially in the Chamber of Deputies, on the subject of our own great
success in the useful enterprises. As is usual, in such cases, any
reason but the true one was given. At the period of our arrival in
Europe, the plan of connecting the great lakes with the Atlantic had
just been completed, and the vast results were beginning to attract
attention in Europe. At first, it was thought, as a matter of course,
that engineers from the old world had been employed. This was disproved,
and it was shown that they who laid out the work, however skilful they
may have since become by practice, were at first little more than common
American surveyors. Then the trifling cost was a stumbling-block, for
labour was known to be far better paid in America than in Europe; and
lastly, the results created astonishment. Several deputies affirmed that
the cause of the great success, was owing to the fact, that in America,
we trusted such things to private competition, whereas, in France, the
government meddled with every thing. But it was the state governments,
(which indeed alone possess the necessary means and authority) that had
caused most of the American canals to be constructed. These political
economists knew too little of other systems to apply a clever saying of
their own—_il y a de la Rochefoucald, et de la Rouchefoucald_. All
governments do not wither what they touch.
Some Americans have introduced steam-boats on the rivers of France, and
on the lakes of Switzerland and Italy. We embarked in one, after passing
two delectable nights at the _Hotel de l’Angleterre_. The boat was a
frail-looking thing, and so loaded with passengers that it appeared
actually to stagger under its freight. The Seine has a wide mouth, and a
long ground-swell was setting in from the channel. Our Parisian
cockneys, of whom there were several on board, stood aghast. _Nous voici
en pleine mer!_ one muttered to the other, and the annals of that
eventful voyage are still related, I make no question, to admiring
auditors in the interior of France. The French make excellent seamen
when properly trained; but, I think, on the whole, they are more
thoroughly landsmen than any people of my acquaintance, who possess a
coast. There has been too much sympathy with the army to permit the
mariners to receive a proper share of the public favour.
The boat shaped her course diagonally across the broad current, directly
for Honfleur. Here we first began to get an idea of the true points of
difference between our own scenery and that of the continent of Europe,
and chiefly of that of France. The general characteristics of England
are not essentially different from those of America, after allowing for
a much higher finish in the former, substituting hedges for fences, and
stripping the earth of its forests. These, you may think, are, in
themselves, grand points of difference, but they fall far short of those
which render the continent of Europe altogether of a different nature.
Of forest, there is vastly more in France than in England. But, with few
exceptions, the fields are not separated by enclosures. The houses are
of stone, or of wood, rough-cast. Honfleur, as we approached, had a gray
distinctness that is difficult to describe. The atmosphere seemed
visible, around the angles of the buildings, as in certain Flemish
pictures, bringing out the fine old sombre piles from the depth of the
view, in a way to leave little concealed, while nothing was meretricious
or gaudy. At first, though we found these hues imposing, and even
beautiful, we thought the view would have been gayer and more agreeable,
had the tints been livelier; but a little use taught us that our tastes
had been corrupted. On our return home every structure appeared flaring
and tawdry. Even those of stone had a recent and mushroom air, besides
being in colours equally ill-suited to architecture or a landscape. The
only thing of the sort in America which appeared venerable and of a
suitable hue, after an absence of eight years, was our own family abode,
and this the despoiler, paint, had not defiled for near forty years.
We discharged part of our cargo at Honfleur, but the boat was still
greatly crowded. Fatigue and ill health rendered standing painful to
A——, and all the benches were crowded. She approached a young girl of
about eighteen, who occupied _three_ chairs. On one she was seated; on
another she had her feet; and the third held her _reticule_. Apologizing
for the liberty, A—— asked leave to put the _reticule_ on the second
chair, and to take the third for her own use. This request was refused!
The selfishness created by sophistication and a factitious state of
things renders such acts quite frequent, for it is more my wish to offer
you distinctive traits of character than exceptions. This case of
selfishness might have been a little stronger than usual, it is true,
but similar acts are of daily occurrence, _out of society_, in France.
_In society_, the utmost respect to the wants and feelings of others is
paid, vastly more than with us; while, with us, it is scarcely too
strong to say that such an instance of unfeeling selfishness could
scarcely have occurred at all. We may have occasion to inquire into the
causes of this difference in national manners hereafter.
The Seine narrows at _Quilleboeuf_ about thirty miles from Havre, to the
width of an ordinary European tide river. On a high bluff we passed a
ruin called _Tancarville_, which was formerly a castle of the _de
Montmorencies_. This place was the cradle of one of William’s barons;
and an English descendant, I believe, has been ennobled by the title of
Earl of Tankerville.
Above _Quilleboeuf_ the river becomes exceedingly pretty. It is crooked,
a charm in itself, has many willowy islands, and here and there a gray
venerable town is seated in the opening of the high hills which contract
the view, with crumbling towers, and walls that did good service in the
times of the old English and French wars. There were fewer seats than
might have been expected, though we passed three or four. One near the
water-side, of some size, was in the ancient French style, with avenues
cut in formal lines, mutilated statues, precise and treeless terraces,
and other elaborated monstrosities. These places are not entirely
without a pretension to magnificence; but, considered in reference to
what is desirable in landscape gardening, they are the very _laid idéal_
of deformity. After winding our way for eight or ten hours amid such
scenes, the towers of Rouen came in view. They had a dark ebony-coloured
look, which did great violence to our Manhattanese notions, but which
harmonized gloriously with a bluish sky, the gray walls beneath, and a
back ground of hanging fields.
Rouen is a sea-port; vessels of two hundred, or two hundred and fifty
tons burden, lying at its quays. Here is also a custom house, and our
baggage was again opened for examination. This was done amid a great
deal of noise and confusion, and yet so cursorily as to be of no real
service. At Havre, landing as we did in the night, and committing all to
Désirée the next day, I escaped collision with subordinates. But, not
having a servant, I was now compelled to look after our effects in
person. W—— protested that we had fallen among barbarians; what, between
brawls, contests for the trunks, cries, oaths and snatching, the scene
was equally provoking and comic.
Without schooling, without training of any sort, little checked by
morals, pressed upon by society, with nearly every necessary of life
highly taxed, and yet entirely loosened from the deference of feudal
manners, the Frenchmen of this class have, in general, become what they
who wish to ride upon their fellow mortals love to represent them as
being truculent, violent, greedy of gain, and but too much disposed to
exaction. There is great _bonhomie_ and many touches of chivalry in the
national character; but it is asking too much to suppose that men who
are placed in the situation I have named, should not exhibit some of the
most unpleasant traits of human infirmity. Our trunks were put into a
hand-barrow and wheeled by two men a few hundred yards, the whole
occupying half an hour of time. For this service ten francs were
demanded. I offered five, or double what would have been required by a
dray-man in New York, a place where labour is proverbially dear. This
was disdainfully refused, and I was threatened with the law. Of the
latter I knew nothing, but, determined not to be bullied into what I
felt persuaded was an imposition, I threw down the five francs and
walked away. These fellows kept prowling about the hotel the whole day,
alternately wheedling and menacing, without success. Towards night one
of them appeared and returned the five francs, saying that he gave me
his services for nothing. I thanked him, and put the money in my pocket.
This fit of dignity lasted about five minutes, when, as a _finale_, I
received a proposal to pay the money again, and bring the matter to a
close, Which was done accordingly.
An Englishman of the same class would have done his work in silence,
with a respect approaching to servility, and with a system that any
little _contre tems_ would derange. He would ask enough, take his money
with a “thankee, sir,” and go off looking as surly as if he were
dissatisfied. An American would do his work silently, but independently
as to manner—but a fact will best illustrate the conduct of the
American. The day after we landed at New York, I returned to the ship
for the light articles. They made a troublesome load, and filled a horse
cart. “What do you think I _ought_ to get for carrying this load,
squire?” asked the cartman, as he looked at the baskets, umbrellas, band
boxes, velises, secretaries, trunks, &c. &c., “it is quite two miles to
Carroll Place.” “It is, indeed; what is your fare?” “Only thirty-seven
and a half cents;” (about two francs;) “and it is justly worth
seventy-five, there is so much trumpery.” “I will give you a dollar.”
“No more need be said, sir; you shall have every thing safe.” I was so
much struck with this straight-forward manner of proceeding, after all I
had undergone in Europe, that I made a note of it the same day.
The Hotel de l’Europe, at Rouen, was not a first rate inn, for France,
but it effectually removed the disagreeable impression left by the Hotel
de l’Angleterre at Havre. We were well lodged, well fed, and otherwise
well treated. After ordering dinner, all of a suitable age hurried off
to the cathedral.
Rouen is an old, and by no means a well built town. Some improvements
along the river are on a large scale, and promise well; but the heart of
the city is composed principally of houses of wooden frames, with the
interstices filled-in with cement. Work of this kind is very common in
all the northern provincial towns of France. It gives a place a
singular, and not altogether an unpicturesque air; the short dark studs
that time has imbrowned, forming a sort of visible ribs to the houses.
When we reached the little square in front of the cathedral, verily
Henry VIIth’s chapel sunk into insignificance. I can only compare the
effect of the chiseling on the quaint Gothic of this edifice, to that of
an enormous skreen of dark lace, thrown into the form of a church. This
was the first building of the kind that my companions had ever seen; and
they had, in-so-much, the advantage over me, as I had, in a degree,
taken off the edge of wonder by the visit, already mentioned, to
Westminster. The first look at this pile was one of inextricable
details. It was not difficult to distinguish the vast and magnificent
doors, and the beautiful oriel windows, buried as they were in ornament,
but an examination was absolutely necessary to trace the little towers,
pinnacles, and the crowds of pointed arches, amid such a scene of
architectural confusion. “It is worth crossing the Atlantic, were it
only to see this!” was the common feeling among us.
It was some time before we discovered that divers dwellings had actually
been built between the buttresses of the church, for their comparative
diminutiveness, quaint style, and close incorporation with the pile,
caused us to think them, at first, a part of the edifice itself. This
desecration of the Gothic is of very frequent occurrence on the
continent of Europe, taking its rise in the straitened limits of
fortified towns, the cupidity of churchmen, and the general indifference
to knowledge, and, consequently, to taste, which depressed the ages that
immediately followed the construction of most of these cathedrals.
We were less struck by the interior, than by the exterior of this
building. It is vast, has some fine windows, and is purely Gothic; but
after the richness of the external details, the aisles and the choir
appeared rather plain. It possessed, however, in some of its monuments,
subjects of great interest to those who had never stood over a grave of
more than two centuries, and rarely even over one of half that age.
Among other objects of this nature, is the heart of _Cœur de Lion_, for
the church was commenced in the reign of one of his predecessors,
Normandy at that time belonging to the English kings, and claiming to be
the depository of the “lion heart.”
Rouen has many more memorials of the past. We visited the square in
which Joan of Arc was buried; a small irregular area in front of her
prison; the prison itself, and the hall in which she had been condemned.
All these edifices are Gothic, quaint, and some of them sufficiently
dilapidated.
I had forgotten to relate, in its place, a fact, as an offset to the
truculent garrulity of the porters. We were shown round the cathedral by
a respectable-looking old man in a red scarf, a cocked hat, and a
livery, one of the officers of the place. He was respectful, modest, and
well instructed in his tale. The tone of this good old _cicerone_ was so
much superior to any thing I had seen in England—in America such a
functionary is nearly unknown—that, under the influence of our national
manners, I had awkward doubts as to the propriety of offering him money.
At length the five francs rescued from the cupidity of the
half-civilized peasants of _la basse Normandie_ were put into his hand.
A look of indecision caused me to repent the indiscretion. I thought his
feelings had been wounded. “_Est-ce-que Monsieur, compte me presenter
tout ceci?_” I told him I hoped he would do me the favour to accept it.
I had only given _more_ than was usual, and the honesty of the worthy
cicerone hesitated about taking it. To know when to pay, and what to pay
is a useful attainment of the experienced traveller.
Paris lay before us, and, although Rouen is a venerable and historical
town, we were impatient to reach the French capital. A carriage was
procured, and, on the afternoon of the second day, we proceeded.
After quitting Rouen, the road runs, for several miles, at the foot of
high hills, and immediately on the banks of the Seine. At length we were
compelled to climb the mountain which terminates near the city, and
offers one of the noblest views in France, from a point called St.
Catherine’s Hill. We did not obtain so fine a prospect from the road,
but the view far surpassed any thing we had yet seen in Europe. Putting
my head out the window, when about half way up the ascent, I saw an
object booming down upon us, at the rate of six or eight miles the hour,
that resembled in magnitude, at least, a moving house. It was a
_diligence_, and being the first we had met, it caused a general
sensation in our party. Our heads were in each other’s way, and finding
it impossible to get a good view in any other manner, we fairly alighted
in the highway, old and young, to look at the monster, unincumbered. Our
admiration and eagerness, caused as much amusement to the travellers it
held, as their extraordinary equipage gave rise to among us; and two
merrier parties did not encounter each other, on the public road, that
day.
A proper _diligence_ is formed of a chariot-body, and two coach-bodies
placed one before the other, the first in front. These are all on a
large scale, and the wheels and train are in proportion. On the roof,
(the three bodies are closely united) is a _cabriolet_, or covered seat,
and baggage is frequently piled there, many feet in height. A large
leathern apron covers the latter. An ordinary load of hay, though wider,
is scarcely of more bulk than one of these vehicles, which sometimes
carries twenty-five or thirty passengers, and two or three tons of
luggage. The usual team is composed of five horses, two of which go on
the pole, and three on the lead, the latter turning their heads
outwards, as W—— remarked, so as to resemble a spread eagle.
Notwithstanding the weight, these carriages usually go down a hill
faster than when travelling on the plain. A bar of wood is brought, by
means of a winch that is controlled by a person called the _conducteur_,
one who has charge of both ship and cargo, to bear on the hind wheels,
with a greater or less force, according to circumstances, so that all
the pressure is taken off the wheel horses. A similar invention has
latterly been applied to rail-road cars. I have since gone over this
very road with ten horses, two on the wheel, and eight in two lines on
the lead. On that occasion, we came down this very hill, at the rate of
nine miles the hour.
After amusing ourselves with the spectacle of the diligence, we found
the scenery too beautiful to re-enter the carriage immediately, and we
walked to the top of the mountain. The view from the summit was truly
admirable. The Seine comes winding its way, through a broad rich valley,
from the southward, having just before run east, and, a league or two
beyond, due west, our own Susquehanna being less crooked. The stream was
not broad, but its numerous isles, willowy banks, and verdant meadows,
formed a line for the eye to follow. Rouen, in the distance, with its
ebony towers, fantastic roofs, and straggling suburbs, lines its shores,
at a curvature where the stream swept away west again, bearing craft of
the sea on its bosom. These dark old towers have a sombre, mysterious
air, which harmonizes admirably with the recollections that crowd the
mind, at such a moment! Scarce an isolated dwelling was to be seen, but
the dense population is compressed into villages and _bourgs_, that dot
the view, looking brown and teeming, like the nests of wasps. Some of
these places have still remains of walls, and most of them are so
compact and well defined that they appear more like vast castles, than
like the villages of England or America. All are gray, sombre, and
without glare, rising from the back ground of pale verdure, so many
appropriate _bas reliefs_.
The road was strewed with peasants of both sexes, wending their way
homeward, from the market of Rouen. One, a tawny woman, with no other
protection for her head than a high but perfectly clean cap, was going
past us, driving an ass, with the panniers loaded with manure. We were
about six miles from the town, and the poor beast, after staggering some
eight or ten miles to the market in the morning, was staggering back
with this heavy freight, at even. I asked the woman, who, under the
circumstances, could not but be a resident of one of the neighbouring
villages, the name of a considerable _bourg_, that lay about a gun-shot
distant in plain view, on the other side of the river. “_Monsieur, je ne
saurais pas vous dire, parceque, voyez-vous, je ne suis pas de ce pays
là_,” was the answer!
Knowledge is the parent of knowledge. He who possesses most of the
information of his age, will not quietly submit to neglect its current
acquisitions, but will go on improving as long as means and
opportunities offer; while he who finds himself ignorant of most things,
is only too apt to shrink from a labour which becomes Herculean. In this
manner, ambition is stifled, the mind gets to be inactive, and finally
sinks into unresisting apathy. Such is the case with a large portion of
the European peasantry. The multitude of objects that surround them,
becomes a reason of indifference; and they pass, from day to day, for a
whole life, in full view of a town, without sufficient curiosity in its
history to inquire its name, or, if told by accident, sufficient
interest to remember it. We see this principle exemplified daily in
cities. One seldom thinks of asking the name of a passer by, though he
may be seen constantly, whereas, in the country, such objects being
comparatively rare, the stranger is not often permitted to appear,
without some question touching his character.[3]
Footnote 3:
When in London, two years later, I saw a gentleman of rather striking
appearance pass my door for two months, five or six times of a
morning. Remembering the apathy of the Norman peasant, I at length
asked who it was—“Sir Francis Burdett,” was the answer.
I once inquired of a servant girl at a French inn, who might be the
owner of a _château_ near by, the gate of which was within a hundred
feet of the house we were in. She was unable to say, urging, as an
apology, that she had only been six weeks in her present place! This,
too, was in a small country hamlet. I think every one must have
remarked, _cæteris paribus_, how much more activity and curiosity of
mind is displayed by a countryman, who first visits a town, than by the
dweller in a city, who first visits the country. The first wishes to
learn every thing, since he has been accustomed to understand every
thing he has hitherto seen; while the last, accustomed to a crowd of
objects, usually regards most of the novel things he now sees for the
first time, with indifference.
The road, for the rest of the afternoon, led us over hills, and plains,
from one reach of the river to another, for we crossed the latter
repeatedly before reaching Paris. The appearance of the country was
extraordinary, in our eyes. Isolated houses were rare, but villages
dotted the whole expanse. No obtrusive colours, but the eye had
frequently to search against the hill-side, or in the valley, and, first
detecting a mass, it gradually took in the picturesque angles, roofs,
towers and walls of the little _bourg_. Not a fence, or visible boundary
of any sort, to mark the limits of possessions. Not a hoof in the fields
grazing, and occasionally, a sweep of mountain land resembled a pattern
card, with its stripes of green and yellow and other hues, the narrow
fields of the small proprietors. The play of light and shade on these
gay upland patches, though not strictly in conformity with the laws of
taste, certainly was attractive. When they fell entirely into shadow,
the harvest being over, and their gaudy colours lessened, they resembled
the melancholy and wasted vestiges of a festival.
At Louviers we dined, and there we found a new object of wonder in the
church. It was of the Gothic of the _bourgs_, less elaborated and more
rudely wrought than that of the larger towns, but quaint, and, the
population considered, vast. Ugly dragons thrust out their grinning
heads at us from the buttresses. The most agreeable monstrosities
imaginable, were crawling along the gray old stones. After passing this
place, the scenery lost a good deal of the pastoral appearance, which
renders Normandy rather remarkable in France, and took still more of the
starched pattern-card look, just mentioned. Still it was sombre, the
villages were to be extracted by the eye from their setting of fields,
and, here and there, one of those “silent fingers pointing to the
skies,” raised itself into the air like a needle, to prick the
consciences of the thoughtless. The dusky hues of all the villages,
contrasted oddly, and not unpleasantly; with the carnival colours of the
grains.
We slept at Vernon, and before retiring for the night, passed half an
hour in a fruitless attempt to carry by storm a large old circular
tower, that is imputed to the inexhaustible industry of Cæsar. This was
the third of his reputed works that we had seen, since landing in
France. In this part of Europe, Cæsar has the credit of every thing for
which no one else is willing to apply, as is the case with Virgil, at
Naples.
It was a sensation to rise in the morning with the rational prospect of
seeing Paris, for the first time in one’s life, before night. In my
catalogue it stands numbered as sensation the 5th; Westminster, the
night arrival in France, and the Cathedral of Rouen giving birth to
No’s. 1, 2, and 4. Though accustomed to the tattoo, and the evening
bugle of a man-of-war, the drums of Havre had the honour of No. 3. Alas!
how soon we cease to feel those agreeable excitements at all, even a
drum coming in time to pall on the ear.
Near Vernon we passed a village, which gave us the first idea of one
feature in the old _régime_. The place was gray, sombre, and
picturesque, as usual, in the distance; but crowded, dirty,
inconvenient, and mean, when the eye got too near. Just without the
limits of its nuisances, stood the _château_, a regular pile of hewn
stone, with formal _allées_, abundance of windows, extensive stables,
and broken vases. The ancient _seigneur_ probably retained no more of
this ancient possession than its name, while some Monsieur Le Blanc, or
Monsieur Le Noir filled his place in the house, and “_Personne dans la
seigneurie_.”
A few leagues farther brought us to an eminence, whence we got a
beautiful glimpse of the sweeping river, and of a wide expanse of
fertile country less formally striped, and more picturesque than the
preceding. Another gray castellated town lay on the verge of the river,
with towers that seemed even darker than ever. How different was all
this from the glare of our own objects! As we wound round the brow of
the height, extensive park grounds, a village more modern, less
picturesque, and less dirty than common, with a large _château_ in red
bricks was brought in sight, in the valley. This was _Rosny_, the place
that gave his hereditary title to the celebrated _Sully_, as _Baron_ and
_Marquis de Rosny_: _Sully_, a man, who, like Bacon, almost deserves the
character so justly given of the latter by Pope, that of “The wisest,
greatest, _meanest_, of mankind.” The house and grounds were now the
property of _Madame_, as it is the ettiquette to term the _Duchesse de
Berri_. The town in the distance, with the dark towers, was Mantes, a
place well known in the history of Normandy. We breakfasted at _le
Cheval Blanc_. The church drew us all out, but it was less monstrous
than that of Louviers, and, as a cathedral, unworthy to be named with
those of the larger places.
The next stage brought us to _St. Germain en Laye_, or to the verge of
the circle of low mountains, that surround the plains of Paris. Here we
got within the influence of royal magnificence and the capital. The
Bourbons, down to the period of the revolution, were indeed kings, and
they have left physical and moral impressions of their dynasty of seven
hundred years, that will require as long a period to eradicate. Nearly
every foot of the entire semicircle of hills, to the west of Paris, is
historical, and garnished by palaces, pavillions, forests, parks,
aqueducts, gardens or chases. A carriage terrace, of a mile in length,
and on a most magnificent scale in other respects, overlooks the river,
at an elevation of several hundred feet above its bed. The palace
itself, a quaint old edifice of the time of Francis 1st., who seems to
have had an architecture not unlike that of Elizabeth of England, has
long been abandoned as a royal abode. I believe its last royal occupant
was the dethroned James II. It is said to have been deserted by its
owners, because it commands a distant view of that silent monitor, the
sombre but beautiful spire of St. Denis, whose walls shadow the vaults
of the Bourbons; they who sat on a throne not choosing to be thus
constantly reminded of the time, when they must descend to the common
fate and crumbling equality of the grave.
An aqueduct, worthy of the Romans, gave an imposing idea of the scale on
which these royal works were conducted. It appeared, at the distance of
a league or two, a vast succession of arches, displaying a broader range
of masonry than I had ever before seen. So many years had passed since I
was last in Europe, that I gazed, in wonder at its vastness.
From St. Germain we plunged into the valley, and took our way towards
Paris, by a broad paved avenue, that was bordered with trees. The road
now began to show an approach to a capital, being crowded with all sorts
of uncouth looking vehicles, used as public conveyances. Still it was on
a Liliputian scale as compared to London, and semi-barbarous even, as
compared to one of our towns. _Marly-la-Machine_ was passed; an
hydraulic invention to force water up the mountains to supply the
different princely dwellings of the neighbourhood. Then came a house of
no great pretension, buried in trees, at the foot of the hill. This was
the celebrated consular abode, _Malmaison_. After this we mounted to a
hamlet, and the road stretched away before us, with the river between,
to the unfinished _arc de L’Etoile_, or the barrier of the capital. The
evening was soft, and there had been a passing shower. As the mist drove
away, a mass rose like a glittering beacon, beyond the nearest hill,
proclaiming Paris. It was the dome of the Hotel of the Invalids!
