floors of the hotel were occupied as a girl's boarding-school; the
reason of our dwelling in it, for our own daughters were in the
establishment; _au second_, there was nothing but our own _appartement_,
and above us, again, dwelt a family whose visitors never came in
carriages. The door of the boarding-school was below, and men seldom
came to it, at all. Strangers, moreover, sometimes did honour me with
calls. Under these impressions I paused, to see if the visitor went as
far as our flight of steps. All this time, I had not the slightest
suspicion of who he was, though I fancied both the face and form were
known to me.

The stranger got up the large stone steps slowly, leaning, with one
hand, on the iron railing, and with the other, on his cane. He was on
the first landing, as I stopped, and, turning towards the next flight,
our eyes met. The idea that I might be the person he wanted, seemed then
to strike him for the first time. "Est-ce Mons. ---- que j'ai l'honneur
de voir?" he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent.
"Monsieur, je m'appelle ----. Eh bien, donc--je suis Walter Scott."

I ran up to the landing, shook him by the hand, which he stood holding
out to me cordially, and expressed my sense of the honour he was
conferring. He told me, in substance, that the Princesse ---- had been
as good as her word, and having succeeded herself in getting hold of
him, she had good-naturedly given him my address. By way of cutting
short all ceremony, he had driven from his hotel to my lodgings. All
this time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in
English. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said--"Well, here have I been
_parlez-vousing_ to you, in a way to surprise you, no doubt; but these
Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half
forgotten my own language." As we proceeded up the next flight of steps,
he accepted my arm, and continued the conversation in English, walking
with more difficulty than I had expected to see. You will excuse the
vanity of my repeating the next observation he made, which I do in the
hope that some of our own exquisites in literature may learn in what
manner a man of true sentiment and sound feeling regards a trait that
they have seen fit to stigmatize unbecoming, "I'll tell you what I most
like," he added, abruptly; "and it is the manner in which you maintain
the ascendency of your own country on all proper occasions, without
descending to vulgar abuse of ours. You are obliged to bring the two
nations in collision, and I respect your liberal hostility." This will
probably be esteemed treason in our own self-constituted mentors of the
press, one of whom, I observe, has quite lately had to apologize to his
readers for exposing some of the sins of the English writers in
reference to ourselves! But these people are not worth our attention,
for they have neither the independence which belongs to masculine
reason, nor manhood even to prize the quality in others. "I am afraid
the mother has not always treated the daughter well," he continued,
"feeling a little jealous of her growth, perhaps; for, though we hope
England has not yet begun to descend on the evil side, we have a
presentiment that she has got to the top of the ladder."

There were two entrances to our apartments; one, the principal, leading
by an ante-chamber and _salle à manger_ into the _salon_, and thence
through other rooms to a terrace; and the other, by a private corridor,
to the same spot. The door of my cabinet opened on this corridor, and
though it was dark, crooked, and anything but savoury, as it led by the
kitchen, I conducted Sir Walter through it, under an impression that he
walked with pain; an idea of which I could not divest myself, in the
hurry of the moment. But for this awkwardness on my part, I believe I
should have been the witness of a singular interview. General Lafayette
had been with me a few minutes before, and he had gone away by the
_salon_, in order to speak to Mrs. ----. Having a note to write, I had
left him there, and I think his carriage could not have quitted the
court when that of Sir Walter Scott entered. If so, the General must
have passed out by the ante-chamber about the time we came through the
corridor.

There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this
interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the
conversation was more general. You will remember that Sir Walter was
still the _Unknown_[14] and that he was believed to be in Paris in search
of facts for the Life of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the former
circumstance, he spoke of his works with great frankness and simplicity,
and without the parade of asking any promises of secrecy. In short, as
he commenced in this style, his authorship was alluded to by us both
just as if it had never been called in question. He asked me if I had a
copy of the ---- by me, and on my confessing I did not own a single
volume of anything I had written, he laughed, and said he believed that
most authors had the same feeling on the subject: as for himself, he
cared not if he never saw a Waverley novel again, as long as he lived.
Curious to know whether a writer as great and as practised as he felt
the occasional despondency which invariably attends all my own little
efforts of this nature, I remarked that I found the mere composition of
a tale a source of pleasure, so much so, that I always invented twice as
much as was committed to paper in my walks, or in bed, and in my own
judgment much the best parts of the composition never saw the light; for
what was written was usually written at set hours, and was a good deal a
matter of chance, and that going over and over the same subject in
proofs disgusted me so thoroughly with the book, that I supposed every
one else would be disposed to view it with the same eyes. To this he
answered that he was spared much of the labour of proofreading,
Scotland, he presumed, being better off than America in this respect;
but still be said he "would as soon see his dinner again after a hearty
meal as to read one of his own tales when he was fairly rid of it."

[Footnote 14: He did not avow himself for several months afterwards.]

He sat with me nearly an hour, and he manifested, during the time the
conversation was not tied down to business, a strong propensity to
humour. Having occasion to mention our common publisher in Paris, he
quaintly termed him, with a sort of malicious fun, "our Gosling;"[15]
adding, that he hoped he, at least, "laid golden eggs."

[Footnote 15: His name was Gosselin.]

I hoped that he had found the facilities he desired, in obtaining facts
for the forthcoming history. He rather hesitated about admitting this.
"One can hear as much as he pleases, as a gentleman, he is not always
sure how much of it he can, with propriety, relate in a book;
besides"--throwing all his latent humour into the expression of his
small grey eyes--"one may even doubt how much of what he hears is fit
for history on another account." He paused, and his face assumed an
exquisite air of confiding simplicity, as he continued, with perfect
_bonne foi_ and strong Scottish feeling, "I have been to see _my
countryman_ M'Donald, and I rather think that will be about as much as I
can do here, now." This was uttered with so much _naïveté_ that I could
hardly believe it was the same man who, a moment before, had shown so
much shrewd distrust of oral relations of facts.

I inquired when we might expect the work "Some time in the course of the
winter," he replied, "though it is likely to prove larger than I at
first intended. We have got several volumes printed, but I find I must
add to the matter considerably, in order to dispose of the subject. I
thought I should get rid of it in seven volumes, which are already
written, but it will reach, I think, to nine." "If you have two still to
write, I shall not expect to see the book before spring." "You may: let
me once get back to Abbotsford, and I'll soon knock off those two
fellows." To this I had nothing to say, although I thought such a _tour
de force_ in writing might better suit invention than history.

When he rose to go, I begged him to step into the _salon_, that I might
have the gratification of introducing my wife to him. To this he very
good-naturedly assented, and entering the room, after presenting Mrs.
---- and my nephew W----. he took a seat. He sat some little time, and
his fit of pleasantry returned, for he illustrated his discourse by one
or two apt anecdotes, related with a slightly Scottish accent, that he
seemed to drop and assume at will. Mrs. ---- observed to him that the
_bergère_ in which he was seated had been twice honoured that morning,
for General Lafayette had not left it more than half an hour. Sir Walter
Scott looked surprised at this, and said inquiringly, "I thought he had
gone to America, to pass the rest of his days." On my explaining the
true state of the case, he merely observed, "He is a great man;" and yet
I thought the remark was made coldly, or in complaisance to us.

When Sir Walter left us, it was settled that I was to breakfast with