Though Paris possesses better points of view, from its immediate
vicinity, than most capitals, it is little seen from any of its ordinary
approaches, until fairly entered. We descended to the river, by a gentle
declivity. The _château_ and grounds of _Neuilly_, a private possession
of the Duke of Orleans, lay on our left; the _Bois de Boulogne_, the
carriage promenade of the capital, on our right. We passed one of those
abortions a _magnificent_ village (_Neuilly_,) and ascended gently
towards the unfinished arch of the star. Bending around this imposing
memorial of—Heaven knows what! for it has had as many destinations as
France has had governors—we entered the iron gate of the barrier, and
found ourselves within the walls of Paris.
We were in the _avenue de Neuilly_. The _Champs Elysées_, without
verdue, a grove divided by the broad approach, and moderately peopled by
a well-dressed crowd, lay on each side. In front, at the distance of a
mile, was a mass of foliage that looked more like a rich copse in a
park, than an embellishment of a town garden, and above this, again,
peered the pointed roofs of two or three large and high members of some
vast structure, sombre in colour and quaint in form. They were the
pavillions of the _Tuileries_.[4] A line of hotels became visible
through trees and shrubbery on the left, and on the right we soon got
evidence that we were again near the river. We had just left it behind
us, and after a _détour_ of several leagues, here it was again flowing
in our front, cutting in twain the capital.
Footnote 4:
Tuileries is derived from _Tuil_ or tile; the site of the present
gardens having been a tile yard.
Objects now grew confused, for they came fast. We entered and crossed a
paved area, that lay between the Seine, the _Champs Elysées_, the garden
of the _Tuileries_, and two little palaces of extraordinary beauty of
architecture. This was the place where Louis XVIth, and his unfortunate
wife, were beheaded. Passing between the two edifices last named, we
came upon the _Boulevards_, and plunged at once into the street-gaiety
and movement of this remarkable town.
LETTER V.
TO R. COOPER, ESQUIRE, COOPERSTOWN.
We were not a fortnight in Paris, before we were quietly established,
_en bourgeois_, in the _Fauxbourg St. Germain_. Then followed the long
and wearying toil of sight-seeing. Happily, our time was not limited,
and we took months for that which is usually performed in a few days.
This labor is connected with objects that description has already
rendered familiar, and I shall say nothing of them, except as they may
incidentally belong to such parts of my subject as I believe worthy to
be noticed.
Paris was empty in the month of August, 1826. The court was at St.
Cloud; the _Duchesse de Berri_ at her favourite Dieppe; and the
fashionable world was scattered abroad over the face of Europe. Our own
minister was at the baths of Aix, in Savoy.
One of the first things was to obtain precise and accurate ideas of the
position and _entourage_ of the place. In addition to those enjoyed from
its towers, there are noble views of Paris from Monmartre and Père la
Chaise. The former has the best look-out, and thither we proceeded. This
little mountain is entirely isolated, forming no part of the exterior
circle of heights which environ the town. It lies north of the walls,
which cross its base. The ascent is so steep, as to require a winding
road, and the summit, a table of a hundred acres, is crowned by a
crowded village, a church, and divers windmills. There was formerly a
convent or two, and small country houses still cling to its sides,
buried in the shrubbery that clothe their terraces.
We were fortunate in our sky, which was well veiled in clouds, and
occasionally darkened by mists. A bright sun may suit particular scenes,
and peculiar moods of the mind, but every connoisseur in the beauties of
nature will allow that, as a rule, clouds, and very frequently a partial
obscurity, greatly aid a landscape. This is yet more true of a
bird’s-eye view of a grey old mass of walls, which give up their
confused and dusky objects all the better for the absence of glare. I
love to study a place teeming with historical recollections, under this
light; leaving the sites of memorable scenes to issue, one by one, but
of the grey mass of gloom, as time gives up its facts from the obscurity
of ages.
Unlike English and American towns, Paris has scarcely any suburbs. Those
parts which are called its _Fauxbourgs_ are in truth integral parts of
the city, and, with the exception of a few clusters of wine-houses and
_guinguettes_, which have collected near its gates to escape the city
duties, the continuity of houses ceases suddenly with the _barrières_,
and, at the distance of half a mile from the latter, one is as
effectually in the country, so far as the eye is concerned, as if a
hundred leagues in the provinces. The unfenced meadows, vineyards,
lucerne, oats, wheat, and vegetables, in many places, literally reach
the walls. These walls are not intended for defence, but are merely a
financial _enceinte_, created for offensive operations against the
pockets of the inhabitants. Every town in France that has two thousand
inhabitants, is entitled to set up an _octroi_ on its articles of
consumption, and something like four millions of dollars are taken,
annually, at the gates of Paris, in duties on this internal trade. It is
merely the old expedient to tax the poor, by laying impositions on food
and necessaries.
From the windmills of Montmartre, the day we ascended, the eye took in
the whole vast capital, at a glance. The domes sprung up through the
mist, like starting balloons; and, here and there, the meandering stream
threw back a gleam of silvery light. Enormous roofs denoted the sites of
the palaces, churches, or theatres. The summits of columns, the crosses
of the minor churches, and the pyramids of pavillion-tops, seemed
struggling to rear their heads from out the plain of edifices. A better
idea of the vastness of the principal structures was obtained here, in
one hour, than could be got from the streets in a twelvemonth. Taking
the roofs of the palace, for instance, the eye followed its field of
slate and lead, through a parallelogram, for quite a mile. The sheet of
the French opera resembled a blue pond, and the aisles of Notre-Dame,
and St. Eustache, with their slender ribs and massive buttresses,
towered so much above the lofty houses around them, as to seem to stand
on their ridges. The church of _St. Geneviève_, the Pantheon of the
revolution, faced us, on the swelling land of the opposite side of the
town, but surrounded still with crowded lines of dwellings; the
Observatory limiting, equally, the view, and the vast field of houses,
in that direction.
Owing to the state of the atmosphere, and the varying light, the picture
before us was not that simply of a town, but, from the multiplicity and
variety of its objects, it was a vast and magnificent view. I have
frequently looked at Paris since from the same spot, or from its church
towers, when the strong sun-light reduced it to the appearance of
confused glittering piles, on which the eye almost refused to dwell;
but, in a clouded day, all the peculiarities stand out sombre and
distinct, resembling the grey accessaries of the ordinary French
landscape.
From the town we turned to the heights which surround it. East and
south-east, after crossing the Seine, the country lay in the waste-like
unfenced fields which characterize the scenery of this part of Europe.
Roads stretched away in the direction of Orleans, marked by the usual
lines of clipped and branchless trees. More to the west commences the
abrupt heights, which, washed by the river, encloses nearly half the
wide plain, like an amphitheatre. This has been the favorite region of
the kings of France, from the time of Louis XIIIth, down to the present
day. The palaces of Versailles, St. Germain, St. Cloud, and Meudon, all
lie in this direction, within short distances of the capital, and the
royal forests, avenues, and chases, intersect it in every direction, as
mentioned before.
Farther north, the hills rise to be low mountains, though a wide and
perfectly level plain spreads itself between the town and their bases,
varying in breadth from two to four leagues. On the whole of this
expanse of cultivated fields, there was hardly such a thing as an
isolated house. Though not literally true, this fact was so nearly so,
as to render the effect oddly peculiar, when one stood on the eastern
extremity of Montmartre, where, by turning southward, he looked down
upon the affluence, and heard the din of a vast capital, and by turning
northward, he beheld a country with all the appliances of rural life,
and dotted by grey villages. Two places, however, were in sight, in this
direction, that might aspire to be termed towns. One was _St. Denis_,
from time immemorial, the burying place of the French kings, and the
other was _Montmorency_, the _bourg_ which gives its name to, or
receives it from, the illustrious family that is so styled, for I am
unable to say which is the fact. The church spire of the former, is one
of the most beautiful objects in view from Montmartre, the church
itself, which was desecrated in the revolution, having been restored by
Napoleon. St. Denis is celebrated, in the Catholic annals, by the fact
of the martyr, from whom the name is derived, having walked, after
decapitation, with his head under his arm, all the way from Paris to
this very spot.
Montmorency is a town of no great size or importance, but lying on the
side of a respectable mountain, in a way to give the spectator more than
a profile, it appears to be larger than it actually is. This place is
scarcely distinguishable from Paris, under the ordinary light, but on a
day like that which we had chosen, it stood out in fine relief from the
surrounding fields, even the grey mass of its church being plainly
visible.
If Paris is so beautiful and striking, when seen from the surrounding
heights, there are many singularly fine pictures, in the bosom of the
place itself. We rarely crossed the Pont Royal, during the first month
or two of our residence, without stopping the carriage to gaze at the
two remarkable views it offers. One is up the reach of the Seine which
stretches through the heart of the town, separated by the island, and
the other, in an opposite direction, looks down the reach by which the
stream flows into the meadows, on its way to the sea. The first is a
look into the avenues of a large town, the eye resting on the quaint
outlines and endless mazes of walls, towers, and roofs, while the last
is a prospect, in which the front of the picture is a collection of some
of the finest objects of a high state of civilization, and the back
ground a beautiful termination of wooded and decorated heights.
At first, one who is accustomed to the forms and movements of a
sea-port, feels a little disappointment at seeing a river that bears
nothing but dingy barges loaded with charcoal and wine casks. The
magnificence of the quays seems disproportioned to the trifling
character of the commerce they are destined to receive. But familiarity
with the town soon changes all these notions, and while we admit that
Paris is altogether secondary so far as trade is concerned, we come to
feel the magnificence of her public works, and to find something that is
pleasing and picturesque, even in her huge and unwieldy wood and coal
barges. Trade is a good thing in its way, but its agents rarely
contribute to the taste, learning, manners, or morals of a nation.
The sight of the different interesting objects that encircle Paris
stimulated our curiosity to nearer views, and we proceeded, immediately,
to visit the environs. These little excursions occupied more than a
month, and they not only made us familiar with the adjacent country,
but, by compelling us to pass out at nearly every one of the twenty, or
thirty, different gates, or barriers, as they are called, with a large
portion of the town also. This capital has been too often described to
render any further account of the principal objects necessary, and in
speaking of it, I shall endeavour to confine my remarks to things that I
think may still interest you by their novelty.
The royal residences in Paris, at this time, are, strictly speaking, but
two, the Tuileries and the Palais Royal. The Louvre is connected with
the first, and it has no finished apartments that are occupied by any of
princely rank, most of its better rooms being unfinished, and are
occupied as cabinets or museums. A small palace, called the _Elysée
Bourbon_, is fitted up as a residence for the heir presumptive, the Duc
de Bordeaux; but, though it contains his princely toys, such as
miniature batteries of artillery, &c., he is much too young to maintain
a separate establishment. This little scion of royalty only completed
his seventh year not long after our arrival in France, on which occasion
one of those silly ceremonies, which some of the present age appear to
think inseparable from sound principles, was observed. The child was
solemnly and formally transferred from the care of the women to that of
the men. Up to this period, Madame la Viscomtesse de Gontaut-Biron had
been his governess, and she now resigned her charge into the hands of
the Baron de Damas, who had lately been Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Madame de Gontaut was raised to the rank of Duchess on the occasion. The
boy himself is said to have passed from the hands of the one party, to
those of the other, in presence of the whole court, _absolutely naked_.
Some such absurdity was observed at the reception of _Marie Antoinette_,
it being a part of regal etiquette that a royal bride, on entering
France, should leave her old wardrobe, even to the last garment, behind
her. You will be amused to hear that there are people in Europe, who
still attach great importance to a rigid adherence to all the old
etiquette, at similar ceremonies. These are the men who believe it to be
essential that judges and advocates should wear wigs, in an age when,
their use being rejected by the rest of the world, their presence cannot
fail, if it excite any feeling, to excite that of inconvenience and
absurdity. There is such a thing as leaving society too naked, I admit,
but a _chemise_ at least, could not have injured the little Duke of
Bordeaux, at this ceremony. Whenever a usage that is poetical in itself,
and which awakens a sentiment without doing violence to decency, or
comfort, or common sense, can be preserved, I would rigidly adhere to
it, if it were only for antiquity’s sake; but, surely, it would be far
more rational for judges to wear false beards, because formerly Bacon
and Coke did not shave their chins, than it is for a magistrate to
appear on the bench with a cumbrous, hot, and inconvenient cloud of
powdered flax, or whatever may be the material, on his poll, because our
ancestors, a century or two since, were so silly as to violate nature in
the same extraordinary manner.
Speaking of the Duke of Bordeaux, reminds me of an odd, and, indeed, in
some degree, a painful scene, of which I was accidentally a witness, a
short time before the ceremony just mentioned. The _emigrés_ have
brought back with them into France, a taste for horse-racing, and,
supported by a few of the English who are here, there are regular races,
spring and autumn, in the _Champs de Mars_. The course is one of the
finest imaginable, being more than a mile in circumference, and
surrounded by mounds of earth, raised expressly with that object, which
permit the spectators to overlook the entire field. The result is a
species of amphitheatric arena, in which any of the dramatic
exhibitions, that are so pleasing to this spectacle-loving nation, may
be enacted. Pavillions are permanently erected at the starting-post, and
one or two of these are usually fitted up for the use of the court,
whenever it is the pleasure of the royal family to attend, as was the
case at the time the little occurrence, I am about to relate, took
place.
On this occasion, Charles Xth came in royal state, from St. Cloud,
accompanied by detachments of his guards, many carriages, several of
which were drawn by eight horses, and a cloud of mounted footmen. Most
of the dignitaries of the kingdom were present, in the different
pavillions, or stands, and nearly or quite all the ministers, together
with the whole diplomatic corps. There could not have been less than a
hundred thousand spectators on the mounds.
The racing itself was no great matter, being neither within time,
nor well contested. The horses were all French, the trial being
intended for the encouragement of the French breeders, and the
sports were yet too recent to have produced much influence on the
stock of the country. During the heats, accompanied by a young
American friend, I had strolled among the royal equipages, in
order to examine their magnificence, and returning towards the
course, we came out unexpectedly at a little open space,
immediately at one end of the pavillion in which the royal family
was seated. There were not a dozen people near us, and one of
these was a sturdy Englishman, evidently a tradesman, who betrayed
a keen and a truly national desire to get a look at the king. The
head of a little girl was just visible above the side of the
pavillion, and my companion, who, by a singular accident, not long
before, had been thrown into company with _les enfans de France_,
as the royal children are called, informed me that it was
_Mademoiselle d’Artois_, the sister of the heir presumptive. He
had given me a favorable account of the children, whom he
represented as both lively and intelligent, and I changed my
position a little, to get a better look of the face of this little
personage, who was not twenty feet from the spot where we stood.
My movement attracted her attention, and, after looking down a
moment into the small area in which we were enclosed, she
disappeared. Presently a lady looked over the ballustrade, and our
Englishman seemed to be on tenter-hooks. Some thirty or forty
French gathered round us immediately, and I presume it was thought
none but loyal subjects could manifest so much desire to gaze at
the family, especially as one or two of the French clapped the
little princess, whose head now appeared and disappeared again, as
if she were earnestly pressing something on the attention of those
within the pavillion. In a moment, the form of a pale and sickly
looking boy was seen, the little girl, who was a year or two
older, keeping her place at his side. The boy was raised on the
knee of a melancholy-looking and rather hard-featured female of
fifty, who removed his straw hat, in order to salute us. “These
are the _Dauphine_ and the _Duc de Bordeaux_,” whispered my
companion, who knew the person of the former by sight. The
Dauphine looked anxiously, and I thought mournfully, at the little
cluster we formed directly before her, as if waiting to observe in
what manner her nephew would be received. Of course my friend and
myself, who were in the foreground, stood uncovered; as gentlemen
we could not do less, nor as _foreign_ gentlemen could we very
well do more. Not a Frenchman, however, even touched his hat! On
the other hand, the Englishman, straddled his legs, gave a wide
sweep with his beaver, and uttered as hearty a hurrah as if he had
been cheering a member of Parliament who gave gin in his beer. The
effect of this single, unaccompanied, unanswered cheer, was both
ludicrous and painful. The poor fellow himself seemed startled at
hearing his own voice amid so profound a stillness, and checking
his zeal as unexpectedly as he had commenced its exhibition, he
looked furiously around him, and walked surlily away. The
_Dauphine_ followed him with her eyes. There was no mistaking his
gaitered limbs, dogged mien, and florid countenance; he clearly
was not French, and those that were, as clearly turned his
enthusiasm into ridicule. I felt sorry for her, as with a saddened
face, she set down the boy, and withdrew her own head within the
covering of the pavillion. The little _Mademoiselle d’Artois_ kept
her bright looks, in a sort of wonder, on us, until the
circumspection of those around her, gave her a hint to disappear.
This was the first direct and near view I got of the true state of
popular feeling in Paris, towards the reigning family. According to the
journals in the interest of the court, enthusiasm was invariably
exhibited whenever any of their princes appeared in public; but the
journals in every country, our own dear and shrewd republic not
excepted, are very unsafe guides for those who desire truth.
I am told that the style of this court has been materially altered, and
perhaps improved, by the impetuous character of Napoleon. The king
rarely appears in public with less than eight horses, which are usually
in a foam. His liveries are not showy, neither are the carriages as neat
and elegant as one would expect. The former are blue and white, with a
few slight ornaments of white and red lace, and the vehicles are showy,
large and even magnificent, but, I think, without good taste. You will
be surprised to hear that he drives with what, in America, we call
“Dutch collars.” Six of the horses are held in hand, and the leaders are
managed by a postillion. There is always one or more empty carriages,
according to the number of the royal personages present, equipped in
every respect like those which are filled, and which are held in reserve
against accidents; a provision, by the way, that is not at all
unreasonable in those who scamper over the broken pavements, in and
about Paris, as fast as leg can be put to the ground.
Notwithstanding the present magnificence of the court, royalty is shorn
of much of its splendor in France, since the days of Louis XVIth. Then a
city of a hundred thousand souls, (Versailles) was a mere dependant of
the crown; lodgings for many hundred _abbés_, it is said, were provided
in the palace alone, and a simple representation at the palace opera,
cost a fortune.
It is not an easy matter to come at the real cost of the kingly office
in this country, all the expenditures of the European governments being
mystified in such a way, as to require a very intimate knowledge of the
details, to give a perfectly clear account of them. But, so far as I
have been able to ascertain, the charges that arise from this feature of
the system do not fall much short, if indeed they do any, of eight
millions of dollars, annually. Out of this sum, however, the king pays
the extra allowances of his guards, the war office taking the same view
of all classes of soldiers, after distinguishing between foot and
cavalry. You will get an idea of the luxury of royalty, by a short
account of the _gardes du corps_. These troops are all officers, the
privates having the rank, and receiving the pay, of lieutenants. Their
duty, as the name implies, is to have the royal person in their especial
care, and there is always a guard of them, in an ante-chamber of the
royal apartments. They are heavy cavalry, and when they mount guard in
the palaces, their arm is a carabine. A party of them, always appear
near the carriage of the king, or indeed near that of any of the
reigning branch of the family. There are said to be four regiments or
companies of them, of four hundred men each; but it strikes me the
number must be exaggerated. I should think, however, that there are
fully a thousand of them. In addition to these selected troops, there
are three hundred Swiss, of the Swiss and royal guards; of the latter,
including all arms, there must be many thousands. These are the troops
that usually mount guard, in and about all the palaces. The annual
budget of France appears in the estimates, at about a _milliard_, or a
thousand millions of francs, but the usual mystifications are resorted
to, and the truth will give the annual central expenses of the country,
at not less, I think, than two hundred millions of dollars. This sum,
however, covers many items of expenditure, that we are accustomed to
consider purely local. The clergy, for instance, are paid out of it, as
is a portion of the cost of maintaining the roads. On the other hand,
much money is collected, as a general regulation, that does not appear
in the budget. Few or no churches are built, and there are charges for
masses, interments, christenings, and fees for a hundred things, of
which no account is taken, in making out the sum total of the cost of
government.
It was the policy of Napoleon to create a system of centralization, that
should cause every thing to emanate from himself. The whole organization
of government had this end in view, and all the details of the
departments have been framed expressly to further this object. The
prefects are no more than so many political _aides_, whose duty it is to
carry into effect the orders that emanate from the great head, and lines
of telegraphs, are established all over France, in such a way that a
communication may be sent from the Tuileries, to the remotest corner of
the kingdom, in the course of a few hours. It has been said that one of
the first steps towards effecting a revolution, ought to be to seize the
telegraphs at Paris, by means of which such information and orders could
be sent into the provinces, as the emergency might seem to require.
This system of centralization has almost neutralized the advancement of
the nation, in a knowledge of the usages and objects of the political
liberty that the French have obtained, by bitter experience, from other
sources. It is the constant aim of that portion of the community which
understands the action of free institutions, to increase the powers of
the municipalities, and to lessen the functions of the central
government; but their efforts are resisted with a jealous distrust of
every thing like popular dictation. Their municipal privileges are,
rightly enough, thought to be the entering wedges of real liberty. The
people ought to manage their own affairs, just as far as they can do so
without sacrificing their interests for want of a proper care, and here
is the starting point of representation. So far from France enjoying
such a system, however, half the time a bell cannot be hung in a parish
church, or a bridge repaired, without communications with, and orders
from, Paris.
LETTER VI.
TO MRS. POMEROY, COOPERSTOWN, NEW YORK.
I quitted America with some twenty letters of introduction, that had
been pressed upon me by different friends, but which were carefully
locked up in a secretary, where they still remain, and are likely to
remain for ever, or until they are distroyed. As this may appear a
singular resolution for one who left his own country to be absent for
years, I shall endeavour to explain it. In the first place, I have a
strong repugnance to pushing myself on the acquaintance of any man; this
feeling may, in fact, proceed from pride, but I have a disposition to
believe, that it proceeds, in part, also, from a better motive. These
letters of introduction, like verbal introductions, are so much abused
in America, that the latter feeling, perhaps I might say both feelings,
are increased by the fact. Of all the people in the world we are the
most prodigal of these favors, when self-respect and propriety would
teach us we ought to be among the most reserved, simply because the
character of the nation is so low, that the European, more than half the
time, fancies he is condescending when he bestows attentions on our
people at all. Other travellers may give you a different account of the
matter, but let every one be responsible for his own opinions and facts.
Then, a friend, who, just as we left home, returned from Europe after an
absence of five years, assured me that he found his letters of but
little use; that nearly every agreeable acquaintance he made was the
result of accident, and that the Europeans, in general, were much more
cautious in giving and receiving letters of this nature, than ourselves.
The usages of all Europe, those of the English excepted, differ from our
own on the subject of visits. There the stranger, or the latest arrival,
is expected to make the first visit, and an inquiry for your address, is
always taken for an intimation that your acquaintance would be
acceptable. Many, perhaps most, Americans lose a great deal through
their provincial breeding, in this respect, in waiting for attentions
that it is their duty to invite, by putting themselves in the way of
receiving them. The European usage is not only the most rational, but it
is the most delicate. It is the most rational, as there is a manifest
absurdity in supposing, for instance, that the inhabitant of a town is
to know whenever a visiter from the country arrives, and it is the most
delicate, as it leaves the new-comer, who is supposed to know his own
wishes best, to decide, for himself, whether he wishes to make
acquaintances, or not. In short, our own practices are provincial and
rustic, and cannot exist when the society of the country shall have
taken the usual phases of an advanced civilization. Even in England, in
the higher classes, the cases of distinguished men excepted, it is usual
for the stranger to seek the introduction.
Under such circumstances, coupled with the utter insignificance of an
ordinary individual in a town like Paris, you will easily understand
that we had the first months of our residence, entirely to ourselves. As
a matter of course, we called on our own minister and his wife, and as a
matter of course, we have been included in the dinners and parties, that
they are accustomed to give at this season of the year. This, however,
has merely brought us in contact with a chance-medley of our own
countrymen, these diplomatic entertainments being quite obviously a
matter of accident, so far as the set is concerned. The dinners of your
banker, however, are still worse, since with them the visiting list is
usually a mere extract from the leger.
Our privacy has not been without its advantages. It has enabled us to
visit all the visible objects without the incumbrance of engagements,
and given me leisure to note and to comment on things, that might
otherwise, have been overlooked. For several months we have had nothing
to do, but to see sights, get familiarized with a situation, that, at
first, we found singularly novel, and to brush up our French.
I never had sufficient faith in the popular accounts of the usages of
other countries, to believe one half of what I have heard. I distrusted,
from the first, the fact of ladies, I mean real _bonâ fide_ ladies,
women of sentiment, delicacy, taste, and condition, frequenting public
eating-houses, and habitually living, without the retirement and
reserve, that is so necessary, to all _women_, not to say _men_, of the
_caste_. I found it difficult, therefore, to imagine I should meet with
many females of condition in _restaurants_ and _cafés_. Such a thing
might happen on an emergency, but it was assailing too much all those
feelings and tastes which become inherent in refinement, to suppose that
the tables of event the best house of the sort, in Paris, could be
honored by the presence of such persons, except under particular
circumstances. My own observation corroborated this opinion, and, in
order to make sure of the fact, I have put the question to nearly every
French woman of rank, it has since been my good fortune to become
sufficiently acquainted with, to take the liberty. The answer has been
uniform. Such things are sometimes done, but rarely; and even then it is
usual to have the service in a private room. One old lady, a woman
perfectly competent to decide on such a point, told me frankly, “We
never do it, except by way of a frolick, or when in a humour which
induces people to do many other silly and unbecoming things. Why should
we go to the _restaurateurs_ to eat? We have our own houses and
servants, as well as the English, or even you Americans”—it may be
supposed I laughed—“and certainly the French are not so devoid of good
taste as not to understand that the mixed society of a public house, is
not the best possible company for a woman.”
It is, moreover, a great mistake to imagine that the French are not
hospitable, and that they do not entertain as freely, and as often as
any other people. The only difference between them and the English, in
this respect, or between them and ourselves, is in the better taste and
ease which regulate their intercourse of this nature. While there is a
great deal of true elegance, there is no fuss, at a French
entertainment; and all that you have heard of the superiority of the
kitchen, in this country, is certainly true. Society is divided into
_castes_, in Paris, as it is every where else; and the degrees of
elegance and refinement increase as one ascends, as a matter of course,
but there is less of effort, in every class, than is usual with us. One
of the best-bred Englishmen of my acquaintance, and one, too, who had
long been in the world, has frankly admitted to me, that the highest
tone of English society, is merely an imitation of that which existed in
Paris, previously to the revolution, and of which, though modified as to
usages and forms, a good deal still remains. By the highest tone,
however, you are not to suppose I mean that labored, frigid, heartless
manner, that so many, in England especially, mistake for high breeding,
merely because they do not know how to unite with the finish which
constant intercourse with the world creates, the graceful semblance of
living less for one’s self than for others, and to express, as it were,
their feelings and wishes, rather than to permit one’s own to escape
him, a habit, that, like the reflection of a mirror, produces the truest
and most pleasing images, when thrown back from surfaces the most highly
polished. But I am anticipating, rather than giving you a history of
what I have seen.
In consequence of our not having brought any letters, as has just been
mentioned, and of not having sought society, no one gave themselves any
trouble on our account, for the first three or four months of our
residence in Paris. At the end of that period, however, I made my
_début_, at probably as brilliant an entertainment, as one usually sees,
here, in the course of a whole winter. Mr. Canning, then Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs, came to Paris on a visit, and, as is usual on
such occasions, diplomacy was a good deal mixed up with eating and
drinking. Report says, that the etiquette of the court was a good deal
deranged by this visit, the Bourbons not having adopted the hale-fellow
hospitality of the English kings. _M. de Villèle_, or, _M. de Damas_,
would be invited to dine at Windsor, almost as a matter of course; but
the descendant of Hugh Capet hesitated about breaking bread with an
English commoner. The matter is understood to have been gotten over, by
giving the entertainment at St. Cloud; where, it would seem, the royal
person has fewer immunities than at the Tuileries. But, among other
attentions that were bestowed on the English statesman, Mr. Brown
determined to give him a great diplomatic dinner; and, our own legations
having a great poverty of subordinates, except in the way of travelling
_attachés_, I was invited to occupy one end of the table, while the
regular Secretary took his seat at the other. Before I attempt a short
description of this entertainment, it may help to enliven the solitude
of your mountain residence, and serve to give you more distinct ideas of
the matter, than can be obtained from novels, if I commence with a
summary of the appliances and modes of polite intercourse in this part
of the world, as they are to be distinguished from our own.
In the first place, you are to discard from your mind, all images of two
rooms and folding-doors, with a passage six feet wide, a narrow carpeted
flight of steps, and a bed-room prepared for the ladies to uncloak in,
and another in which the men can brush their hair, and hide their hats.
Some such snuggeries, very possibly exist in England among the middling
classes; but I believe all over the continent of Europe, style is never
attempted, without more suitable means to carry out the intention.
In Paris every one, who mingles with the world, lives in a hotel, or a
house that has a court and an outer gate. Usually, the building
surrounds three sides of this court, and sometimes, the whole four;
though small hotels are to be found, in which the court is encircled on
two, or even on three of its sides, merely by high walls. The gate is
always in the keeping of a regular porter, who is an important personage
about the establishment, taking in letters, tickets, &c., ejecting
blackguards and all other suspicious persons, carrying messages, besides
levying contributions on all the inmates of the house, in the way of
wood and coal. In short, he is, in some measure, held to be responsible
for the _exits_ and entrances, being a sort of domestic _gens-d’arme_.
In the larger hotels, there are two courts, the great and _la basse
cour_, the latter being connected with the offices and stables.
Of course, these hotels vary in size and magnificence. Some are not
larger than our own largest town-dwellings, while others, again, are
palaces. As these buildings were originally constructed to lodge a
single establishment, they have their principal and their inferior
apartments; some have their summer and their winter apartments. As is,
and always must be the case, where every thing like state and
magnificence are affected, the reception rooms are _en suite_; the mode
of building which prevails in America, being derived from the secondary
class of English houses. It is true, that in London, many men of rank,
perhaps of the nobility, do not live in houses any larger, or much
better, than the best of our own; though I think, that one oftener sees
rooms of a good size and proper elevation, even in these dwellings, than
it is usual to see in America. But the great houses of London, such as
Burlington-house, Northumberland-house, Devonshire-house,
Lansdown-house, Sutherland-house, (the most magnificent of all,) &c.
&c., are, more or less, on the continental plan, though not generally
built around courts. This plan eschews passages of all descriptions,
except among the private parts of the dwelling. In this respect, an
American house, is the very opposite of a European house. We are nothing
without passages, it being indispensable that every room should open on
one; whereas, here, the great point is to have as little to do with them
as possible. Thus you quit the great stair-case, by a principal door,
and find yourself in an ante-chamber; this communicates with one or two
more rooms of the same character, gradually improving in ornaments and
fixtures, until you enter a _salon_. Then comes a succession of
apartments, of greater or less magnificence, according to circumstances,
until you are led entirely round the edifice, quitting it by a door on
the great stair-case, again, opposite to the one by which you entered.
In those cases in which there are courts, the principal rooms are
ranged, in this manner, _en suite_, on the exterior range, usually
looking out on the gardens, while those within them, which look into the
court, contain the bed-rooms, boudoir, eating-rooms, and perhaps the
library. So tenacious are those, who lay any claim to gentility here, of
the use of ante-chambers, that I scarcely recollect a lodging of any
sort, beyond the solitary chamber of some student, without, at least,
one. They seem indispensable, and I think rightly, to all ideas of
style, or even of comfort. I remember to have seen an amusing instance
of the strength of this feeling, in the case of the wife of a former
French Minister, at Washington. The building she inhabited, was one of
the ordinary American double-houses, as they are called, with a passage
through the centre, the stairs in the passage, and a short corridore, to
communicate with the bed-rooms, above. Off the end of this upper
corridore, if, indeed, so short a transverse passage deserves the name,
was partitioned a room, of some eight feet by ten, as a bed-room. A room
adjoining this, was converted into a boudoir and bed-room, for Madame de
——, by means of a silk screen. The usual door of the latter opened, of
course, on the passage. In a morning call one day, I was received in the
_boudoir_. Surprised to be carried up stairs, on such an occasion, I was
still more so to find myself taken through a small room, before I was
admitted to the larger. The amount of it all was, that Madame de ——,
accustomed to have many rooms, and to think it vulgar to receive in her
great drawing-room of a morning, believing _au premier_, or up one pair
of stairs, more genteel than the _rèz de chaussée_, or the ground floor,
and feeling the necessity of an _ante-chamber_, as there was an
abruptness in being at once admitted into the presence of a lady from a
stair-case, a sort of local _brusquerie_, that would suit her cook,
better than the wife of an envoy extraordinary, had contrived to
introduce her guests through the little bed-room, at the end of the
up-stairs entry!
From all this you will be prepared to understand some of the essential
differences between a reception in Paris, and one at New York, or even
at Washington. The footman, or footmen, if there are two, ascend to the
inner ante-chamber, with their masters and mistresses, where they
receive the cloaks, shawls, over-coats, or whatever else has been used
for the sake of mere warmth, and withdraw. If they are sent home, as is
usually the case at dinners and evening parties, they return with the
things at the hour ordered, but if the call be merely a passing one, or
the guest means to go early to some other house, they either wait in the
ante-chamber, or in a room provided for that purpose. The French are
kind to their servants; much kinder than either the English, or their
humble imitators, ourselves; and it is quite common to see, not only a
good warm room, but refreshments, provided for the servants at a French
party. In England, they either crowd the narrow passages and the
door-way, or throng the street, as with us. In both countries, the poor
coachmen sit for hours on their carriage-boxes, like so many ducks, in
the drizzle and rain.
The footman gives the names of his party to the _maitre d’hôtel_, or the
groom of the chambers, who, as he throws open the door of the first
drawing-room, announces them in a loud voice. Announcing by means of a
line of servants, is rarely, if ever, practised in France, though it is
still done in England, at large parties, and in the great houses. Every
one has heard the story of the attempt at Philadelphia, some forty years
ago, to introduce the latter custom, when, by the awkwardness of a
servant, a party was announced, as “Master and Mistress, and the young
ladies;” but you will smile when I tell you that the latter part of this
style is precisely that which is most in vogue at Paris. A young lady
here, may be admired, she may be danced with, and she may even look and
be looked at; but in society she talks little, is never loud or
_belleish_, is always neat and simple in her attire, using very little
jewelry, and has scarcely any other name than _Mademoiselle_. The usual
mode of announcing is, “_Monsieur le Comte, et Madame la Comtesse d’une
telle, avec leurres des moiselles_:” or, in plain English, “The Count
and Countess Such-a-one, _with their daughters_.” This you will perceive
is not so far, after all, from “Master and Mistress, and the young
ladies.” The English, more simple in some respects, and less so in
others, usually give every name, though, in the use of titles, the
utmost good taste is observed. Thus every nobleman below a Duke, is
almost uniformly addressed and styled Lord A——, Lord B——, &c., and their
wives, Ladies A—— and B——. Thus the Marquess of Lansdowne would, I
think, always be addressed and spoken of, and even announced, merely as
Lord Lansdowne. This, you will observe, is using the simplest possible
style, and it appears to me that there is rather an affectation of
simplicity in their ordinary intercourse, the term “My Lord” being
hardly ever used, except by the tradesmen and domestics. The safest rule
for an American, and certainly the one that good taste would dictate, is
to be very sparing in his use of every thing of this sort, since he
cannot be always certain of the proper usages of the different countries
he visits, and, so long as he avoids unnecessary affectations of
republicanisms, and, if a gentleman, this he will do without any effort,
simplicity is his cue. When I say _avoids the affectations of
republicanisms_, I do not mean the points connected with principles, but
those vulgar and under-bred pretensions of ultra equality and
liberalism, which, while they mark neither manliness nor a real
appreciation of equal rights, almost uniformly betray a want of proper
training and great ignorance of the world. Whenever, however, any
attempt is made to identify equality of rights and democratical
institutions with vulgarity and truculency, as is sometimes attempted
here, in the presence of Americans, and even in good company, it is the
part of every _gentleman_ of our country to improve the opportunity that
is thus afforded him, to show it is a source of pride, with him, to
belong to a nation in which a hundred men are not depressed politically,
in order that one may be great; and also to show how much advantage,
after all, he who is right in substance has over him who is
substantially wrong, even in the forms of society, and in that true
politeness which depends on natural justice. Such a principle, acted on
systematically, would soon place the gentlemen of America where they
ought to be, and the gentlemen of other countries where, sooner or
later, they must be content to descend, or to change their systems. That
these things are not so, must be ascribed to our provincial habits, our
remote situation, comparative insignificance, and chiefly to the
circumstance that men’s minds, trained under a different state of
things, cannot keep even pace with the wonderful progress of the facts
of the country.
But all this time, I have only got you into the outer _salon_ of a
French hotel. In order that we may proceed more regularly, we will
return to the dinner given by our minister to Mr. Canning. Mr. Brown has
an apartment in the _Hôtel Monaco_, one of the best houses in Paris. The
Prince of Monaco is the sovereign of a little territory of the same
name, on the Gulf of Nice, at the foot of the maritime Alps. His states
may be some six or eight miles square, and the population some six or
eight thousand. The ancient name of the family is Grimaldi, but by some
intermarriage or other, the Duke of Valentinois, a Frenchman, has become
the prince. This little state is still independent, though under the
especial protection of the king of Sardinia, and without foreign
relations. It was formerly a common thing for the petty princes of
Europe to own hotels at Paris. Thus the present hotel of the Legion of
Honour, was built by a Prince of Salms, and the Princes of Monaco had
two, one of which is occupied by the Austrian ambassador, and, in the
other, our own minister, just at this moment, has an apartment. As I had
been pressed especially to be early, I went a little before six, and
finding no one in the drawing-room, I strolled into the bureau, where I
found Mr. Shelden, the Secretary of Legation, who lived in the family,
dressed for dinner. We chatted a little, and, on my admiring the
magnificence of the rooms, he gave me the history of the hotel, as you
have just heard it, with an additional anecdote that may be worth
relating.
“This hotel,” said the Secretary, “was once owned by M. de Talleyrand,
and this bureau was probably the receptacle of state secrets of far
greater importance than any that are connected with our own simple and
unsupported claims for justice.” He then went on to say, that the
citizens of Hamburgh, understanding it was the intention of Napoleon to
incorporate their town with the empire, had recourse to a _douceur_, in
order to prevent an act, that, by destroying their neutrality, would
annihilate their commerce. Four millions of francs were administered on
this occasion, and of these a large proportion, it is said, went to pay
for the hotel Monaco, which was a recent purchase of M. de Talleyrand.
To the horror of the _Hambourgeois_, the money was scarcely paid, when
the deprecated decree appeared, and every man of them was converted into
a Frenchman, by the stroke of a pen. The worthy burghers were accustomed
to receive a _quid pro quo_, for every florin they bestowed, failing of
which, on the present occasion, they sent a deputation forthwith to
Napoleon, to reveal the facts, and to make their complaints. That great
man little liked that any one but himself should peculate in his
dominions, and, in the end, M. de Talleyrand, was obliged to quit the
hotel Monaco. By some means, with which I am unacquainted, most probably
by purchase, however, the house is now the property of Madame Adelaide
of Orleans.
The rolling of a coach into the court was a signal for us to be at our
posts, and we abandoned the bureau, so lately occupied by the great
father of diplomacy, for the drawing-room. I have already told you that
this dinner was in honor of Mr. Canning, and, although diplomatic in one
sense, it was not so strictly confined to the corps as to prevent a
selection. This selection, in honor of the principal guest, had been
made from the representatives of the great powers, Spain being the least
important nation represented on the occasion, the republic of
Switzerland excepted. I do not know whether the presence of the Swiss
_Chargé d’Affaires_ was so intended or not, but it struck me as pointed,
and in good taste, for all the other foreign agents were ambassadors,
with the exception of the Prussian, who was an Envoy Extraordinary.
Diplomacy has its honorary gradations as well as a military corps, and
as you can know but little of such matters, I will explain them _en
passant_. First in rank comes the ambassador. This functionary is
supposed to represent the personal dignity of the state that sends him.
If a king, there is a room in his house that has a throne, and it is
usual to see the chair reversed, in respect for its sanctity, and it
appears to be etiquette to suspend the portrait of the sovereign beneath
the canopy. The Envoy Extraordinary comes next, and then the Minister
Plenipotentiary. Ordinarily, these two functions are united in the same
individual. Such is the rank of Mr. Brown. The Minister Resident is a
lower grade, and the _Chargé d’Affaires_ the lowest of all. _Inter se_,
these personages take rank according to this scale. Previously to the
peace of 1814, the representative of one monarch laid claim to precede
the representative of another, always admitting, however, of the
validity of the foregoing rule. This pretension gave rise to a good deal
of heart-burning and contention. Nothing can, in itself, be of greater
indifference, whether A. or B. walk into the reception-room, or to the
dinner table, first, but when the idea of general superiority is
associated with the act, the aspect of the thing is entirely changed.
Under the old system, the ambassador of the Emperor claimed precedence
over all other ambassadors, and, I believe, the representatives of the
kings of France had high pretensions also. Now there are great mutations
in states. Spain, once the most important kingdom of Europe, has much
less influence to-day than Prussia, a power of yesterday. Then the
minister of the most insignificant prince claimed precedency over the
representative of the most potent republic. This might have passed while
republics were insignificant and dependent, but no one can believe that
a minister of America, for instance, representing a state of fifty
millions, as will be the case before long, would submit to such an
extravagant pretension on the part of a minister of Wurtemburg, or
Sardinia, or Portugal. He would not submit to such a pretension on the
part of the minister of any power on earth.
I do not believe that the Congress of Vienna had sufficient foresight,
or sufficient knowledge of the actual condition of the United States, to
foresee this difficulty, but there were embarrassing points to be
settled among the European states themselves, and the whole affair was
disposed of, on a very discreet and equitable principle. It was decided
that priority of standing at a particular court, should regulate the
rank between the different classes of agents at that particular court.
Thus the ambassador longest at Paris, precedes all the other ambassadors
at Paris, and the same rule prevails with the ministers and _chargés_,
according to their respective gradations of rank. A provision, however,
was made in favor of the representative of the Pope, who, if of the rank
of a Nuncio, precedes all ambassadors. This concession has been made in
honor of the church, which, as you must know, or ought to be told, is an
interest much protected in all monarchies, statesmen being notoriously
of tender consciences.
The constant habit of meeting, drills the diplomatic corps so well, that
they go through the evolutions of etiquette as dexterously as a corps of
regular troops perform their wheelings and counter-marches. The first
great point with them is punctuality, for to people who sacrifice so
much of it to forms, time gets to be precious. The roll of wheels was
incessant in the court of the hotel Monaco, from the time the first
carriage entered, until the last had set down its company. I know, as
every man who reflects must know, that it is inherently ill-bred to be
late any where, but I never before felt how completely it was high
breeding to be as punctual as possible. The _maitre d’hôtel_ had as much
as he could do to announce the company, who entered as closely after
each other as decorum and dignity would permit; I presume one party
waited a little for the others in the outer drawing-room, the reception
being altogether in the inner room.
The Americans very properly came first. We were Mr. Gallatin, who was
absent from London on leave, his wife and daughter, and a clergyman and
his wife, and myself; Mrs. —— having declined the invitation, on account
of ill health. The announcing and the entrance of most of the company,
especially as every body was in high dinner dress, the women in jewels
and the men wearing all their orders, had something of the air of a
scenic display. The effect was heightened by the magnificence of the
hotel, the drawing-room in which we were collected being almost regal.
The first person who appeared, was a handsome, compact, well built,
gentleman-like little man, who was announced as the Duke of Villa
Hermosa, the Spanish Ambassador. He was dressed with great simplicity
and beauty, having, however, the breast of his coat covered with stars,
among which I recognised, with historical reverence, that of the Golden
Fleece. He came alone, his wife, pleading indisposition for her absence.
The Prussian Minister and his wife came next. Then followed Lord and
Lady Granville, the representatives of England. He was a large
well-looking man, but wanted the perfect command of movement and manner
that so much distinguish his brethren in diplomacy; as for mere physical
stuff, he and our own minister, who stands six feet four in his
stockings, would make material enough for all the rest of the corps. He
wore the star of the Bath. The Austrian ambassador and ambassadress
followed, a couple of singularly high air and a good tone of manner. He
is a Hungarian, and very handsome; she a Veronese, I believe, and
certainly a woman admirably adapted for her station. They had hardly
made their salutations, before _M. le Comte, et Mad. la Comtesse de
Villèle_ were announced. Here, then, we had the French prime minister.
As the women precede the men into a drawing-room, here, knowing how to
walk and to curtsey, alone, I did not, at first, perceive the great man,
who followed so close to his wife’s skirts as to be nearly hid. But he
was soon flying about the room, at large, and betrayed himself,
immediately, to be a fidget. Instead of remaining stationary, or nearly
so, as became his high quality, he took the _initiative_ in compliments,
and had nearly every diplomatic man, walking apart in the adjoining
room, in a political aside, in less than twenty minutes. He had a
countenance of shrewdness, and I make little doubt is a better man in a
bureau than in a drawing-room. His colleague, the foreign minister, M.
de Damas and his wife came next. He was a large, heavy-looking
personage, that I suspect throws no small part of the diplomacy on the
shoulders of the Premier, though he had more the manner of good society
than his colleague. He has already exchanged his office for that of
Governor of the Heir Presumptive, as I have already stated. There was a
pause, when a quiet, even-paced, classical-looking man, in the attire of
an ecclesiastic, appeared in the door, and was announced as “My Lord the
Nuncio.” He was then an Archbishop, and wore the usual dress of his
rank; but I have since met him at an evening party, with a red hat under
his arm, the Pope having recalled him and raised him to that dignity. He
is now Cardinal Macchi. He was a priestly and an intellectual-looking
personage, and, externals considered, well suited to his station. He
wore a decoration, or two, as well as most of the others.
“My lord Clanricarde and Mr. Canning” came next, and the great man,
followed by his son-in-law, made his appearance. He walked into the room
with the quiet _àplomb_ of a man accustomed to being _lionized_, and,
certainly, without being of striking, he was of very pleasing
appearance. His size was ordinary, but his frame was compact and well
built, neither too heavy nor too light for his years, but of just the
proportions to give one the idea of a perfect management of the machine.
His face was agreeable, and his eye steady and searching. He and M. de
Villele were the very opposites in demeanour, though, after all, it was
easy to see that the Englishman had the most latent force about him. One
was fidgetty, and the other humorous; for with all his command of limb
and gesture, nothing could be more natural than the expression of Mr.
Canning. I may have imagined that I detected some of his wit, from a
knowledge of the character of his mind. He left the impression, however,
of a man whose natural powers were checked by a trained and factitious
deference to the rank of those with whom he associated. Lord Granville,
I thought, treated him with a sort of affectionate deference, and, right
or wrong, I jumped to the conclusion, that the English ambassador was a
straight-forward good fellow, at the bottom, and one very likely to
badger the fidgetty premier, by his steady determination to do what was
right. I thought M. de Damas, too, looked like an honest man. God
forgive me, if I do injustice to any of these gentlemen!
All this time, I have forgotten Count Pozzo di Borgo, the Russian
ambassador. Being a bachelor, he came alone. It might have been fancy,
but I thought he appeared more at his ease, under the American roof,
than any of his colleagues. The perfect good understanding between our
own government and that of Russia, extends to their representatives,
and, policy or not, we are better treated by them, than by any other
foreign ministers. This fact should be known and appreciated, for as one
citizen of the republic, however insignificant, I have no notion of
being blackguarded and vituperated half a century, and then cajoled into
forgetfulness, at the suggestions of fear and expediency, as
circumstances render our good will of importance. Let us at least show
that we are not mannikins to be pulled about for the convenience and
humours of others, but that we know what honest words are, understand
the difference between civility and abuse, and have pride enough to
resent contumely, when, at least, we feel it to be unmerited. M. Pozzo
is a handsome man, of good size and a fine dark eye, and has a greater
reputation for talents, than any other member of the diplomatic corps
now at Paris. He is, by birth, a Corsican, and I have heard it said,
distantly related to Bonaparte. This may be true, Corsica being so small
a country; just as some of us are related to every body in West Jersey.
Our party now consisted of the prime minister, the secretary of foreign
affairs, the Austrian and English ambassadors, and the Prussian
minister, with their wives, the Nuncio, the Russian and Spanish
ambassadors, the Swiss Chargé d’Affaires, Mr. Canning, Lord Clanricarde,
Mr., Mrs., and Miss Gallatin, and the other Americans already mentioned,
or twenty-five in all.
If I had been struck with the rapid and business-like manner in which
the company entered, I was amused with the readiness with which they
paired off when dinner was announced. It was like a _coup de théâtre_,
every man and every woman knowing his or her exact rank and precedency,
and the time when to move. This business of getting out of a
drawing-room to a dinner table is often one of difficulty, though less
frequently in France, than in most other European countries, on account
of the admirable tact of the women, who seldom suffer a knotty point to
get the ascendency, but, by choosing the gentleman for themselves,
settle the affair off hand. From their decision, of course, there is no
appeal. In order that in your simplicity, you may not mistake the
importance of this moment, I will relate an anecdote of what lately
occurred, at a dinner given by an English functionary in Holland.
When William invaded England, in 1688, he took with him many Dutch
nobles, some of whom remained, and became English peers. Among others,
he created one of his followers an Irish Earl; but choosing to return to
Holland, this person was afterwards known as the Count de ——, although
his Irish rank was always acknowledged. It happened that the wife of the
descendant of this person was present at the entertainment in question.
When dinner was announced, the company remarked that the master of the
house was in a dilemma. There was much consultation, and a delay of near
half an hour before the matter was decided. The debated point was,
whether Mad. de —— was to be considered as a Dutch or an Irish Countess.
If the latter, there were English ladies present who were entitled to
precede her; if the former, as a stranger, she might get that advantage
herself. Luckily for the rights of hospitality, the Dutch lady got the
best of it.
These things sound absurd, and sometimes they are so, but this social
drilling, unless carried to extremes, is not without its use. In
America, I have always understood that, on such occasions, silent laws
of etiquette exist, in all good company, which are founded on propriety
and tact. The young give way to the old, the undistinguished to the
distinguished, and he who is at home to the stranger. These rules are
certainly the most rational, and in the best taste, when they can be
observed, and, on the whole, they lead perhaps to the fewest
embarrassments; always so, if there happen to be none but the well bred
present, since seats become of little consideration where no importance
is attached to them. I confess to some manœuvering in my time, to get
near, or away from a fire, out of a draught, or next some agreeable
woman; but the idea whether I was at the head or the foot of the table
never crossed my mind: and yet here, where they do mean the salt to come
into the account, I begin to take care that they do not “bite their
thumbs” at me. Two or three little things have occurred in my presence,
which show that all our people do not even understand the ways of their
own good society. A very young man lately, under the impression that
gallantry required it, led one of the most distinguished women in the
room, to the table, merely because he happened to be next her, at the
moment dinner was announced. This was certainly a failure even in
American etiquette, every woman being more disposed to appreciate the
delicacy and respect which should have induced such a person to give
place to one of higher claims, than to prize the head-over-heels
assiduity that caused the boy to forget himself. Sentiment should be the
guide on such occasions, and no man is a gentleman until his habits are
brought completely in subjection to its dictates, in all matters of this
sort.
There was very little sentiment, however, in marshalling the company at
the dinner given to Mr. Canning. I will not undertake to say that all
the guests were invited to meet this gentleman, and that he had been
asked to name a day, as is usual when it is intended to pay an especial
compliment; but I was asked to meet him, and I understood that the
dinner was in his honour. Diplomatic etiquette made short work of the
matter, notwithstanding, for the doors were hardly thrown open, before
all the privileged vanished, with a quickness that was surprising. The
minister took Mad. de Villele; M. de Villele, Mrs. Brown; M. de Damas
the wife of the oldest ambassador, and the Nuncio, Mad. de Damas; after
which, the ambassadors and ministers took each other’s wives in due
order, and with a promptitude that denoted great practice. Even the
charge disappeared, leaving the rest of us to settle matters among
ourselves as well as we could. Mr. Canning, Mr. Gallatin, Lord
Clanricarde, the divine, the secretary and myself, were left with only
the wife of the clergyman and Miss Gallatin. As a matter of course, the
Americans, feeling themselves at home, made signs for the two Englishmen
to precede them, and Mr. Canning offered his arm to Mrs. ——, and Lord
Clanricarde, his, to Miss Gallatin. Here occurred a touch of character
that is worthy to be mentioned, as showing of how very little account an
American, male or female, is in the estimation of a European, and how
very arbitrary are the laws of etiquette among our English cousins. Mr.
Canning actually gave way to his son-in-law, leaving the oldest of the
two ladies to come after the youngest, because, as a Marquis, his
son-in-law took precedence of a commoner! This was out of place in
America, at least, where the parties were, by a fiction in law, if not
in politeness, and it greatly scandalized all our Yankee notions of
propriety. Mrs. —— afterwards told me that he apologized for the
circumstance, giving Lord Clanricarde’s rank as the reason. “_Semper
eadem_,” or “worse and worse” as my old friend O——n used to translate
it. What became of the precedency of the married lady all this time, you
will be ready to ask? Alas? she was an American, and had no precedency.
The twelve millions may not settle this matter as it should be, but,
take my word for it the “fifty millions” will. Insignificant as all this
is, or rather ought to be, your grandchildren and mine will live to see
the mistake rectified. How much better would it be for those who cannot
stop the progress of events, by vain wishes and idle regrets, to concede
the point gracefully, and on just principles, than to have their
cherished prejudices broken down by dint of sheer numbers and power?
The dinner, itself, was like every dinner that is given at Paris,
beautiful in decoration, admirable in its order, and excellent in
viands, or rather, in its dishes; for it is the cookery and not the
staple articles that form the boast of the French kitchen. As you are
notable in your own region, for understanding these matters, I must say
a word, touching the gastric science as it is understood here. A general
error exists in America on the subject of French cookery, which is not
highly seasoned, but whose merit consists in blending flavors and in
arranging compounds, in such a manner as to produce, at the same time,
the lightest and most agreeable food. A lady who, from her public
situation, receives once a week, for the entire year, and whose table
has a reputation, assured me, lately, that all the spices consumed
annually in her kitchen did not cost her a franc! The _effect_ of a
French dinner is its principal charm. One of reasonably moderate habits,
rises from the table with a sense of enjoyment, that, to a stranger, at
least, is sometimes startling. I have, on several occasions, been afraid
I was relaxing into the vices of a _gourmet_, if, indeed, vices they can
be called. The _gourmand_ is a beast, and there is nothing to be said in
his favour, but, after all, I incline to the opinion that no one is the
worse for a knowledge of what is agreeable to the palate. Perhaps no one
of either sex is thoroughly trained, or properly bred, without being
_tant soit peu de gourmet_. The difference between sheer eating, and
eating with tact and intelligence, is so apparent as to need no
explanation. A dinner here does not oppress one. The wine neither
intoxicates nor heats, and the frame of mind and body in which one is
left, is precisely that best suited to intellectual and social
pleasures. I make no doubt, that one of the chief causes of the French
being so agreeable as companions, is, in a considerable degree, owing to
the admirable qualities of their table. A national character may emanate
from a kitchen. Roast beef, bacon, pudding, and beer, and port, will
make a different man, in time, from Château Margau, _côtelettes_,
_consommés_ and _souflés_. The very name of _vol au vent_ is enough to
make one walk on air!
Seriously, these things have more influence than may be, at a glance,
imagined. The first great change I could wish to make in America, would
be to see a juster appreciation of the substance, and less importance
attached to outward forms, in moral things. The second, would be to
create a standard of greatness and distinction, that should be
independent, or nearly independent, of money. The next, a more reasoning
and original tone of thought, as respects our own distinctive principles
and _distinctive situation_, with a total indifference to the theories
that have been broached to sustain an alien and an antagonist system, in
England; and the last, (the climax) a total reform in the kitchen! If I
were to reverse the order of these improvements, I am not certain the
three last might not follow as a consequence of the first. After our
people have been taught to cook a dinner, they ought also to be taught
how to eat it.
Our entertainment lasted the usual hour and a half, and, as one is all
this time eating, and there are limits to the capacity of a stomach, a
part of the lightness and gaiety with which one rises from a French
dinner ought to be attributed to the time that is consumed at the table.
The different ingredients have opportunity to dispose of themselves, in
their new abode, and are not crowded together pell mell, or like papers
and books in —— —— library, as I think they must be after a
transatlantic meal. As for the point of a mere consumption of food, I
take it, the palm must be given to your Frenchman. I had some amusement
to-day in watching the different countries. The Americans were nearly
all through their dinner, by the time the first course was removed. All
that was eaten, afterwards, was literally with them, pure make-weight,
though they kept a hungry look, to the last. The English seemed fed even
before the dinner was begun, and, although the continental powers in
general, had the art of picking till they got to the finger bowls, none
really kept up the ball but the Frenchmen. It happened to be Friday, and
I was a little curious to discover whether the Nuncio came to these
places with a dispensation in his pocket. He sat next to Mad. de Damas,
as good a Catholic as himself, and I observed them helping themselves to
several suspicious-looking dishes, during the first course. I ought to
have told you before, that one rarely, almost never, helps his
neighbour, at a French entertainment. The dishes are usually put on the
table, removed by the servants to be carved, in succession, and handed
to the guests to help themselves. When the service is perfect, every
dish is handed to each guest. In the great houses, servants out of
livery help to the different _plats_, servants in livery holding the
dishes, sauces, &c., and changing the plates. I believe it is strictly
_haut ton_ for the servants in livery, to do nothing but assist those
out of livery. In America it is thought stylish to give liveries; in
Europe those who keep most servants out of livery, are in the highest
mode, since these are always a superior class of menials. The habits of
this quarter of the world give servants a very different estimation from
that which they hold with us. Nobles of high rank are employed about the
persons of princes, and, although, in this age, they perform no strictly
menial offices, or only on great occasions, they are, in theory, the
servitors of the body. Nobles have been even employed by nobles, and it
is still considered an honor for the child of a physician, or a
clergyman, or a shop-keeper, in some parts of Europe, to fill a high
place in the household of a great noble. The body servant, or the
_gentleman_ as he is sometimes called even in England, of a man of rank,
looks down upon a mechanic, as his inferior. Contrary to all our notions
as all this is, it is strictly reasonable, when the relative conditions,
information, habits, and characters of the people, are considered. But
servants here, are divided into many classes; for some are scullions,
and some are intrusted with the keys. It follows that those who maintain
most of the higher class, who are never in livery, maintain the highest
style. To say he keeps a servant out of livery, means that he keeps a
better sort of domestic. Mere footmen always wear it, the _maitre
d’hôtel_, or groom of the chambers, and the valet, never.
But to return to the dispensation, I made it a point to taste every dish
that had been partaken of by the Nuncio and his neighbor, and I found
that they were all fish; but fish, so treated, that they could hardly
know what to think of themselves. You may remember, however, that an
Archbishop of Paris was sufficiently complaisant to declare a particular
duck, of which one of Louis XVIth’s aunts was fond, to be fish, and, of
course, fit to be eaten on fast-days.
The fasting of these people would strike you as singular, for I verily
believe they eat more of a fast-day, than on any other. We engaged a
governess for the girls, not long after our arrival, and she proved to
be a bigotted Catholic, a furious royalist, and as ignorant as a calf.
She had been but a few weeks in the house, when I detected her teaching
her _élèves_ to think Washington an unpardonable rebel, La Fayette a
monster, Louis XVIth a martyr, and all heretics in the high road to
damnation. There remained no alternative but to give her a quarter’s
salary, and to get rid of her. By the way, this woman was of a noble
family, and, as such, received a small pension from the court. But I
kept her fully a month longer, than I think I otherwise should, to see
her eat on fast-days. Your aunt had the consideration, invariably, to
order fish for her, and she made as much havoc among them as a pike. She
always commenced the Friday, with an extra allowance of fruit, which she
was eating all the morning; and, at dinner, she contrived to eat half
the vegetables, and all the fish. One day, by mistake, the soup happened
to be _gras_ instead of _maïgre_, and, after she had swallowed a large
plate-full, I was malicious enough to express my regrets at the mistake.
I really thought the poor woman was about to disgorge on the spot, but
by dint of consolation she managed to spare us this scene. So good an
occasion offering, I ventured to ask her why she fasted at all, as I did
not see it made any great difference in the sum total of her bodily
nutriment. She assured me that I did not understand the matter. The
fruit was merely “_refraichissante_,” and so counted for nothing; and as
for the fish and vegetables, I might possibly think them very good
eating, and for that matter, so did she, on Thursdays and Saturdays, but
no sooner did Friday come than she longed for meat. The merit of the
thing consisted, therefore, more in denying her appetite than in going
without food. I tried hard to persuade her to take a _côtellette_ with
me, but the proposition made her shudder, though she admitted that she
envied me every mouthful I swallowed. The knowledge of this craving did
not take away my appetite.
Lest you should suppose that I am indulging in the vulgar English slang
against French governesses, I will add that our own was the very worst,
in every respect, I ever saw in, or out, of France, and that I have met
with ladies in this situation, every way qualified, by principles,
attainments, manners and antecedents, to be received with pleasure, in
the best company of Europe.
Our _convives_ in the Hotel Monaco, soon disappeared after the _chasse
café_, leaving none but the Americans behind them. Men and women retired
as they came; the latter, however, taking leave, as is always required
by the punctilios of your sex, except at very large and crowded parties,
and even then properly, and the former, if alone, getting away as
quietly as possible. The whole affair was over before nine o’clock, at
which hour the diplomatick corps was scattered all through Paris.
Previously to this dispersion, however, Mr. Gallatin did me the favor to
present me to Mr. Canning. The conversation was short, and was chiefly
on America. There was a sore spot in his feelings, in consequence of a
recent negotiation, and he betrayed it. He clearly does not love us, but
what Englishman does? You will be amused to hear that unimportant in
other respects, as this little conversation was, it has been the means
of affecting the happiness of two individuals of high station in Great
Britain. It would be improper for me to say more, but of the fact I can
entertain no manner of doubt, and I mention it here, merely as a curious
instance of the manner in which “tall oaks from little acorns grow.”
I ought to have said that two, instead of one event, followed this
dinner. The second was our own introduction into European society. The
how and wherefore it is unnecessary to explain, but some of the
cleverest and best-bred people of this well bred and clever capital took
us by the hand, all “unlettered” as we were, and from that moment,
taking into consideration our tastes and my health, the question has
been not how to get into, but how to keep out of, the great world. You
know enough of these matters, to understand that, the ice once broken,
any one can float in the current of society.
This little footing has not been obtained without some _contre tems_,
and I have learned early to understand that wherever there is an
Englishman in the question, it behoves an American to be reserved,
punctilious and sometimes stubborn. There is a strange mixture of kind
feeling, prejudice and ill nature, as respects us, wrought into the
national character of that people, that will not admit of much
mystification. That they should not like us may be natural enough; but
if they seek the intercourse, they ought, on all occasions, to be made
to conduct it equally without annoyance and condescension, and on terms
of perfect equality; conditions, by the way, that are scarcely agreeable
to their present[5] notions of superiority.
Footnote 5:
The change in this respect, during the last ten years is _patent_. No
European nation has, probably, just at this moment as much real
respect for America, as the English, though it is still mixed with
great ignorance, and a very sincere dislike. Still, the enterprise,
activity, and growing power of the country are forcing themselves on
the attention of our kinsmen; and if the government understood its
foreign relations as well as it does its domestic, and made a proper
exhibition of maritime preparation and of maritime force, this people
would hold the balance in many of the grave questions that are now
only in abeyance, in European politics. Hitherto we have been
influenced by every vacillation in English interests, and it is quite
time to think of turning the tables, and of placing, as far as
practicable, American interests above the vicissitudes of those of
other people. The thing is more easily done, than is commonly
imagined, but a party politician is rarely a statesman, the
subordinate management necessary to the one, being death to the
comprehensive views that belong to the other. The peculiar nature of
the American institutions, and the peculiar geographical situation of
the country, moreover, render higher qualities necessary, perhaps, to
make a statesman here, than elsewhere.
In order to understand why I mention any other than the French, in the
capital of France, you will remember that there are many thousands of
foreigners established here, for longer or shorter periods, who, by
means of their money (a necessary that, relatively, is less abundant
with the French) materially affect society, contriving to penetrate it,
in all directions, in some way or other.
LETTER VII.
TO JACOB SUTHERLAND, ESQ., NEW YORK.
Your legal pursuits, will naturally give you an interest in the subject
of the state of justice in this part of the world. A correspondence like
mine would not admit of any very profound analysis of the subject, did I
possess the necessary learning, which I do not, but I may present a few
general facts and notions, that will give you some idea of the state of
this important feature of society. The forms and modes of English
jurisprudence are so much like our own, as to create the impression that
the administration of justice is equally free from venality and favor.
As a whole, and when the points at issue reach the higher functionaries
of the law, I should think this opinion true; but, taking those facts
that appear in the daily prints, through the police reports and in the
form of personal narratives, as guides, I should think that there is
much more oppression, many more abuses, and far more outrages on the
intention of the law, in the purlieus of the courts in England, through
the agency of subordinates, than with us. The delays and charges of a
suit in chancery, almost amount to a denial of justice. Quite lately, I
saw a statement, which went to show that a legacy to a charity of about
£1000, with the interest of some fourteen years, had been consumed in
this court, with the exception of rather more than £100. This is an
intolerable state of things, and goes to prove, I think, that, in some
of its features at least, English jurisprudence is behind that of every
other free country.
But I have been much impressed, lately, by a case that would be likely
to escape the attention of more regular commentators. A peer of the
realm having struck a constable on a race course, is proceeded against,
in the civil action. The jury found for the plaintiff, damages £50. In
summing up, the judge reasoned exactly contrary to what I am inclined to
think would have been the case, had the matter been tried before you. He
gave it as his opinion that the action was frivolous and ought never to
have been brought, that the affair should have been settled out of
court, and, in short, left the impression that it was not, as such, so
great a hardship for a constable to be struck by a peer, that his honor
might not be satisfied with the offering of a guinea or two. The jury
thought differently; from which I infer that the facts did not sustain
the judge in his notions. Now, the reasoning at home, would, I think,
have been just the other way. The English judge said, in substance, a
man of Lord ——’s dignity ought not to have been exposed to this action;
you would have said, a senator is a law-maker, and owes even a higher
example of order than common to the community; _he_ insinuated that a
small reparation ought to suffice, while _you_ would have made some
strong hints at smart-money.
I mention this case, for I think it rather illustrative of English
justice. Indeed, it is not easy to see how it well can be otherwise:
when society is divided into castes, the weak must go to the wall. I
know that the theory, here, is quite different, and that one of the
boasts of England is the equality of its justice, but I am dealing in
_facts_ and not in theories. In America it is thought, and with proper
limitations, I dare say, justly, that the bias of juries, in the very
lowest courts, is in favour of the poor against the rich, but the right
of appeal restores the balance, and, in a great degree, secures justice.
In each case, it is the controlling power that does the wrong; in
England the few, in America the many.
In France, as you probably know, juries are confined to criminal cases.
The consequence is a continuance of the old practice of soliciting
justice. The judge virtually decides in chambers, and he hears the
parties in chambers, or, in other words, wherever he may choose to
receive them. The client depends as much on external influence and his
own solicitations, as on the law and the justice of his case. He visits
the judge officially, and works upon his mind, by all the means in his
power. You and I have been acquainted intimately from boyhood, and it
has been my bad luck to have had more to do with the courts than I could
wish, and yet, in all the freedom of an otherwise unfettered
intercourse, I have never dared to introduce the subject of any suit, in
which I have been a party. I have been afraid of wounding your sense of
right, to say nothing of my own, and of forfeiting your esteem, or at
least of losing your society. Now had we been Frenchmen you would have
expected me to _solicit_ you, you would probably have heard me with the
bias of an old friend, and my adversary must have been a singularly
lucky fellow, or you a very honest one, if he did not get the worst of
it, supposing the case to admit of doubt. Formerly, it was known that
influence prevailed; bribes were offered and received, and a suit was a
contest of money and favoritism, rather than one of facts and
principles.
I asked Gen. La Fayette, not long since, what he thought of the actual
condition of France, as respects the administration of justice. In most
political cases he accused the government of the grossest injustice,
illegality and oppression. In the ordinary criminal cases, he believed
the intentions of the courts and juries perfectly fair, as, indeed, it
is difficult to believe they should not be. In the civil suits he
thought a great improvement had taken place, nor did he believe that
there now exists much of the ancient corruption. The civil code of
Napoleon had worked well, and all he complained of was a want of fitness
between the subordinate provisions of a system invented by a military
despot for his own support, and the system of _quasi_ liberty that had
been adopted at the restoration; for the Bourbons had gladly availed
themselves of all the machinery of power, that Napoleon bequeathed to
France.
A gentleman who heard the conversation, afterwards told me the following
anecdote. A friend of his had long been an unsuccessful suitor in one of
the higher courts of the kingdom. They met one day in the street, when
the other told him that an unsealed letter which he held in his hand,
contained an offer of a pair of carriage-horses, to the wife of the
judge who had the control of his affair. On being told he dare not take
so strong a step, M. de ——, my informant, was requested to read the
letter, to seal it, and to put in the _boite aux lettres_ with his own
hands, in order to satisfy himself of the actual state of justice in
France. All this was done, and “I can only add,” continued M. de ——,”
that I afterwards saw the horses in the carriage of Mad ——, and that my
friend gained his cause.” To this anecdote, I can only say, I tell it
exactly as I heard it, and that M. de —— is a deputy, and one of the
honestest and simplest-minded men of my acquaintance. It is but proper
to add, that the judge in question has a bad name, and is little
esteemed by the bar, but the above-mentioned fact would go to show that
too much of the old system remains.
In Germany justice bears a better name, though the absence of juries
generally, must subject the suitor to the assaults of personal
influence. Farther south report speaks still less favourably of the
manner in which the laws are interpreted, and, indeed, it would seem to
be an inevitable consequence of despotism, that justice should be
abused. One hears, occasionally, of some signal act of moderation and
equity, on the part of monarchies, but the merits of systems are to be
proved, not by these brilliant _coups de justice_, but by the steady,
quiet, and regular working of the machine, on which men know how to
calculate, in which they have faith, and which as seldom deceives them
as comports with human fallibility, rather than by _scenes_ in which the
blind goddess is made to play a part in a _melo-drama_.
On the whole, it is fair to presume that, while public opinion, and that
intelligence which acts virtually as a bill of rights, even in the most
despotic governments of Europe, not even excepting Turkey perhaps, have
produced a beneficial influence on the courts, the secrecy of their
proceedings, the irresponsible nature of their trusts (responsible to
power, and irresponsible to the nation) and the absence of publicity,
produce precisely the effects that a common-sense view of the facts,
would lead one, who understands human nature, to expect.
I am no great admirer of the compromising verdicts of juries, in civil
suits that admit of a question as to amounts. They are an admirable
invention to settle questions of guilty or not guilty, but an
enlightened court would, nine times in ten, do more justice in the cases
just named. Would it not be an improvement to alter the present powers
of juries, by letting them simply find for or against the suitor,
leaving the damages to be assessed by regular officers, that might
resemble masters in chancery? At all events, juries or some active
substitute, cannot be safely dispensed with, until a people have made
great progress in the science of publicity, and in a knowledge of the
general principles connected with jurisprudence.
This latter feature is quite peculiar to America. Nothing has struck me
more in Europe, than the ignorance which every where exists on such
subjects, even among educated people. No one appears to have any
distinct notions of legal principles, or even of general law, beyond a
few prominent facts, but the professional men. Chance threw me, not long
since, into the company of three or four exceedingly clever young
Englishmen. They were all elder sons, and two were the heirs of peers.
Something was said on the subject of a claim of a gentleman, with whom I
am connected, to a large Irish estate. The grandfather of this gentleman
was the next brother to the incumbent, who died intestate. The grandson,
however, was defeated in his claim in consequence of its being proved,
that the ancestor, through whom he derived his claim, was of the
half-blood. My English companions did not understand the principle, and
when I explained by adding that the grandfather of the claimant was born
of a different mother from the last holder in fee, and that he could
never inherit at law (unless by devise) the estate going to a hundredth
cousin of the whole blood in preference, or even escheating to the king,
they one and all protested England had no such law! They were evidently
struck with the injustice of transferring property that had been
acquired by the common ancestor of two brothers, to a remote cousin,
merely because the affinity between the sons was only on the father’s
side, although that very father may have accumulated the estate, and
they could not believe that what struck them as so grievous a wrong,
could be the law of descents under which they lived. Luckily for me, one
learned in the profession happened to be present, and corroborated the
fact. Now all these gentlemen were members of parliament, but they were
accustomed to leave legal questions of this nature to the management of
professional men.[6]
Footnote 6:
This absurd and unaccountable provision of the common law, has since
been superseded by a statute regulating descents on a more
intelligible and just provision. England has made greater advances in
common sense and in the right, in all such matters, within the last
five years, than during the previous hundred.
I mentioned this conversation to another Englishman, who thought the
difficulty well disposed of, by saying that if property ever escheated
in this manner, I ought to remember that the crown invariably bestowed
it on the natural heir. This struck me as singular reasoning to be used
by a people who profess to cherish liberty, inasmuch as, to a certain
degree, it places all the land in the kingdom, at the mercy of the
sovereign. I need not tell you moreover, that this answer was
insufficient, as it did not meet the contingency of a remote cousin’s
inheriting, to the prejudice of the children of him who earned the
estate. But habit is all in all, with the English in such matters, and
that which they are accustomed to see and hear, they are accustomed to
think right.
The bar is rising greatly in public consideration in France. Before the
revolution there were certain legal families of great distinction, but
these could scarcely be considered as forming a portion of the regular
practitioners. Now, many of the most distinguished statesmen, peers, and
politicians of France, commenced their careers as advocates. The
practice of public speaking gives them an immense advantage in the
chambers, and fully half of the most popular debators, are members who
belong to the profession. New candidates for public favor appear every
day, and the time is at hand when the fortunes of France, so lately
controlled by soldiers, will be more influenced by men of this
profession, than by those of all the others. This is a great step in
moral civilization, for the country that most feels the ascendency of
the law, and that least feels that of arms, is nearest to the summit of
human perfection. When asked which profession takes rank, in America, I
tell them the law in influence, and the church in deference. Some of my
_moustached_ auditors stare at this reply, for, here, the sword has
precedence of all others, and the law, with few exceptions, is deemed a
calling for none but those who are in the secondary ranks of society.
But, as I have told you, opinion is undergoing a great change, in this
particular. I believe that every efficient man in the present ministry
are or have been lawyers.
LETTER VIII.
TO COL. BANKHEAD, U. S. ARTILLERY.
The army of France obtained so high a reputation, during the wars of the
revolution and of the empire, that you may feel some curiosity to know
its actual condition. As the Bourbons understand that they have been
restored to the throne, by the great powers of Europe, if not in
opposition to the wishes of a majority of Frenchmen, certainly in
opposition to the wishes of the active portion of the population, and
consequently to that part of the nation which would be the most likely
to oppose their interests, they have been accused of endeavouring to
keep the establishments of France so low as to put her at the mercy of
any new combination of the allies. I should think this accusation, in a
great degree, certainly, unmerited; for France, at this moment, has a
large and, so far as I can judge, a well appointed army, and one that is
charged by the liberal party with being a heavy expense to the nation,
and that, too, chiefly with the intention of keeping the people in
subjection to tyranny. But these contradictions are common in party
politics. It is not easy here to get at statistical facts, accurately,
especially those which are connected with expenditure. Nominally, the
army is about 200,000 men, but it is whispered, that numerous _congés_
are given, in order to divert the funds that are thus saved, to other
objects. Admitting all this to be true, and it probably is so in part, I
should think France must have fully 150,000 men embodied, without
including the National Guards. Paris is pretty well garrisoned, and the
_casernes_ in the vicinity of the capital are always occupied. It
appears to me there cannot be less than 20,000 men, within a day’s march
of the Tuileries, and there may be half as many more.[7]
Footnote 7:
The sudden disbandment of the guards and other troops in 1830, greatly
diminished the actual force of the country.
Since our arrival there have been several great military displays, and I
have made it a point to be present at them all. The first was a _petite
guerre_,[8] on the plains of Issy, or within a mile of the walls of the
town. There may have been 15,000 men assembled for the occasion,
including troops of all arms.
Footnote 8:
Sham-fight.
One of the first things that struck me at Paris, was the careless
militia-like manner in which the French troops marched about the
streets. The disorder, irregularity, careless and indifferent style of
moving, were all exactly such as I have heard laughed at, a thousand
times, in our own great body of national defenders. But this is only one
of many similar instances, in which I have discovered that what has been
deemed a peculiarity in ourselves, arising from the institutions
perhaps, is a very general quality belonging rather to man than to any
particular set of men. Our notions, you will excuse the freedom of the
remark, are apt to be a little provincial, and every one knows that
fashions, opinions and tastes, only become the more exaggerated, the
farther we remove from the centre of light. In this way, we come to
think of things in an exaggerated sense, until, like the boy who is
disappointed at finding a king a man, we form notions of life that are
any thing but natural and true.
I was still so new to all this, however, that I confess I went to the
plain of Issy, expecting to see a new style of manœuvring, or, at least,
one very different from that which I had so often witnessed at home,
nor, can I say that, in this instance, there was so much disappointment.
The plan of the day did not embrace two parties, but was merely an
attack on an imaginary position, against which the assailants were
regularly and scientifically brought up, the victory being a matter of
convention. The movements were very beautiful, and were made with
astonishing spirit and accuracy. All idea of disorder, or the want of
regularity, was lost, here, for entire battalions advanced to the
charges without the slightest apparent deviation from perfectly
mathematical lines.
When we reached the acclivity that overlooked the field, a new line was
forming directly beneath us, it being supposed that the advance of the
enemy had already been driven in upon his main body, and the great
attack was just on the point of commencing.
A long line of infantry of the French guards, formed the centre of the
assailants. Several batteries of artillery were at hand, and divers
strong columns of horse and foot were held in reserve. A regiment of
lancers was on the nearest flank, and another of cuirassiers was
stationed at the opposite. All the men of the royal family were in the
field, surrounded by a brilliant staff. A gun was fired near them, by
way of signal, I suppose, when two brigades of artillery galloped
through the intervals of the line, unlimbered, and went to work as if
they were in downright earnest. The cannonade continued a short time,
when the infantry advanced in line, and delivered its fire by companies,
or battalions, I could not discern which, in the smoke. This lasted some
ten minutes, when I observed a strong column of troops dressed in
scarlet, moving up, with great steadiness and regularity, from the rear.
These were the Swiss guards, and there might have been fifteen hundred,
or two thousand of them. The column divided into two, as it approached
the rear of the line, which broke into columns, in turn, and for a
minute there was a confused crowd of red and blue coats, in the smoke,
that quite set my nautical instinct at defiance. The cuirassiers chose
this moment to make a rapid and menacing movement in advance, but
without opening their column, and some of the artillery reappeared and
commenced firing, at the unoccupied intervals. This lasted a very little
while, for the Swiss displayed into line like clock-work, and then made
a quick charge, with beautiful precision. Halting, they threw in a heavy
fire, by battalions; the French guard rallied and formed upon their
flanks; the whole reserve came up; the cuirassiers and lancers charged,
by turning the position assailed, and for ten or fifteen minutes there
was a succession of quick evolutions, which, like the _finale_ of a
grand piece of music, appeared confused even while it was the most
scientific, and then there was a sudden pause. The position, whose
centre was a copse, had been carried, and we soon saw the guards formed
on the ground that was supposed to have been held by the enemy. The
artillery still fired, occasionally, as on a retreating foe, and the
lancers and cuirassiers were charging and manœuvring, half a mile
farther in advance, as if following up their advantage.
Altogether, this was much the prettiest field exercise I ever witnessed.
There was a unity of plan, a perfection of evolution, and a division of
_matériel_ about it, that rendered it to my eyes, as nearly perfect as
might be. The troops were the best of France, and the management of the
whole had been confided to some one accustomed to the field. It
contained all the poetry, without any of the horrors of a battle. It
could not possess the heart-stirring interest of a real conflict, and
yet it was not without great excitement.
Some time after the _petite guerre_ of Issy, the capital celebrated the
_fête_ of the Trocadero. The Trocadero, you may remember, was the
fortress of Cadiz, carried by assault, under the order of the _Dauphin_,
in the war of the late Spanish revolution. This government, which has
destroyed all the statues of the Emperor, proscribed his family, and
obliterated every visible mark of his reign in their power, has had the
unaccountable folly of endeavouring to supplant the military glory
acquired under Napoleon, by that of Louis Antoine, Dauphin of France! A
necessary consequence of the attempt, is a concentration of all the
military _souvenirs_ of the day, in this affair of the Trocadero. Bold
as all this will appear to one who has not the advantage of taking a
near view of what is going on here, it has even been exceeded, through
the abject-spirit of subserviency in those who have the care of public
instruction, by an attempt to exclude even the name of the Bonaparte
from French history. My girls have shown me an abridgment of the history
of France, that has been officially prepared for the ordinary schools,
in which there is no sort of allusion to him. The wags here, say that a
work has been especially prepared for the heir presumptive, however, in
which the emperor is a little better treated; being spoken of as “a
certain _Marquis de Bonaparte_, who commanded the armies of the king.”
The mimic attack on the Trocadero, like its great original, was at
night. The troops assembled in the _Champs de Mars_, and the assault was
made, across the beautiful bridge of Jena, on a sharp acclivity near
Passy, which was the imaginary fortress. The result was a pretty good
effect of night-firing, some smoke, not a little noise, with a very
pretty movement of masses. I could make nothing of it, of much interest,
for the obscurity prevented the eyes from helping the imagination.
Not long since, the king held a great review of regular troops and of
the entire body of the National Guards of Paris and its environs. This
review also took place in the _Champs de Mars_, and it was said that
nearly a hundred thousand men were under arms, for the occasion. I think
there might have been quite seventy thousand. These mere reviews have
little interest, the evolutions being limited to marching by regiments
on and off the ground. In doing the latter, the troops defile before the
king. Previously to this, the royal cortège passed along the several
lines, receiving the usual honours.
On this occasion, the _Dauphine_ and the _Duchesse de Berri_, followed
the king in open carriages, accompanied by the little _Duc de Bordeaux_
and his sister. I happened to be at an angle of the field, as the royal
party, surrounded by a showy group of marshals and generals, passed, and
when there seemed to be a little confusion. As a matter of course, the
cry of _vive le roi_ had passed along with the procession, for, popular
or not, it is always easy for a sovereign to procure this sign of
affection, or, for others to procure it for him. You will readily
understand, that _employés_ of the government, are especially directed
to betray the proper enthusiasm on such, occasions. There was, however,
a cry at this corner of the area, that did not seem so unequivocally
loyal, and, on inquiry, I was told that some of the National Guards had
cried _à bas les ministres_. The affair passed off without much notice,
however, and I believe it was generally forgotten by the population,
within an hour. The desire to get rid of _M. de Villèle_, and his set,
was so general in Paris, that most people considered the interruption
quite as a matter of course.
The next day the capital was electrified by a royal ordinance disbanding
all the National Guards of Paris! A more infatuated, or if it were
intended to punish the disaffected, a more unjust decree, could not
easily have been issued. It was telling the great majority of the very
class which forms the true force of every government, that their rulers
could not confide in them. As confidence, by awakening pride, begets a
spirit in favour of those who depend on it, so does obvious distrust
engender disaffection. But the certainty that Louis XVIth, lost his
throne and his life for the want of decision, has created one of those
sweeping opinions, here, of the virtue of energy, that constantly leads
the rulers into false measures. An act that might have restrained the
France of 1792, would be certain to throw the France of 1827, into open
revolt. The present generation of Frenchmen, in a political sense, have
little in common with even the French of 1814, and measures must be
suited to the times in which we live. As well might one think of using
the birch on the man, that had been found profitable with the boy, as to
suppose these people can be treated like their ancestors.
As might have been expected, a deep, and what is likely to prove a
lasting discontent, has been the consequence of the blunder. It is
pretended that the shop-keepers of Paris are glad to be rid of the
trouble of occasionally mounting guard, and that the affair will be
forgotten in a short time. All this may be true enough, in part, and it
would also be true in the whole, were there not a press to keep
disaffection alive, and to inflame the feelings of those who have been
treated so cavalierly, for he knows little of human nature who does not
understand that, while bodies of men commit flagrant wrongs without the
responsibility being kept in view by their individual members, an
affront to the whole is pretty certain to be received as an affront to
each of those who make an integral part.
The immediate demonstrations of dissatisfaction have not amounted to
much, though the law and medical students paraded the streets, and
shouted, beneath the windows of the ministers, the very cry that gave
rise to the disbandment of the guards. But, if no other consequence has
followed this exercise of arbitrary power, I, at least, have learned how
to disperse a crowd. As you may have occasion, some day, in your
military capacity, to perform this unpleasant duty, it may be worth
while to give you a hint concerning the _modus operandi_.
Happening to pass through the _Place Vendôme_, I found the foot of the
celebrated column, which stands directly in the centre of the square,
surrounded by several hundred students. They were clustered together
like bees, close to the iron railing which encloses the base of the
pillar, or around an area of some fifty or sixty feet, square. From time
to time, they raised a shout, evidently directed against the ministers,
of whom one resided at no great distance from the column. As the hotel
of the _Etat Major_, of Paris, is in this square, and there is always a
post at it, it soon became apparent there was no intention quietly to
submit to this insult. I was attracted by a demonstration on the part of
the _corps de garde_, and, taking a station at no great distance from
the students, I awaited the issue.
The guard, some thirty foot soldiers, came swiftly out of the court of
the hotel, and drew up in a line before its gate. This happened as I
reached their own side of the square, which I had just crossed.
Presently, a party of fifteen or twenty _gens-d’armes à cheval_, came
up, and wheeled into line. The students raised another shout, as it
might be, in defiance. The infantry shouldered arms, and filing off
singly, headed by an officer, they marched, in what we call Indian file,
towards the crowd. All this was done in the most quiet manner possible,
but promptly, and with an air of great decision and determination. On
reaching the crowd, they penetrated it, in the same order, quite up to
the railing. Nothing was said, nor was any thing done, for it would have
been going farther than the students were prepared to proceed, had they
attempted to seize and disarm the soldiers. This appeared to be
understood, and instead of wasting the moments, and exasperating his
enemies by a parley, the officer, as has just been said, went directly
through them, until he reached the railing. Once there, he began to
encircle it, followed in the same order by his men. The first turn
loosened the crowd, necessarily, and then I observed that the muskets,
which hitherto had been kept at a “carry,” were inclined a little
outwards. Two turns, enabled the men to throw their pieces to a charge,
and, by this time, they had opened their order so far, as to occupy the
four sides of the area. Facing outwards, they advanced very slowly, but
giving time for the crowd to recede. This manœuvre rendered the throng
less and less dense, when, watching their time, the mounted
_gens-d’armes_ rode into it, in a body, and, making a circuit, on a
trot, without the line of infantry, they got the mass so loosened and
scattered, that, unarmed as the students were, had they been disposed to
resist, they would now have been completely at the mercy of the troops.
Every step that was gained, of course, weakened the crowd, and, in ten
minutes, the square was empty; some being driven out of it in one
direction, and some in another, without a blow being struck, or, even an
angry word used. The force of the old saying, “that the king’s name is a
tower of strength,” or, the law being on the side of the troops,
probably was of some avail; but a mob of fiery young Frenchmen is not
too apt to look at the law, with reverence.
I stood near the hotels, but still in the square, when a _gens-d’arme_,
sweeping his sabre as one would use a stick in driving sheep, came near
me. He told me to go away. I smiled, and said I was a stranger, who was
looking at the scene purely from curiosity. “I see you are, sir,” he
answered, “but you had better fall back into the _Rue de la Paix_.” We
exchanged friendly nods, and I did as he told me, without further
hesitation. In truth, there remained no more to be seen.
Certainly, nothing could have been done in better temper, more
effectually, nor more steadily than this dispersion of the students.
There is no want of spirit in these young men, you must know, but the
reverse is rather the case. The troops were under fifty in number, and
the mob was between six hundred and a thousand; resolute, active, sturdy
young fellows, who had plenty of fight in them, but who wanted the unity
of purpose that a single leader can give to soldiers. I thought this
little campaign of the column of the Place Vendôme, quite as good in its
way, as the _petite guerre_ of the plains of Issy.
I do not know whether you have fallen into the same error as myself, in
relation to the comparative merits of the cavalry of this part of the
world, though I think it is one common to most Americans. From the
excellence of their horses, as well as from that general deference for
the character and prowess of the nation, which exists at home, I had
been led to believe that the superior qualities of the British cavalry
were admitted in Europe. This is any thing but true; military men, so
far as I can learn, giving the palm to the Austrian artillery, the
British infantry, and the French cavalry. The Russians are said to be
generally good for the purposes of defence, and in the same degree
deficient for those of attack. Some shrewd observers, however, think the
Prussian army, once more, the best in Europe.
The French cavalry is usually mounted on small, clumsy, but sturdy
beasts, that do not show a particle of blood. Their movement is awkward,
and their powers, for a short effort, certainly are very much inferior
to those of either England or America. Their superiority must consist in
their powers of endurance, for the blooded animal soon falls off, on
scanty fare and bad grooming. I have heard the moral qualities of the
men, given as a reason why the French cavalry should be superior to that
of England. The system of conscription secures to an army the best
materials, while that of enlistment necessarily includes the worst. In
this fact is to be found the real moral superiority of the French and
Prussian armies. Here, service, even in the ranks, is deemed honorable;
whereas with us, or in England, it would be certain degradation to a man
of the smallest pretension to enlist as a soldier, except in moments
that made stronger appeals than usual to patriotism. In short, it is
_primâ facie_ evidence of a degraded condition, for a man to carry a
musket in a regular battalion. Not so here. I have frequently seen
common soldiers copying in the gallery of the Louvre, or otherwise
engaged in examining works of science, or of taste; not ignorantly and
with vulgar wonder, but like men who had been regularly instructed. I
have been told that a work on artillery practice lately appeared in
France which excited so much surprise by its cleverness, that an inquiry
was set on foot for its author. He was found seated in a _cabriolet_, in
the streets; his vocation being that of a driver. What renders his
knowledge more surprising, is the fact, that the man was never a soldier
at all, but, having a great deal of leisure, while waiting for his
fares, he had turned his attention to this subject, and had obtained all
he knew by means of books. Nothing is more common than to see the
drivers of _cabriolets_ and _fiacres_ reading in their seats, and I have
even seen market women, under their umbrellas, _à la Robinson_, with
books in their hands. You are not, however, to be misled by these facts,
which merely show the influence of the peculiar literature of the
country, so attractive and amusing, for a very great majority of the
French can neither read nor write. It is only in the north that such
things are seen at all, except among the soldiers, and a large
proportion of even the French army are entirely without schooling.
To return to the cavalry, I have heard the superiority of the French
ascribed also to their dexterity in the use of the sabre, or, as it is
termed here, _l’arme blanche_. After all, this is rather a poetical
conclusion; for charges of cavalry rarely result in regular, hand to
hand, conflicts. Like the bayonet, the sabre is seldom used, except on
an unresisting enemy. Still the consciousness of such a manual
superiority might induce a squadron, less expert, to wheel away, or to
break, without waiting for orders.
I have made the acquaintance, here, of an old, English General, who has
passed all his life in the dragoons, and who commanded brigades of
cavalry in Spain and at Waterloo. As he is a sensible old man, of great
frankness and simplicity of character, perfect good-breeding and good
nature, and, moreover, so far as I can discover, absolutely without
prejudice against America, he has quite won my heart, and I have availed
myself of his kindness to see a good deal of him. We walk together,
frequently, and chat of all things in heaven and earth, just as they
come uppermost. The other day I asked him to explain the details of a
charge of his own particular arm to me, of which I confessed a proper
ignorance. “This is soon done,” said the old gentleman, taking my arm
with a sort of sly humour, as if he were about to relate something
facetious—“against foot, a charge is a menace; if they break, we profit
by it; if they stand, we get out of the scrape as well as we can. When
foot are in disorder, cavalry does the most, and it is always active in
securing a victory, usually taking most of the prisoners. But as against
cavalry, there is much misconception. When two regiments assault each
other, it is in compact line—.” “How,” I interrupted him, “do not you
open, so as to leave room to swing a sabre?” “Not at all. The theory is
knee to knee; but this is easier said than done, in actual service. I
will suppose an unsuccessful charge. We start, knee to knee, on a trot.
This loosens the ranks, and, as we increase the speed, they become still
looser. We are under the fire of artillery, or, perhaps, of infantry,
all the time, and the enemy won’t run. At this moment, a clever officer
will command a retreat to be sounded. If he should not, some officer is
opportunely killed, or some leading man loses command of his horse,
which is wounded and wheels, the squadron follows, and we get away as
well as we can. The enemy follows, and if he catches us, we are cut up.
Other charges do occur, but this is the common history of cavalry
against cavalry, and, in unsuccessful attacks of cavalry, against
infantry, too. A knowledge of the use of the sword is necessary, for did
your enemy believe you ignorant of it, he would not fly; but the weapon
itself is rarely used on such occasions. Very few men are slain, in
their ranks, by the bayonet, or the sabre.”
I was once told, though not directly by an officer, that the English
dragoon neglected his horse in the field, selling the provender for
liquor, and that, as a consequence, the corps became inefficient;
whereas the French dragoon, being usually a sober man, was less exposed
to this temptation. This may, or may not, be true; but drunkenness is
now quite common in the French army, though I think much less so in the
cavalry, than in the foot. The former are generally selected with some
care, and the common regiments of the line, as a matter of course,
receive the refuse of the conscription.
This conscription is, after all, extremely oppressive and unjust, though
it has the appearance of an equal tax. Napoleon had made it so
unpopular, by the inordinate nature of his demands for men, that Louis
XVIIIth caused an article to be inserted in the charter, by which it was
to be altogether abolished. But a _law_ being necessary to carry out
this constitutional provision, the clause remains a perfect dead letter,
it being no uncommon thing for the law to be stronger than the
constitution, even in America, and quite a common thing here. I will
give you an instance of the injustice of the system. An old servant of
mine has been drafted for the cavalry. I paid this man seven hundred
francs a year, gave him coffee, butter, and wine, with his food, and he
fell heir to a good portion of my old clothes. The other day he came to
see me, and I inquired into his present situation. His arms and clothes
were found him. He got neither coffee, wine, nor butter, and his other
food, as a matter of course, was much inferior to that he had been
accustomed to receive with me. His pay, after deducting the necessary
demands on it, in the shape of regular contributions, amounts to about
two sous a day, instead of the two francs he got in my service.
Now, necessity, in such matters, is clearly the primary law. If a
country cannot exist without a large standing army, and the men are not
to be had by voluntary enlistments, a draft is probably the wisest and
best regulation for its security. But, taking this principle as the
basis of the national defence, a just and a paternal government would
occupy itself in equalizing the effects of the burden, as far as
circumstances would in any manner admit. The most obvious and efficient
means would be by raising the rate of pay to the level, at least, of a
scale that should admit of substitutes being obtained at reasonable
rates. This is done with us, where a soldier receives a full ration, all
his clothes, and sixty dollars a year.[9] It is true, that this would
make an army very costly, and, to bear the charge, it might be necessary
to curtail some of the useless magnificence and prodigality of the other
branches of the government, and herein is just the point of difference
between the expenditures of America and those of France. It must be
remembered, too, that a really free government, by enlisting the popular
feeling in its behalf through its justice, escapes all the charges that
are incident to the necessity of maintaining power by force, wanting
soldiers for its enemies without, and not for its enemies within. We
have no need of a large standing army on account of our geographical
position, it is true, but had we the government of France, we should not
find that our geographical position exempted us from the charge.
Footnote 9:
He now receives seventy-two.
You have heard a great deal of the celebrated soldiers who surrounded
Napoleon, and whose names have become almost as familiar to us as his
own. I do not find that the French consider the marshals men of singular
talents. Most of them reached their high stations, on account of their
cleverness in some particular branch of their duties, and by their
strong devotion, in the earlier parts of their career, to their master.
_Maréchal Soult_ has a reputation for skill in managing the civil
details of service. As a soldier, he is also distinguished for
manœuvring in the face of his enemy, and under fire. Some such
excitement appears necessary to arouse his dormant talents. _Suchet_ is
said to have had capacity, but, I think, to _Massena_, and to the
present king of Sweden, the French usually yield the palm, in this
respect. _Davoust_ was a man of terrible military energy, and suited to
certain circumstances, but scarcely a man of talents. It was to him
Napoleon said, “Remember, you have but a single friend in France—myself;
take care you do not lose him.” _Lannes_ seems to have stood better than
most of them as a soldier, and _Macdonald_ as a man. But, on the whole,
I think it quite apparent there was scarcely one among them all,
calculated to have carried out a very high fortune for himself, without
the aid of the directing genius of his master. Many of them had ambition
enough for any thing, but it was an ambition stimulated by example,
rather than by a consciousness of superiority.
In nothing have I been more disappointed than in the appearance of these
men. There is more or less of character about the exterior and
physiognomy of them all, it is true, but scarcely one has what we are
accustomed to think the carriage of a soldier. It may be known to you
that _Moreau_ had very little of this, and really one is apt to fancy he
can see the civic origin in nearly all of them. While the common French
soldiers have a good deal of military coquetry, the higher officers
appear to be nearly destitute of it. _Maréchal Molitor_ is a fine man;
_Maréchal Marmont_ neat, compact, and soldierly looking; _Maréchal
Mortier_ a grenadier, without grace; _Maréchal Oudinot_ much the same,
and so on, to the end of the chapter. _Lamarque_ is a little swarthy
man, with good features and a keen eye, but he is military in neither
carriage nor mien.
Crossing the Pont Royal, shortly after my arrival, in company with a
friend, the latter pointed out to me a stranger, on the opposite
side-walk, and desired me to guess who and what he might be. The subject
of my examination was a compact solidly built man, with a plodding
rustic air, and who walked a little lame. After looking at him a minute,
I guessed he was some substantial grazier, who had come to Paris on
business connected with the supplies of the town. My friend laughed, and
told me it was Marshal Soult. To my inexperienced eye, he had not a bit
of the exterior of a soldier, and was as unlike the engravings we see of
the French heroes as possible. But here, art is art, and, like the man
who was accused of betraying another into a profitless speculation by
drawing streams on his map, when the land was without any, and who
defended himself by declaring no one ever saw a _map_ without streams,
the French artists appear to think every one should be represented in
his ideal character, let him be as _bourgeois_ as he may, in truth. I
have seen Marshal Soult in company, and his face has much character. The
head is good, and the eye searching, the whole physiognomy possessing
those latent fires that one would be apt to think would require the
noise and excitement of a battle to awaken. La Fayette looks more like
an old soldier than any of them. Gérard, however, is both a handsome
man, and of a military mien.
Now and then we see a _vieux moustache_ in the guards, but, on the
whole, I have been much surprised at finding how completely the army of
this country is composed of young soldiers. The campaigns of Russia, of
1813, 1814, and of 1815, left few besides conscripts beneath the eagles
of Napoleon. My old servant _Charles_ tells me that the guard-house is
obliged to listen to tales of the campaign of Spain, and of the glories
of the Trocadero!
The army of France is understood to be very generally disaffected. The
restoration has introduced into it, in the capacity of general officers,
many who followed the fortunes of the Bourbons into exile, and some, I
believe, who actually fought against this country, in the ranks of her
enemies. This may be, in some measure, necessary, but it is singularly
unfortunate.
I have been told, on good authority, that, since the restoration of
1815, several occasions have occurred, when the court thought itself
menaced with a revolution. On all these occasions, the army, as a matter
of course, has been looked to, with hope, or with distrust.
Investigation is said to have always discovered so bad a spirit, that
little reliance is placed on its support.
The traditions of the service are all against the Bourbons. It is true,
that very few of the men who fought at Marengo and Austerlitz still
remain, but then the recollection of their deeds forms the great delight
of most Frenchmen. There is but one power that can counteract this
feeling, and it is the power of money. By throwing itself into the arms
of the industrious classes, the court might possibly obtain an ally,
sufficiently strong to quell the martial spirit of the nation; but, so
far from pursuing such a policy, it has all the commercial and
manufacturing interests marshalled against it, because it wishes to
return to the _bon vieux temps_ of the old system.
After all, I much question if any government in France, will have the
army cordially with it, that does not find it better employment than
mock-fights on the plain of Issy, and night attacks on the mimic
Trocadero.
LETTER IX.
TO MRS. SINGLETON W. BEALL, GREEN BAY.
We have lately witnessed a ceremony that may have some interest for one
who, like yourself, dwells in the retirement of a remote frontier post.
It is etiquette for the Kings of France to dine in public twice in the
year, viz: the first of January, and the day that is set apart for the
_fête_ of the king. Having some idle curiosity to be present on one of
these occasions, I wrote the usual note to the lord in waiting, or, as
he is called here, “_le premier gentil’homme de la chambre du roi, de
service_,” and we got the customary answer, enclosing us tickets of
admission. There are two sorts of permissions granted on these
occasions; by one you are allowed to remain in the room during the
dinner, and by the other you are obliged to walk slowly through the
_salle_, in at one side, and out at the other, without, however, being
suffered to pause even for a moment. Ours were of the former
description.
The King of France having the laudable custom of being punctual, and as
every one dines in Paris at six, that best of all hours for a town life,
we were obliged to order our own dinner an hour earlier than common, for
looking at others eating on an empty stomach, is, of all amusements, the
least satisfactory. Having taken this wise precaution, we drove to the
_château_, at half after five, it not being seemly to enter the room
after the king, and, as we discovered, for females impossible.
Magnificence and comfort seldom have much in common. We were struck with
this truth on entering the palace of the King of France. The room into
which we were first admitted, was filled with tall lounging foot
soldiers, richly attired, but who lolled about the place, with their
caps on, and with a barrack-like air, that seemed to us singularly in
contrast with the prompt and respectful civility with which one is
received in the ante-chamber of a private hotel. It is true that we had
nothing to do with the soldiers and lackies who thronged the place; but
if their presence was intended to impress visiters with the importance
of their master, I think a more private entrance would have been most
likely to produce that effect, for I confess, that it appeared to me as
a mark of poverty, that, troops being necessary to the state and
security of the monarch, he was obliged to keep them in the vestibule,
by which his guests entered. But this is royal state. Formerly, the
executioner was present, and in the semi-barbarous courts of the east,
such is the fact even now. The soldiers were a party of the hundred
Swiss, men chosen for their great stature, and remarkable for the
perfection of their musket. Two of them were posted as sentinels at the
foot of the great stair-case, by which we ascended, and we passed
several more on the landings.
We were soon in the _salle des gardes_, or the room which the _gardes du
corps_, on service, occupied. Two of these quasi soldiers, were also
acting as sentinels here, while others lounged about the room. Their
apartment communicated with the _salle de Diane_, the hall or gallery
prepared for the entertainment. I had no other means but the eye, of
judging of the dimensions of this room, but its length considerably
exceeds a hundred feet and its breadth is probably forty, or more. It is
of the proper height, and the ceiling is painted in imitation of those
of the celebrated Farnese palace at Rome.
We found this noble room divided, by a low railing, into three
compartments. The centre, an area of some thirty feet by forty,
contained the table, and was otherwise prepared for the reception of the
court. On one side of it, were raised benches for the ladies, who were
allowed to be seated; and, on the other, a vacant space for the
gentlemen, who stood. All these, you will understand, were considered
merely as spectators, not being supposed to be in the presence of the
king. The mere spectators were dressed as usual, or in common evening
dress, and not all the women even in that; while those within the
railings, being deemed to be in the royal presence, were in high court
dresses. Thus, I stood for an hour, within five-and-twenty feet of the
king, and part of the time much nearer, while, by a fiction of
etiquette, I was not understood to be there at all. I was a good while
within ten feet of the _Duchesse de Berri_, while, by convention, I was
no where. There was abundance of room in our area, and every facility of
moving about, many coming and going, as they saw fit. Behind us, but at
a little distance, were other rows of raised seats, filled with the best
instrumental musicians of Paris. Along the wall, facing the table, was a
narrow, raised platform, wide enough to allow of two or three to walk
abreast, separated from the rest of the room by a railing, and extending
from a door at one end of the gallery, to a door at the other. This was
the place designed for the passage of the public during the dinner, no
one, however, being admitted, even here, without a ticket.
A gentleman of the court led your aunt to the seats reserved for the
female spectators, which were also without the railing, and I took my
post among the men. Although the court of the Tuileries, was, when we
entered the palace, filled with a throng of those who were waiting to
pass through the gallery of Diana, to my surprise the number of persons
who were to remain in the room was very small. I account for the
circumstance by supposing that it is not etiquette for any who have been
presented to attend, unless they are among the court, and, as some
reserve was necessary in issuing these tickets, the number was
necessarily limited. I do not think there were fifty men on our side,
which might have held several hundred, and the seats of the ladies were
not half filled. Boxes were fitted up in the enormous windows, which
were closed and curtained, a family of fine children occupying that
nearest to me. Some one said they were the princes of the house of
Orleans, for none of the members of the royal family have seats at the
_Grands Couverts_, as these dinners are called, unless they belong to
the reigning branch. There is but one Bourbon prince more remote from
the crown[10] than the _Duc d’Orleans_, and this is the _Prince de
Condé_, or as he is more familiarly termed here, the _Duc de Bourbon_,
the father of the unfortunate _Duc d’Enghein_. So broad are the
distinctions made between the sovereign and the other members of his
family, in these governments, that it was the duty of the _Prince de
Condé_ to appear, to-day, behind the king’s chair, as the highest
dignitary of his household; though it was understood that he was excused
on account of his age and infirmities. These broad distinctions, you
will readily imagine, however, are only maintained on solemn and great
state occasions; for, in their ordinary intercourse, kings, now-a-days,
dispense with most of the ancient formalities of their rank. It would
have been curious, however, to see one descendant of St. Louis standing
behind the chair of another, as a servitor, and, more especially, to see
the Prince de Condé standing behind the chair of Charles Xth, for when
_Comte d’Artois_ and _Duc de Bourbon_, some fifty years since, they
actually fought a duel, on account of some slight neglect of the wife of
the latter, by the former.
Footnote 10:
1827.
The crown of France, as you know, passes only in the male line. The Duke
of Orleans is descended from Louis XIII. and the Prince de Condé from
Louis IX. In the male line, the Duke of Orleans is only the fourth
cousin, once removed, of the King, and the Prince de Condé the eighth or
ninth. The latter would be even much more remotely related to the crown,
but for the accession of his own branch of the family in the person of
Henry IV., who was a near cousin of his ancestor. Thus you perceive,
while royalty is always held in reverence, for any member of the family
may possibly become the king, still there are broad distinctions made
between the near, and the more distant branches, of the line. The Duke
of Orleans fills that equivocal position in the family, which is rather
common in the history of this species of government. He is a liberal,
and is regarded with distrust by the reigning branch, and with hope by
that portion of the people who think seriously of the actual state of
the country. A saying of M. de Talleyrand, however, is circulated at his
expense, which, if true, would go to show that this wary prince is not
disposed to risk his immense fortune in a crusade for liberty. “_Ce
n’est pas assez, d’être quelqu’un; il faut être quelque chose_,” are the
words attributed to the witty and wily politician; but, usually, men
have neither half the wit nor half the cunning that popular accounts
ascribe to them, when it becomes the fashion to record their acts and
sayings. I believe the Duke of Orleans holds no situation about the
court, although the King has given him the title of _Royal_ Highness,
his birth entitling him to be styled no more than _Serene_ Highness.
This act of grace is much spoken of by the Bourbonists, who consider it
a favour that for ever secures the loyalty and gratitude of the Duke.
The Duchess, being the daughter of a King, had this rank from her birth.
The orchestra was playing when we entered the Gallery of Diana, and,
throughout the whole evening it gave us, from time to time, such music
as can only be found in a few of the great capitals of Europe.
The covers were laid, and every preparation was made within the railing,
for the reception of the _convives_. The table was in the shape of a
young moon, with the horns towards the spectators, or from the wall. It
was of some length, and as there were but four covers, the guests were
obliged to be seated several feet from each other. In the centre was an
arm-chair, covered with crimson velvet, and ornamented with a crown,
this was for the king. A chair without arms, on his right, was intended
for the _Dauphin_; another on his left, for the _Dauphine_; and the
fourth, which was still further on the right of the _Dauphin_, was
intended for _Madame_, as she is called, or the Duchess of Berri. These
are the old and favourite appellations of the monarchy, and, absurd as
some of them are, they excite reverence and respect from their
antiquity. Your _Wolverines_, and _Suckers_, and _Buckeyes_, and
_Hooziers_ would look amazed to hear an executive styled the _White Fish
of Michigan_, or the _Sturgeon of Wisconsin_, and yet there is nothing
more absurd in it, in the abstract, than the titles that were formerly
given in Europe, some of which have descended to our times. The name of
the country, as well as the title of the sovereign, in the case of
_Dauphiné_, was derived from the same source. Thus, in homely English,
the Dolphin of Dolphinstown, renders _le Dauphin de Dauphiné_, perfectly
well. The last independent Dauphin, in bequeathing his states to the
King of France of the day, (the unfortunate John, the prisoner of the
Black Prince,) made a condition that the heir-apparent of the kingdom,
should always be known by his own title, and consequently, ever since,
the appellation has been continued. You will understand that none but an
_heir-apparent_ is called the _Dauphin_, and not an _heir-presumptive_.
Thus, should the present Dauphin and the Duc de Bordeaux die, the Duke
of Orleans, according to a treaty of the time of Louis XIV., though not
according to the ancient laws of the monarchy, would become
_heir-presumptive_, but he could never be the _Dauphin_, since, should
the King marry again, and have another son, his rights would be
superseded. None but the _heir-apparent_, or the _inevitable_ heir,
bears this title. There were formerly _Bears_ in Belgium, who were of
the rank of Counts. These appellations were derived from the arms, the
_Dauphin_ now bearing Dolphins with the lilies of France. The Boar of
Ardennes got his _soubriquet_ from bearing the head of a wild-boar in
his arms. There were formerly many titles in France that are now
extinct, such as _Captal_, _Vidame_ and _Castellan_, all of which were
general, I believe, and referred to official duties. There was, however,
formerly, a singular proof of how even simplicity can exalt a man when
the fashion runs into the opposite extremes. In the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries, there existed in France, powerful noblemen, the
owners and lords of the castle and lands of _Coucy_ or _Couci_, who were
content to bear the appellation of Sire, a word from which our own “Sir”
is derived, and which means, like Sir, the simplest term of courtesy
that could be used. These _Sires de Coucy_ were so powerful as to make
royal alliances; they waged war with their sovereign, and maintained a
state nearly royal. Their pride lay in their antiquity, independence and
power, and they showed their contempt for titles by their device, which
is said to have been derived from the answer of one of the family to the
sovereign, who, struck with the splendour of his appearance and the
number of his attendants, had demanded “What King has come to my court?”
This motto, which is still to be seen on the ancient monuments of the
family, reads—
“Je ne suis roi, ne prince, ne duc, ne comte aussi;
Je suis le Sire de Coucy.”[11]
Footnote 11:
“I am neither king, nor prince, nor duke, nor even a count: I am M. de
Coucy.”
This greatly beats Coke of Holkam, of whom it is said that George IV.,
who had been a liberal in his youth, and the friend of the great Norfolk
commoner, vexed by his bringing up so many liberal addresses,
threatened—“If Coke comes to me with any more of his Whig petitions
_I’ll Knight him_.”
I have often thought that this simplicity of the _Sires de Couci_,
furnishes an excellent example for our own ministers and citizens when
abroad. Instead of attempting to imitate the gorgeous attire of their
colleagues, whose magnificence, for the want of stars and similar
conventional decorations, they can never equal, they should go to court
as they go to the President’s House, in the simple attire of American
gentlemen. If any prince should inquire—“Who is this that approaches me,
clad so simply that I may mistake him for a butler, or a groom of the
chambers?” let him answer, “_Je ne suis roi, ne prince, ne duc, ne comte
aussi_—I am the minister of the United States of Ameri_key_,” and leave
the rest to the millions at home. My life for it, the question would not
be asked twice. Indeed no man who is truly fit to represent the republic
would ever have any concern about the matter. But all this time the
dinner of the King of France is getting cold.
We might have been in the gallery fifteen minutes, when there was a stir
at a door on the side where the females were seated, and a _huissier_
cried out—“_Madame la Dauphine!_” and sure enough, the _Dauphine_
appeared, followed by two _dames d’honneur_. She walked quite through
the gallery, across the area reserved for the court, and passed out at
the little gate in the railing which communicated with our side of the
room, leaving the place by the same door at which we had entered. She
was in high court dress, with diamonds and lappets, and was proceeding
from her own apartments, in the other wing of the palace, to those of
the king. As she went within six feet of me, I observed her hard and yet
saddened countenance with interest; for she has the reputation of
dwelling on her early fortunes, and of constantly anticipating evil. Of
course she was saluted by all in passing, but she hardly raised her eyes
from the floor; though, favoured by my position, I got a slight,
melancholy smile, in return for my own bow.
The _Dauphine_ had scarcely disappeared, when _Her Royal Highness_,
_Madame_, was announced, and the Duchess of Berri went through in a
similar manner. Her air was altogether less constrained, and she had
smiles and inclinations for all she passed. She is a slight, delicate,
little woman, with large blue eyes, a fair complexion, and light hair.
She struck me as being less a Bourbon than an Austrian, and though
wanting in _embonpoint_ she would be quite pretty, but for a cast in one
of her eyes.
A minute or two later, we had _Monseigneur le Dauphin_, who passed
through the gallery, in the same manner as his wife and sister-in-law.
He had been reviewing some troops, and was in the uniform of a colonel
of the guards; booted to the knees, and carrying a military hat in his
hand. He is not of commanding presence, though I think he has the
countenance of an amiable man, and his face is decidedly Bourbon. We
were indebted to the same lantern-like construction of the palace, for
this preliminary glimpse at so many of the actors in the coming scene.
After the passage of the Dauphin, a few courtiers and superior officers
of the household began to appear within the railed space. Among them
were five or six duchesses. Women of this rank have the privilege of
being seated in the presence of the king, on state occasions, and
_tabourets_ were provided for them accordingly. A _tabouret_ is a
stuffed stool, nearly of the form of the ancient cerulean chair, without
its back, for a back would make it a chair at once, and, by the
etiquette of courts, these are reserved for the blood-royal,
ambassadors, &c. As none but duchesses could be seated at the _grand
couvert_, you may be certain none below that rank appeared. There might
have been a dozen present. They were all in high court dresses. One, of
great personal charms and quite young, was seated near me, and my
neighbour, an old _abbé_, carried away by enthusiasm, suddenly exclaimed
to me—“_Quelle belle fortune! Monsieur, d’être jeune, jolie et
duchesse!_” I dare say the lady had the same opinion of the matter.
Baron Louis, not the financier, but the king’s physician, arrived. It
was his duty to stand behind the king’s chair, like Sancho’s tormentor,
and see that he did not over-eat himself. The ancient usages were very
tender of the royal person. If he travelled, he had a spare litter, or a
spare coach, to receive him, in the event of accident, a practice that
is continued to this day; if he ate, there was one to taste his food,
lest he might be poisoned; and when he lay down to sleep, armed
sentinels watched at the door of his chamber. Most of these usages are
still continued, in some form or other, and the ceremonies which are
observed at these public dinners, are mere memorials of the olden time.
I was told the following anecdote by Mad. de ——, who was intimate with
Louis XVIII. One day, in taking an airing, the king was thirsty, and
sent a footman to a cottage for water. The peasants appeared with some
grapes, which they offered, as the homage of their condition. The king
took them and ate them, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his
attendants. This little incident was spoken of at court, where all the
monarch does and says becomes matter of interest, and the next time Mad.
de —— was admitted, she joined her remonstrances to those of the other
courtiers. “We no longer live in an age when kings need dread
assassins,” said Louis, smiling. A month passed, and Mad. de —— was
again admitted. She was received with a melancholy shake of the head,
and with tears. The Duc de Berri had been killed in the interval!
A few gentlemen, who did not strictly belong to the court, appeared
among the duchesses, but, at the most, there were but six or eight. One
of them, however, was the gayest-looking personage I ever saw, in the
station of a gentleman, being nothing but lace and embroidery, even to
the seams of his coat; a sort of genteel harlequin. The _abbé_, who
seemed to understand himself, said he was a Spanish grandee.
I was near the little gate, when an old man, in a strictly court dress,
but plain and matter of fact in air, made an application for admittance.
In giving way for him to pass, my attention was drawn to his appearance.
The long white hair that hung down his face, the _cordon bleu_, the lame
foot, the imperturbable countenance, and the _unearthly aspect_, made me
suspect the truth. On inquiring, I was right. It was _M. de Talleyrand_!
He came as grand chamberlain, to officiate at the dinner of his master.
Everything, in a court, goes by clock-work. Your little great may be out
of time, and affect a want of punctuality, but a rigid attention to
appointments, is indispensable to those who are really in high
situations. A failure in this respect, would produce the same impression
on the affairs of men, that a delay in the rising of the sun, would
produce on the day. The appearance of the different personages named,
all so near each other, was the certain sign that one greater than all
could not be far behind. They were the dawn of the royal presence.
Accordingly, the door which communicated with the apartments of the
king, and the only one within the railed space, opened with the
announcement of “_le service du Roi_,” when a procession of footmen of
the palace appeared, bearing the dishes of the first course. All the
vessels, whether already on the table, or those in their hands, were of
gold, richly wrought, or, at least, silver gilt, I had no means of
knowing which; most probably they were of the former metal. The dishes
were taken from the footmen, by pages of honor, in scarlet dresses, and
by them placed in order on the table. The first course was no sooner
ready, than we heard the welcome announcement of “_le Roi_.” The family
immediately made their appearance, at the same door by which the service
had entered. They were followed by a proper number of lords and ladies
in waiting. Every one arose, as a matter of course, even to the
“_jeunes, jolies, et duchesses_;” and the music, as became it, gave us a
royal crash. The _huissier_, in announcing the king, spoke in a modest
voice, and less loud, I observed, than in announcing the Dauphin and the
ladies. It was, however, a different person, and it is probable one was
a common _huissier_, and the other a gentleman acting in that character.
Charles X. is tall, without being of a too heavy frame, flexible of
movement, and decidedly graceful. By remembering that he is a king, and
the lineal chief of the ancient and powerful family of the Bourbons, by
deferring properly to history and the illusions of the past, and by
feeling _tant soit peu_ more respect for those of the present day than
is strictly philosophical, or perhaps wise, it is certainly possible to
fancy that he has a good deal of that peculiar port and majesty, that
the poetry of feeling is so apt to impute to sovereigns. I know not
whether it is the fault of a cynical temperament, or of republican
prejudices, but I can see no more about him than the easy grace of an
old gentleman, accustomed all his life, to be a principal personage
among the principal personages of the earth. This you may think was
quite sufficient,—but it did not altogether satisfy the _exigence_ of my
unpoetical ideas. His countenance betrayed a species of vacant
_bonhomie_, rather than of thought, or dignity of mind, and while he
possessed, in a singular degree, the mere physical machinery of his
rank, he was wanting in the majesty of character and expression, without
which no man can act, well, the representation of royalty. Even a little
more severity of aspect would have better suited the part, and rendered
_le grand couvert, encore plus grand_.
The King seated himself after receiving the salutations of the courtiers
within the railing, taking no notice, however, of those who, by a
fiction of etiquette, were not supposed to be in his presence. The rest
of the family occupied their respective places in the order I have
named, and the eating and drinking began, from the score. The different
courses were taken off and served by footmen and pages, in the manner
already described, which, after all, by substituting servants out of
livery for pages, is very much the way great dinners are served, in
great houses, all over Europe.
As soon as the King was seated, the north door of the gallery, or that
on the side opposite to the place where I had taken post, was opened,
and the public was admitted, passing slowly through the room without
stopping. A droller _mélange_ could not be imagined, than presented
itself in the panoramic procession; and long before the _grand couvert_
was over, I thought it much the most amusing part of the scene. Very
respectable persons, gentlemen certainly, and I believe in a few
instances ladies, came in this way, to catch a glimpse of the spectacle.
I saw several men that I knew, and the women with them could have been
no other than their friends. To these must be added, _cochers de
fiacres_, in their glazed hats, _bonnes_, in their high Norman caps,
peasants, soldiers, in their shakos, _epiciers_ and _garçons_ without
number. The constant passage, for it lasted without intermission, for an
hour and a half, of so many queer faces, reminded me strongly of one of
those mechanical panoramas, that bring towns, streets and armies, before
the spectator. One of the droll effects of this scene was produced by
the faces, all of which turned, like sunflowers, towards the light of
royalty, as the bodies moved steadily on. Thus, on entering, the eyes
were a little inclined to the right; as they got nearer to the meridian,
they became gradually bent more aside; when opposite the table, every
face was _full_; and, in retiring, all were bent backwards over their
owners’ shoulders, constantly offering a dense crowd of faces, looking
towards a common centre, while the bodies were coming on, or moving
slowly off, the stage. This, you will see, resembled in some measure the
revolutions of the moon around our orb, matter and a king possessing the
same beneficent attraction. I make no doubt, these good people thought
we presented a curious spectacle, but I am persuaded they presented one
that was infinitely more so.
I had seen in America, in divers places, an Englishman, a colonel in the
army. We had never been introduced, but had sat opposite to each other
at _tables d’hôte_, jostled each other in the President’s House, met in
steam-boats, in the streets, and in many other places, until it was
evident our faces were perfectly familiar to both parties; and yet we
never nodded, spoke, or gave any other sign of recognition, than by
certain knowing expressions of the eyes. In Europe, the colonel
reappeared. We met in London, in Paris, in the public walks, in the
sight-seeing places of resort, until we evidently began to think
ourselves a couple of _Monsieur Tonsons_. To-night, as I was standing
near the public platform, whose face should appear in the halo of
countenances, but that of my colonel. The poor fellow had a wooden leg,
and he was obliged to stump on in his orbit, as well as he could, while
I kept my eye on him, determined to catch a look of recognition, if
possible. When he got so far forward as to bring me in his line of
sight, our eyes met, and he smiled involuntarily. Then he took a
deliberate survey of my comfortable position, and he disappeared in the
horizon, with some such expression on his features as must have belonged
to Commodore Trunnion, when he called out to Hatchway, while the hunter
was leaping over the lieutenant, “Oh! d—n you; you are well anchored!”
I do not think the dinner, in a culinary point of view, was anything
extraordinary. The King ate and drank but little, for, unlike his two
brothers and predecessors, he is said to be abstemious. The _Dauphin_
played a better knife and fork, but, on the whole, the execution was by
no means great for Frenchmen. The guests sat so far apart, and the music
made so much noise, that conversation was nearly out of the question,
though the King and the _Dauphin_ exchanged a few words, in the course
of the evening. Each of the gentlemen, also, spoke once or twice to his
female neighbour, and that was pretty much the amount of the discourse.
The whole party appeared greatly relieved by having something to do
during the dessert, in admiring the service, which was of the beautiful
_Sèvres_ china. They all took up the plates, and examined them
attentively, and really I was glad they had so rational an amusement, to
relieve their _ennui_.
Once, early in the entertainment, _M. de Talleyrand_ approached the
king, and showed him the bill of fare! It was an odd spectacle to see
this old _diplomate_ descending to the pantomime of royalty, and acting
the part of a _maitre d’hôtel_. Had the duty fallen on _Cambacérès_, one
would understand it, and fancy that it might be well done. The king
smiled on him graciously, and, I presume, gave him leave to retire; for
soon after this act of loyal servitude, the prince disappeared. As for
_M. Louis_, he treated Charles better than his brother treated Sancho,
for I did not observe the slightest interference on his part during the
whole entertainment, though one of those near me said he had tasted a
dish or two, by way of ceremony, an act of precaution that I did not
myself observe. I asked my neighbour, the _abbé_, what he thought of _M.
de Talleyrand_. After looking up in my face distrustfully, he
whispered—“_Mais, Monsieur, c’est un chat qui tombe toujours sur ses
pièds_,” a remark that was literally true to-night, for the old man was
kept on his feet longer than could have been agreeable to the owner of
two such gouty legs.
The _Duchesse de Berri_, who sat quite near the place were I stood, was
busy a good deal of the time _à lorgner_ the public through her
eye-glass. This she did with very little diffidence of manner, and quite
as coolly as an English duchess would have stared at a late intimate,
whom she was disposed to cut. It certainly was neither a graceful, nor a
feminine, nor a princely occupation. The _Dauphine_ played the Bourbon
better, though when she turned her saddened, not to say _cruel_ eyes, on
the public, it was with an expression that almost amounted to reproach.
I did not see her smile once during the whole time she was at table, and
yet _I_ thought there were many things to smile at.
At length the finger bowls appeared, and I was not sorry to see them.
Contrary to what is commonly practised in very great houses, the pages
placed them on the table, just as _Henri_ puts them before us democrats
every day. I ought to have said that the service was made altogether in
front, or at the unoccupied side of the table, nothing but the bill of
fare, in the hands of _M. de Talleyrand_, appearing in the rear. As soon
as this part of the dinner was over, the King arose, and the whole party
withdrew, by the door on the further side of the gallery. In passing the
_gradins_ of the ladies, he stopped to say a few kind words to an old
woman, who was seated there, muffled in a cloak, and the light of
royalty vanished.
The catastrophe is to come. The instant the King’s back was turned, the
gallery became a scene of confusion. The musicians ceased playing and
began to chatter; the pages dashed about to remove the service, and
every body was in motion. Observing that your —— was standing, undecided
what to do, I walked into the railed area, brushed past the gorgeous
state-table, and gave her my arm. She laughed, and said it had all been
very magnificent, and amusing, but that some one had stolen her shawl! A
few years before, I had purchased for her a merino shawl of singular
fineness, simplicity and beauty. It was now old, and she had worn it, on
this occasion, because she distrusted the dirt of a palace, and laying
it carelessly by her side, in the course of the evening, she had found
in its place, a very common thing of the same colour. The thief was
deceived by its appearance, your —— being dressed for an evening party,
and had probably mistaken it for a cashmere. So much for the company one
meets at court! Too much importance, however, must not be attached to
this little _contre tems_, as people of condition are apt to procure
tickets for such places, and to give them to their _femmes de chambre_.
Probably half the women present, the “_jeunes et jolies_” excepted, were
of this class. But, mentioning this affair to the old _Princesse de ——_,
she edified me by an account of the manner in which _Madame la Comtesse
de_ —— had actually appropriated to the service of her own pretty
person, the _cachemire_ of Madame _la Baronne de_ —— in the royal
presence; and how there was a famous quarrel, _à l’outrance_, about it;
so I suspend my opinion, as to the quality of the thief.
LETTER X.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, NEW YORK.
We have been to Versailles, and although I have no intention to give a
laboured description of a place about which men have written and talked
these two centuries, it is impossible to pass over a spot of so much
celebrity, in total silence.
The road to Versailles lies between the park of St. Cloud and the
village and manufactories of Sèvres. A little above the latter, is a
small palace called Meudon, which, from its great elevation, commands a
fine view of Paris. The palace of St. Cloud, of course, stands in the
park; Versailles lies six or eight miles farther west; Compiègne is
about fifty miles from Paris in one direction; Fontainebleau some thirty
in another, and Rambouillet rather more remotely, in a third. All these
palaces, except Versailles, are kept up, and, from time to time, are
visited by the court. Versailles was stripped of its furniture, in the
revolution, and even Napoleon, at a time when the French empire extended
from Hamburgh to Rome, shrunk from the enormous charge of putting it in
a habitable state. It is computed that the establishment at Versailles,
first and last, in matters of construction merely, cost the French
monarchy two hundred millions of dollars! This is almost an incredible
sum, when we remember the low price of wages in France; but, on the
other hand, when we consider the vastness of the place, how many natural
difficulties were overcome, and the multitude of works from the hands of
artists of the first order it contained, it scarcely seems sufficient.
Versailles originated as a hunting-seat, in the time of Louis XIII. In
that age, most of the upland near Paris, in this direction, lay in
forest, royal chases; and as hunting was truly a princely sport,
numberless temporary residences of this nature, existed in the
neighbourhood of the capital. There are still many remains of this
barbarous magnificence, as in the wood of Vincennes, the forests of St.
Germain, Compèigne, Fontainebleau, and divers others; but great inroads
have been made in their limits, by the progress of civilization and the
wants of society. So lately as the reign of Louis XV. they hunted quite
near the town, and we are actually, at this moment, dwelling in a
country house, at St. Ouen, in which tradition hath it, he was wont to
take his refreshments.
The original building at Versailles was a small _château_, of a very
ugly formation, and it was built of bricks. I believe it was enlarged,
but not entirely constructed, by Louis XIII. A portion of this building
is still visible, having been embraced in the subsequent structures,
and, judging from its architecture, I should think it must be nearly as
ancient as the time of Francis I. Around this modest nucleus was
constructed, by a succession of monarchs, but chiefly by Louis XIV., the
most regal residence of Europe, in magnificence and extent, if not in
taste.
The present _château_, besides containing numberless wings and courts,
has vast _casernes_ for the quarters of the household troops, stables
for many hundred horses, and is surrounded by a great many separate
hotels, for the accommodation of the courtiers. It offers a front on the
garden, in a single continuous line, that is broken only by a projection
in the centre, of more than a third of a mile in length. This is the
only complete part of the edifice that possesses uniformity; the rest of
it being huge piles, grouped around irregular courts, or thrown forward
in wings, that correspond to the huge body like those of the ostrich.
There is on the front next the town, however, some attempt at simplicity
and intelligibility of plan, for there is a vast open court lined by
buildings, which have been commenced in the Grecian style. Napoleon, I
believe, did something here, from which there is reason to suppose that
he sometimes thought of inhabiting the palace. Indeed, so long as France
has a king, it is impossible that such a truly royal abode can ever be
wholly deserted. At present, it is the fashion to grant lodgings in it,
to dependants and favourites. Nothing that I have seen gives me so just
and so imposing an idea of the nature of the old French monarchy, as a
visit to Versailles. Apart from the vastness and splendour of the
palace, here is a town that actually contained, in former times, a
hundred thousand souls, that entirely owed its existence to the presence
of the court. Other monarchs lived in large towns, but here was a
monarch whose presence created one. Figure to yourself the style of the
prince, when a place more populous than Baltimore, and infinitely richer
in externals, existed merely as an appendage to his abode!
The celebrated garden contains two or three hundred acres of land,
besides the ground that is included in the gardens of the two Trianons.
These Trianons are small palaces erected in the gardens, as if the
occupants of the _château_, having reached the acmé of magnificence and
splendour, in the principal residence, were seeking refuge against the
effects of satiety, in these humbler abodes. They appear small and
insignificant after the palace; but the great Trianon is a considerable
house, and contains a fine suite of apartments, among which are some
very good rooms. There are few English abodes of royalty that equal even
this of _le Grand Trianon_. The _Petit Trianon_ was the residence of
Mad. de Maintenon; it afterwards was presented to the unfortunate _Marie
Antoinette_, who, in part, converted its grounds into an English garden,
in addition to setting aside a portion into what is called _la petite
Suisse_.
We went through this exceedingly pretty house and its gardens, with
melancholy interest. The first is merely a pavilion in the Italian
taste, though it is about half as large as the President’s House at
Washington. I should think the Great Trianon has quite twice the room of
our own Executive residence, and, as you can well imagine from what has
already been said, the capitol, itself, would be but a speck among the
endless edifices of the _château_. The projection in the centre of the
latter, is considerably larger than the capitol, and it materially
exceeds that building in cubic contents. Now this projection is but a
small part, indeed, of the long line of _façade_, it actually appearing
too short for the ranges of wings.
_Marie Antoinette_ was much censured for the amusements in which she
indulged, in the grounds of the Little Trianon, and vulgar rumour
exaggerating their nature, no small portion of her personal unpopularity
is attributable to this cause. The family of Louis XVI. appears to have
suffered for the misdeeds of his predecessors, for it not being very
easy to fancy anything much worse than the immoralities of Louis XV. the
public were greatly disposed “to visit the sins of the fathers on the
children.”
_La petite Suisse_ is merely a romantic portion of the garden in which
has been built what is called the Swiss hamlet. It contains the
miniature abodes of the Curé, the Farmer, the Dairy-Woman, the _Garde de
Chasse_ and the _Seignieur_, besides the mill. There is not much that is
Swiss, however, about the place, with the exception of some resemblance
in the exterior of the buildings. Here it is said the royal family used
occasionally to meet and pass an afternoon in a silly representation of
rural life, that must have proved to be a prodigious caricature. The
King (at least so the guide affirmed) performed the part of the
_Seignieur_, and occupied the proper abode; the Queen was the
Dairy-Woman, and we were shown the marble tables that held her porcelain
milk-pans; the present King, as became his notorious propensity to
field-sports, was the _Garde de Chasse_, the late King was the Miller,
and, _mirabile dictu_, the archbishop of Paris did not disdain to play
the part of the _Curé_. There was probably a good deal of poetry in this
account, though it is pretty certain that the Queen did indulge in some
of these phantasies. There happened to be with me, the day I visited
this spot, an American from our own mountains, who had come fresh from
home, with all his provincial opinions and habits strong about him. As
the guide explained these matters, I translated them literally into
English for the benefit of my companion, adding that the fact rendered
the Queen extremely unpopular, with her subjects. “Unpopular!” exclaimed
my country neighbour; “why so, sir?” “I cannot say; perhaps they thought
it was not a fit amusement for a Queen.” My mountaineer stood a minute
cogitating the affair in his American mind, and then nodding his head,
he said—“I understand it, now. The people thought that a King and Queen,
coming from yonder palace to amuse themselves in this toy hamlet, in the
characters of poor people, _were making game of them_!” I do not know
whether this inference will amuse you, as much as it did me at the time.
Of the gardens and the _jets d’eau_, so renowned, I shall say little.
The former are in the old French style, formal and stiff, with long
straight _allées_, but magnificent by their proportions and ornaments.
The statuary and vases that are exposed to the open air, in this garden,
must have cost an enormous sum. They are chiefly copies from the
_antique_. As you stand on the great terrace, before the centre of the
palace, the view is down the principal avenue, which terminates at the
distance of two or three miles with a low naked hill, beyond which
appears the void of the firmament. This conceit singularly helps the
idea of vastness, though in effect it is certainly inferior to the
pastoral prettiness, and rural thoughts of modern landscape gardening.
Probably too much is attempted here, for if the mind cannot conceive of
illimitable space, still less can it be represented by means of material
substances.
We examined the interior of the palace with melancholy pleasure. The
vast and gorgeous apartments were entirely without furniture, though
many of the pictures still remain. The painted ceilings, and the
gildings too, contribute to render the rooms less desolate than they
would otherwise have been. I shall not stop to describe the saloons of
Peace and War, and all the other celebrated apartments, that are so
named from the subjects of their paintings, but merely add that the
state apartments lie _en suite_, in the main body of the building, and
that the principal room, or the great gallery, as it is termed, is in
the centre, with the windows, looking up the main avenue of the garden.
This gallery greatly surpasses in richness and size any other room,
intended for the ordinary purposes of a palace, that I have ever seen.
Its length exceeds two hundred and thirty feet, its width is about
thirty-five, and its height is rather more than forty. The walls are a
complete succession of marbles, mirrors and gildings. I believe, the
windows and doors excepted, that literally no part of the sides or ends
of this room show any other material. Even some of the doors are loaded
with these decorations. The ceiling is vaulted, and gorgeous with
allegories and gildings; they are painted by the best artists of France.
Here Louis XIV. moved among his courtiers, more like a god than a man,
and here was exhibited that mixture of grace and moral fraud, of
elegance and meanness, of hope and disappointment, of pleasure and
mortification, that form the characters and compose the existence of
courtiers.
I do not know the precise number of magnificent ante-chambers, and
saloons through which we passed to reach this gallery, but there could
not have been less than eight; one of which, as a specimen of the scale
on which the palace is built, is near eighty feet long and sixty wide.
Continuing our course along the _suite_, we passed, among others, a
council room, that looked more like state than business, and then came
to the apartments of the Queen. There were several drawing-rooms, and
ball-rooms, and card-rooms, and ante-rooms, and the change from the
gorgeousness of the state apartments, to the neat, tasteful, chaste,
feminine, white and gold of this part of the palace was agreeable, for I
had got to be tired of splendour, and was beginning to feel a
disposition to “make game of the people,” by descending to rusticity.
The bed-room of _Marie Antoinette_ is in the _suite_. It is a large
chamber, in the same style of ornament as the rest of her rooms, and the
dressing-rooms, bath, and other similar conveniences, were in that
exquisite French taste, which can only be equalled by imitation. The
chamber of the King looked upon the court, and was connected with that
of the Queen, by a winding and intricate communication of some length.
The door that entered the apartments of the latter, opened into a
dressing-room, and, both this door and that which communicated with the
bed-room, form a part of the regular wall, being tapestried as such, so
as not to be immediately seen, a style of finish that is quite usual in
French houses. It was owing to this circumstance that _Marie Antoinette_
made her escape, undetected, to the King’s chamber, the night the palace
was entered by the fish-women.
We saw the rooms in which Louis XIV. and Louis XV. died. The latter, you
may remember, fell a victim to the small-pox, and the disgusting body,
that had so lately been almost worshipped, was deserted, the moment he
was dead. It was left for hours, without even the usual decent
observances. It was on the same occasion, we have been told, that his
grandchildren, including the heir, were assembled in a private
drawing-room, waiting the result, when they were startled by a hurried
trampling of feet. It was the courtiers, rushing in a crowd, to pay
their homage to the new monarch! All these things forced themselves
painfully on our minds, as we walked through the state rooms. Indeed,
there are few things that can be more usefully studied, or which awaken
a greater source of profitable recollections, than a palace that has
been occupied by a great and historical court. Still they are not
poetical.
The balcony, in which La Fayette appeared with the Queen and her
children, opens from one of these rooms. It overlooks the inner court;
or that in which the carriages of none but the privileged entered, for
all these things were regulated by arbitrary rules. No one, for
instance, was permitted to ride in the King’s coach, unless his nobility
dated from a certain century, (the fourteenth, I believe,) and these
were your _gentilhommes_; for the word implies more than a noble,
meaning an ancient nobleman.
The writing cabinet, private dining-room, council room in ordinary,
library, &c. of the King, came next; the circuit ending in the _salle de
gardes_, and the apartments usually occupied by the officers and troops
on service.
There was one room we got into, I scarce know how. It was a long, high
gallery, plainly finished for a palace, and it seemed to be lighted from
an interior court, or well; for one was completely caged, when in it.
This was the celebrated Bull’s Eye, (_oeil de boeuf_) where the
courtiers danced attendance, before they were received. It got its name
from an oval window, over the principal door.
We looked at no more than the state apartments, and those of the King
and Queen, and yet, we must have gone through some thirty or forty
rooms, of which, the baths and dressing-room of the Queen excepted, the
very smallest would be deemed a very large room, in America. Perhaps no
private house contains any as large as the smallest of these rooms, with
the exception of here and there a hall in a country house; and, no room
at all, with ceilings nearly as high, and as noble, to say nothing of
the permanent decorations, of which we have no knowledge whatever, if we
omit the window glass, and the mantels, in both of which, size apart, we
often beat even the French palaces.
We next proceeded to the _salle de spectacle_, which is a huge theatre.
It may not be as large as the French Opera house at Paris, but its
dimensions did not appear to me to be much less. It is true, the stage
was open, and came into the view; but it is a very large house for
dramatic representations. Now, neither this building, nor the Chapel,
seen on the exterior of the palace, though additions that project from
the regular line of wall, obtrudes itself on the eye, more than a
_verandah_ attached to a window, on one of our largest houses! In this
place, the celebrated dinner was given to the officers of the guards.
The chapel is rich and beautiful. No catholic church has pews, or, at
all events, they are very unusual, though the municipalities do
sometimes occupy them in France, and, of course, the area was vacant. We
were most struck with the paintings on the ceiling, in which the face of
Louis XIV. was strangely and mystically blended with that of God the
Father! Pictorial and carved representations of the Saviour, and of the
Virgin abound in all catholic countries; nor do they much offend, unless
when the crucifixion is represented with bleeding wounds; for, as both
are known to have appeared in the human form, the mind is not shocked at
seeing them in the semblance of humanity. But this was the first attempt
to delineate the Deity we had yet seen; and it caused us all to shudder.
He is represented in the person of an old man looking from the clouds,
in the centre of the ceiling, and the King appears among the angels that
encircle him. Flattery could not go much farther, without encroaching on
omnipotence itself.
In returning from Versailles, to a tithe of the magnificence of which I
have not alluded, I observed carts coming out of the side of a hill,
loaded with the whitish stone, that composes the building material of
Paris. We stopped the carriage, and went into the passage, where we
found extensive excavations. A lane of fifteen or twenty feet was cut
through the stone, and the material was carted away in heavy square
blocks. Piers were left, at short intervals, to sustain the
superincumbent earth; and, in the end, the place gets to be a succession
of intricate passages, separated by these piers, which resemble so many
small masses of houses among the streets of a town. The entire region
around Paris lies on a substratum of this stone, which indurates by
exposure to the air, and the whole secret of the celebrated catacombs of
Paris, is just the same as that of this quarry, with the difference that
this opens on a level with the upper world, lying in a hill, while one
is compelled to descend to get to the level of the others. But enormous
wheels, scattered about the fields in the vicinity of the town, show
where shafts descend to new quarries on the plains, which are precisely
the same as those under Paris. The history of these subterranean
passages is very simple. The stone beneath, has been transfered to the
surface, as a building material; and, the graves of the town, after
centuries, were emptied into the vaults below. Any apprehensions of the
caverns falling in, on a great scale, are absurd, as the constant
recurrence of the piers, which are the living rock, must prevent such a
calamity; though it is within the limits of possibility, that a house or
two might disappear. Quite lately, it is said, a tree in the garden of
the Luxembourg fell through, owing to the water working a passage down
into the quarries, by following its roots. The top of the tree remained
above ground, some distance; and, to prevent unnecessary panic, the
police immediately caused the place to be concealed by a high and close
board fence. The tree was cut away in the night, the hole was filled up,
and few knew any thing about it. But it is scarcely possible, that any
serious accident should occur, even to a single house, without a
previous and gradual sinking of its walls giving notice of the event.
The palace of the Luxembourg, one of the largest and finest edifices of
Paris, stands quite near the spot where the tree fell through, and yet
there is not the smallest danger of the structure’s disappearing some
dark night, the piers below always affording sufficient support. _Au
reste_, the catacombs lie under no other part of Paris, than the
_quartier St. Jaques_, not crossing the river, nor reaching even the
_Fauxbourg St. Germain_.
I have taken you so unceremoniously out of the _château_ of Versailles
to put you into the catacombs, that some of the royal residences have
not received the attention I intended. We have visited Compèigne this
summer, including it in a little excursion of about a hundred miles,
that we made in the vicinity of the capital, though it scarcely offered
sufficient matter of interest to be the subject of an especial letter.
We found the forest deserving of its name, and some parts of it almost
as fine as an old American wood of the second class. We rode through it
five or six miles, to see a celebrated ruin, called _Pierre Fond_, which
was one of those baronial holds, out of which noble robbers used to
issue, to plunder on the highway, and commit all sort of acts of genteel
violence. The castle, and the adjacent territory, formed one of the most
ancient _seigneuries_ of France. The place was often besieged and taken.
In the time of Henry IV. that monarch, finding the castle had fallen
into the hands of a set of desperadoes, who were ranked with the
leaguers, sent the _Duc d’Epernon_ against the place, but he was wounded
and obliged to raise the siege. Marshal Biron was next despatched, with
all the heavy artillery that could be spared, but he met with little
better success. This roused Henry, who finally succeeded in getting
possession of the place. In the reign of his son, Louis XIII. the
robberies and excesses of those who occupied the castle became so
intolerable, that the government seized it again, and ordered it to be
destroyed. Now, you will remember, that this castle stood in the very
heart of France, within fifty miles of the capital, and but two leagues
from a royal residence, and all so lately as the year 1617, and that it
was found necessary to destroy it, on account of the irregularities of
its owners. What an opinion one is driven to form of the moral
civilization of Europe, from a fact like this! Feudal grandeur loses
greatly, in a comparison with modern law, and more humble honesty.
It was easier, however, to order the _château de Pierre-font_ to be
destroyed, than to effect that desirable object. Little more was
achieved than to make cuts into the external parts of the towers and
walls, and to unroof the different buildings, and, although this was
done two hundred years since, time has made little impression on the
ruins. We were shown a place where there had been an attempt to break
into the walls for stones, but which had been abandoned, because it was
found easier to quarry them from the living rock. The principal towers
were more than a hundred feet high, and their angles and ornaments
seemed to be as sharp and solid as ever. This was much the noblest
French ruin we have seen, and it may be questioned if there are many
finer, out of Italy, in Europe.
The palace of Compèigne after that of Versailles, hardly rewarded us for
the trouble of examining it. Still it is large and in perfect repair.
But the apartments are common-place, though there are a few that are
good. A prince, however, is as well lodged even here, as is usual in the
north of Europe. The present king is fond of resorting to this house, on
account of the game of the neighbouring forest. We saw several roebucks
bounding among the trees, in our drive to _Pierre-font_.[12]
Footnote 12:
Pierre-fond, or Pierre-font.
I have dwelt on the palaces and the court so much, because one cannot
get a correct idea of what France was, and perhaps I ought to say of
what France, through the reaction, _will_ be, if this point were
overlooked. The monarch was all in all, in the nation; the centre of
light, wealth and honour; letters, the arts and the sciences revolved
around him, as the planets revolve around the sun, and if there ever was
a civilized people whose example it would be fair to quote, for or
against the effects of monarchy, I think it would be the people of
France. I was surprised at my own ignorance on the subject of the
magnificence of these kings, of which indeed it is not easy for an
untravelled American to form any just notion, and it has struck me you
might be glad to hear a little on these points.
After all I have said, I find I have entirely omitted the orangery at
Versailles. But then I have said little or nothing of the canals, the
_jets d’eau_, of the great and little parks, which united are fifty
miles in circumference, and of a hundred other things. Still, as this
orangery is on a truly royal scale, it deserves a word of notice, before
I close my letter. The trees are housed in winter, in long vaulted
galleries beneath the great terrace, and there is a sort of sub-court in
front of them, where they are put into the sun, during the pleasant
season. This place is really an orange grove, and, although every tree
is in a box, and is nursed like a child, many of them are as large as it
is usual to find in the orange groves of low latitudes. Several are very
old; two or three dating from the fifteenth century, and one from the
early part of it. What notions do you get of the magnificence of the
place, when you are told that a palace, subterraneous it is true, is
devoted to this single luxury, and that acres are covered with trees, in
boxes?
LETTER XI.
TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.
I intend this letter to be useful rather than entertaining. Living, as
we Americans do, remote from the rest of the world, and possessing so
many practices peculiar to ourselves, at the same time that we are
altogether wanting in usages that are familiar to most other nations, it
should not be matter of surprise that we commit some mistakes on this
side of the water, in matters of taste and etiquette. A few words simply
expressed, and a few explanations plainly made, may serve to remove some
errors, and perhaps render your own contemplated visit to this part of
the world more agreeable.
There is no essential difference in the leading rules of ordinary
intercourse among the polished of all Christian nations. Though some of
these rules may appear arbitrary, it will be found, on examination, that
they are usually derived from very rational and sufficient motives. They
may vary, in immaterial points, but even these variations arise from
some valid circumstance.
The American towns are growing so rapidly, that they are getting to have
the population of capitals without enjoying their commonest facilities.
The exaggerated tone of our largest towns, for instance, forbids the
exchange of visits by means of servants. It may suit the habits of
provincial life to laugh at this, as an absurdity, but it may be taken
pretty safely as a rule, that men and women of as much common sense as
the rest of their fellow creatures, with the best opportunities of
cultivating all those tastes that are dependant on society, and with no
other possible motive than convenience, would not resort to such a
practice without a suitable inducement. No one who has not lived in a
large town that _does_ possess these facilities, can justly appreciate
their great advantages, or properly understand how much a place like New
York, with its three hundred thousand inhabitants, loses by not adopting
them. We have conventions for all sorts of things in America, some of
which do good and others harm, but I cannot imagine anything that would
contribute more to the comfort of society, than one which should settle
the laws of intercourse, on principles better suited to the real
condition of the country, than those which now exist. It is not unusual
to read descriptions deriding the forms of Europe, written by travelling
Americans, but I must think they have been the productions of very young
travellers, or, at least, of such as have not had the proper means of
appreciating the usages they ridicule. Taking my own experience as a
guide, I have no hesitation in saying, that I know no people among whom
the ordinary social intercourse is as uncomfortable, and as little
likely to stand the test of a rational examination, as our own.
The first rule, all-important for an American to know, is that the
latest arrival makes the first visit. England is, in some respects, an
exception to this practice, but I believe it prevails in all the rest of
Europe. I do not mean to say that departures are not made from this law,
in particular instances; but they should always be taken as exceptions,
and as pointed compliments. This rule has many conveniences, and I think
it also shows a more delicate attention to sentiment and feeling. While
the points of intrusion and of disagreeable acquaintances, are left just
where they would be under our own rule, the stranger is made the judge
of his own wishes. It is, moreover, impossible, in a large town, to know
of every arrival. Many Americans, who come to Europe with every claim to
attention, pass through it nearly unnoticed, from a hesitation about
obtruding themselves on others, under the influence of the opinions in
which they have been educated. This for a long time was my own case, and
it was only when a more familiar acquaintance with the practices of this
part of the world made me acquainted with their advantages, that I could
consent freely to put myself forward.
You are not to understand that any stranger arriving in a place like
Paris, or London, has a right to leave cards for whom he pleases. It is
not the custom, except for those who, by birth, or official station, or
a high reputation, may fairly deem themselves privileged, to assume this
liberty, and even then, it is always better to take some preliminary
step to assure one’s self that the visit will be acceptable. The law of
salutes, is very much the law of visits, in this part of the world. The
ship arriving sends an officer to know if his salute will be returned
gun for gun, and the whole affair, it is true, is conducted in rather a
categorical manner, but the governing principles are the same in both
cases, though more management may be required between two gentlemen,
than between two men-of-war.
The Americans in Europe, on account of the country’s having abjured all
the old feudal distinctions that still so generally prevail here, labour
under certain disadvantages, that require, on the one hand, much tact
and discretion to overcome, and on the other, occasionally much firmness
and decision.
The rule I have adopted, in my own case, is to defer to every usage, in
matters of etiquette, so far as I have understood them, that belongs to
the country in which I may happen to be. If, as has sometimes happened
(but not in a solitary instance in France,) the claims of a stranger
have been overlooked, I have satisfied myself by remembering, that, in
this respect at least, the Americans are the superiors, for that is a
point in which we seldom fail; and if they are remembered, to accept of
just as much attention as shall be offered. In cases, in which those
arbitrary distinctions are set up, that, by the nature of our
institutions cannot, either in similar, or in any parallel cases exist
in America, and the party making the pretension is on neutral ground,
_if the claim be in any manner pressed_, I would say that it became an
American to resist it promptly; neither to go out of his way to meet it,
nor to defer to it, when it crosses his path. In really good society
awkward cases of this nature are not very likely to occur; they are,
however, more likely to occur as between our own people and the English,
than between those of any other nation; for the latter, in mixed general
associations, have scarcely yet learned to look upon, and treat us as
the possessors of an independent country. It requires perfect
self-possession, great tact, and some nerve for an American, who is
brought much in contact with the English on the continent of Europe, to
avoid a querulous and ungentlemanlike disposition to raise objections on
these points, and at the same time to maintain the position, and command
the respect, with which he should never consent to dispense. From my own
little experience, I should say we are better treated, and have less to
overlook, in our intercourse with the higher than with the intermediate
classes of the English.
You will have very different accounts of these points, from some of our
travellers. I only give you the results of my own observation, under the
necessary limitations of my own opportunities. Still I must be permitted
to say that too many of our people, in their habitual deference to
England, mistake offensive condescension for civility. Of the two, I
will confess I would rather encounter direct arrogance, than the
assumption of a right to be affable. The first may at least be resisted.
Of all sorts of superiority, that of a condescending quality is the
least palatable.
I believe Washington is the only place in America, where it is permitted
to send cards. In every other town, unless accompanied by an invitation,
and even then the card is _supposed_ to be left, it would be viewed as
airs. It is even equivocal to leave a card in person, unless denied.
Nothing can be worse adapted to the wants of American society than this
rigid conformity to facts. Without porters; with dwellings in which the
kitchens and servant’s halls are placed just as far from the
street-doors as the dimensions of the houses will allow; with large
straggling towns that cover as much ground as the more populous capitals
of Europe, and these towns not properly divided into quarters; with a
society as ambitious of effect, in its way, as any I know; and with
people more than usually occupied with business and the family cares,
one is expected to comply rigidly with the most formal rules of village
propriety. It is easy to trace these usages to their source, provincial
habits and rustic manners, but towns with three hundred thousand
inhabitants, ought to be free from both. Such rigid conditions cannot
well be observed, and a consequence already to be traced is, that those
forms of society, which tend to refine it, and to render it more human
and graceful, are neglected from sheer necessity. Carelessness in the
points of association connected with sentiment (and all personal
civilities and attention have this root) grows upon one like
carelessness in dress, until an entire community may get to be as
ungracious in deportment, as it is unattractive in attire.
The etiquette of visits, here, is reduced to a sort of science. A card
is sent by a servant, and returned by a servant. It is polite to return
it, next day, though three, I believe, is the lawful limits, and it is
politer still to return it the day it is received. There is no
affectation about sending the card, as it is not at all unusual to put
E. P. (_en personne_) on it, by way of expressing a greater degree of
attention, even when the card is sent. When the call is really made in
person, though the visiter does not ask to be admitted, it is also
common to request the porter to say that the party was at the gate. All
these niceties may seem absurd and supererogatory, but depend on it,
they have a direct and powerful agency in refining and polishing
intercourse, just as begging a man’s pardon, when you tread on his toe,
has an effect to humanize, though the parties know no offence was
intended. Circumstances once rendered it proper that I should leave a
card for a Russian _diplomate_, an act that I took care he should know,
indirectly, I went out of my way to do, as an acknowledgment for the
civilities his countrymen showed to us Americans. My name was left at
the gate of his hotel, (it was not in Paris,) as I was taking a morning
ride. On returning home, after an absence of an hour, I found his card
lying on my table. Instead, however, of its containing the usual
official titles, it was simply Prince ——. I was profoundly emerged in
the study of this new feature in the forms of etiquette, when the
friend, who had prepared the way for the visit, entered. I asked an
explanation, and he told me that I had received a higher compliment than
could be conveyed by a merely official card, this being a proffer of
_personal_ attention. “You will get an invitation to dinner soon;” and,
sure enough, one came before he had quitted the house. Now, here was a
delicate and flattering attention paid, and one that I felt, without
trouble to either party; one that the occupations of the _diplomate_
would scarcely permit him to pay, except in extraordinary cases, under
rules more rigid.
There is no obligation on a stranger to make the first visit, certainly,
but if he do not, he is not to be surprised if no one notices him. It is
a matter of delicacy to obtrude on the privacy of such a person, it
being presumed that he wishes to be retired. We have passed some time in
a village near Paris, which contains six or eight visitable families.
With one of these I had some acquaintance, and we exchanged civilities,
but wishing to be undisturbed, I extended my visit no farther, and I
never saw anything of the rest of my neighbours. They waited for me to
make the advances.
A person in society, here, who is desirous of relieving himself, for a
time, from the labour and care of maintaining the necessary intercourse,
can easily do it, by leaving cards of P. P. C. It might be awkward to
remain long in a place very publicly, after such a step, but I ventured
on it once, to extricate myself from engagements that interfered with
more important pursuits, with entire success. I met several
acquaintances in the street, after the cards were sent, and we even
talked together, but I got no more visits or invitations. When ready _to
return to town_, all I had to do was to leave cards again, and things
went on as if nothing had happened. I parried one or two allusions to my
absence, and had no further difficulty. The only awkward part of it was,
that I accepted an invitation to dine _en famille_ with a literary
friend, and one of the guests, of whom there were but three, happened to
be a person whose invitation to dinner I had declined on account of
quitting town! As he was a sensible man, I told him the simple fact, and
we laughed at the _contre tems_, and drank our wine in peace.
The Americans who come abroad frequently complain of a want of
hospitality in the public agents. There is a strong disposition in every
man, under institutions like our own, to mistake himself for a part of
the government, in matters with which he has no proper connexion, while
too many totally overlook those interests which it is their duty to
watch. In the first place, the people of the United States do not give
salaries to their ministers, of sufficient amount to authorize them to
expect that any part of the money should be returned in the way of
personal civilities. Fifty thousand francs a-year is the usual sum named
by the French, as the money necessary to maintain a genteel town
establishment, with moderate evening entertainments, and an occasional
dinner. This is three thousand francs more than the salary of the
minister, out of which he is moreover expected to maintain his regular
diplomatic intercourse. It is impossible for any one to do much in the
way of personal civilities, on such an allowance.
There is, moreover, on the part of too many of our people, an aptitude
to betray a jealous sensitiveness on the subject of being presented at
foreign courts. I have known some claim it _as a right_, when it is
yielded to the minister himself, as an act of grace. The receptions of a
sovereign are merely his particular mode of receiving visits. No one
will pretend that the President of the United States is obliged to give
levees and dinners, nor is a king any more compelled to receive
strangers, or even his own subjects, unless it suit his policy and his
taste. His palace is his house, and he is the master of it, the same as
any other man is master of his own abode. It is true, the public expects
something of him, and his allowance is probably regulated by this
expectation, but the interference does not go so far as to point out his
company. Some kings pass years without holding a court at all; others
receive every week. The public obligation to open his door, is no more
than an obligation of expediency, of which he, and he only, can be the
judge. This being the rule, not only propriety but fair dealing requires
that all who frequent a court, should comply with the conditions that
are understood to be implied in the permission. While there exists an
exaggerated opinion, on the part of some of our people, on the subject
of the fastidiousness of princes, as respects their associates, there
exists among others very confused notions on the other side of the
question. A monarch usually cares very little about the quarterings and
the nobility of the person he receives, but he always wishes his court
to be frequented by people of education, accomplishments, and breeding.
In Europe these qualities are confined to _castes_, and, beyond a
question, as a general practice, every king would not only prefer, but
were there a necessity for it, he would command that his doors should be
closed against all others, unless they came in a character different
from that of courtiers. This object has, in effect, been obtained, by
establishing a rule, that no one who has not been presented at his own
court, can claim to be presented at any foreign European court; thus
leaving each sovereign to see that no one of his own subjects shall
travel with this privilege, who would be likely to prove an unpleasant
guest to any other prince. But we have neither any princes nor any
court, and the minister is left to decide for himself who is, and who is
not proper to be presented.
Let us suppose a case. A master and his servant make a simultaneous
request to be presented to the King of France. Both are American
citizens, and if _either_ has any political _claim_, beyond mere
courtesy, to have his request attended to, _both_ have. The minister is
left to decide for himself. He cannot so far abuse the courtesy that
permits him to present his countrymen at all, as to present the
domestic, and of course he declines doing it. In this case, perhaps,
public opinion would sustain him, as, unluckily, the party of the
domestics is small in America, the duties usually falling to the share
of foreigners and blacks. But the principle may be carried upwards,
until a point is attained where a minister might find it difficult to
decide between that which his own sense of propriety should dictate, and
that which others might be disposed to claim. All other ministers get
rid of their responsibility by the acts of their own courts; but the
minister of the republic, is left exposed to the calumny, abuse and
misrepresentation of any disappointed individual, should he determine to
do what is strictly right.
Under these circumstances, it appears to me, that there are but two
courses left for any agent of our government to pursue; either to take
_official_ rank as his only guide, or to decline presenting any one. It
is not his duty to act as a master of ceremonies; every court has a
regular officer for this purpose, and any one who has been presented
himself, is permitted on proper representations to present others. The
trifling disadvantage will be amply compensated for, by the great and
peculiar benefits that arise from our peculiar form of government
These things will quite likely strike you as of little moment. They are,
however, of more concern than one living in the simple society of
America may at first suppose. The etiquette of visiting has of course an
influence on the entire associations of a traveller, and may not be
overlooked, while the single fact that one people were practically
excluded from the European courts, would have the same effect on their
other enjoyments here, that it has to exclude an individual from the
most select circles of any particular town. Ordinary life is altogether
coloured by things that, in themselves, may appear trifling, but which
can no more be neglected with impunity, than one can neglect the varying
fashions in dress.
The Americans are not a shoving people, like their cousins the English.
Their fault in this particular lies in a morbid pride, with a
stubbornness that is the result of a limited experience, and which is
too apt to induce them to set up their own provincial notions, as the
standard, and to throw them backward into the intrenchments, of
self-esteem. This feeling is peculiarly fostered by the institutions. It
is easy to err in this manner; and it is precisely the failing of the
countryman, everywhere, when he first visits town. It is, in fact, the
fault of ignorance of the world. By referring to what I have just told
you, it will be seen that these are the very propensities which will be
the most likely to make one uncomfortable in Europe, where so much of
the _initiative_ of intercourse is thrown upon the shoulders of the
stranger.
I cannot conclude this letter, without touching on another point, that
suggests itself at the moment It is the fashion to decry the
niggardliness of the American government on the subject of money, as
compared with those of this hemisphere. Nothing can be more unjust. Our
working men are paid better than even those of England, with the
exception of a few who have high dignities to support. I do not see the
least necessity for giving the President a dollar more than he gets
to-day, since all he wants is enough to entertain handsomely, and to
shield him from loss. Under our system, we never can have an _exclusive_
court, nor is it desirable, for in this age a court is neither a school
of manners, nor a school of anything else that is estimable. These facts
are sufficiently proved by England, a country whose mental cultivation
and manners never stood as high as they do to-day, and yet it has
virtually been without a court for an entire generation. A court may
certainly foster taste and elegance, but they may be quite as well
fostered by other, and less exclusive, means. But while the President
may receive enough, the heads of Departments, at home, and the Foreign
Ministers of the country, are not more than half paid, _particularly the
latter_. The present minister is childless, his establishment and his
manner of living are both handsome, but not a bit more so than those of
a thousand others, who inhabit this vast capital, and his intercourse
with his colleagues is not greater than is necessary to the interests of
his country. Now, I know from his own statement, that his expenses,
without a family, exceed by one hundred per cent. his salary. With a
personal income of eighty to a hundred thousand francs a year, he can
bear this drain on his private fortune, but he is almost the only
minister we ever had here, who could.
The actual position of our diplomatic agents in Europe is little
understood at home. There are but two or three modes of maintaining the
rights of a nation, to say nothing of procuring those concessions from
others which enter into the commercial relations of states, and in some
degree affect their interests. The best method, certainly, as respects
the two first, is to manifest a determination to defend them by an
appeal to force; but so many conflicting interests stand in the way of
such a policy that it is exceedingly difficult, wisest and safest in the
end though it be, to carry it out properly. At any rate, such a course
has never yet been in the power of the American government, whatever it
may be able to do hereafter, with its increasing numbers and growing
wealth. But even strength is not always sufficient to obtain voluntary
and friendly concessions, for principle must, in some degree, be
respected by the most potent people, or they will be put to the ban of
the world. Long diplomatic letters, although they may answer the
purposes of ministerial _exposés_, and read well enough in the columns
of a journal, do very little, in fact, as make weights in negotiations.
I have been told here, _sub rosâ_, and I believe it, that some of our
laboured efforts, in this way, to obtain redress in the protracted
negotiation for indemnity, have actually lain months in the _bureaux_,
unread by those who alone have the power to settle the question. Some
_commis_ perhaps may have cursorily related their contents to his
superior, but the superior himself is usually too much occupied in
procuring and maintaining ministerial majorities, or, in looking after
the monopolising concerns of European politics, to wade through folios
of elaborate argument in manuscript. The public ought to understand,
that the point presents itself to him, in the security of his master’s
capital, and with little or no apprehension of its coming to an appeal
to arms, very differently from what it occasionally presents itself, in
the pages of a President’s message, or in a debate in Congress. He has
so many demands on his time, that it is even difficult to have a working
interview with him at all, and when one is obtained, it is not usual to
do more than to go over the preliminaries. The details are necessarily
referred to subordinates.
Now, in such a state of things, any one accustomed to the world, can
readily understand how much may be effected by the kind feelings that
are engendered by daily, social, intercourse. A few words can be
whispered in the ears of a minister, in the corner of a drawing-room,
that would never reach him in his bureau. Then _all_ the ministers are
met in society, while the _diplomate_, properly speaking, can claim
officially to see but _one_. In short, in saving, out of an overflowing
treasury, a few thousand dollars a year, we trifle with our own
interests, frequently embarrass our agents, and in some degree discredit
the country. I am not one of your _sensitives_ on the subject of parade
and appearance, nor a member of the embroidery school; still I would
substitute for the irrational frippery of the European customs, a
liberal hospitality, and a real elegance, that should speak well for the
hearts and tastes of the nation. The salary of the minister at Paris, I
know it, by the experience of a house-keeper, ought to be increased by
at least one half, and it would tell better for the interests of the
country, were it doubled. Even in this case, however, I do not conceive
that an American would be justified in mistaking the house of an Envoy
for a national inn, but that the proper light to view his allowances
would be to consider them as made, first as an act of justice to the
functionary himself; next, as a measure of expediency, as connected with
the important interests of the country. As it is, I am certain that no
one but a man of fortune can accept a foreign appointment, without
committing injustice to his heirs, and I believe few do accept them
without sincerely regretting the step, in after years.
END OF VOL. I.
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ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN IN SEARCH OF A HORSE, with Cuts. 1 vol.
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Ye are the stars of earth—and dear to me
Is each small twinkling gem that wanders free,
’Mid glade or woodland, or by murm’ring stream,
For ye to me are more than sweet or fair,
I love ye for the mem’ries that ye bear;
Or bygone hours, whose bliss was but a dream.
LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY.
_Companion to De Lamartine._
NARRATIVE OF THE RESIDENCE OF FATALLA SAYEGHIR AMONG THE WANDERING
ARABS OF THE GREAT DESERT, collected and translated by the care of
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Man. By JOHN KIDD, M. D., F. R. S., Regius Professor of Medicine in
the University of Oxford.
III. Astronomy and General Physics, considered with reference to
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Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.
IV. The Hand; its Mechanism and Vital Endowments as evincing design.
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WILLIAM KIRBY, M. A., F. R. S.
VIII. Chemistry, Meteorology, and the Function of Digestion. By
WILLIAM PROUT, M. D., F. R. S.
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BY HUGH MURRAY, F. R. S. E.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
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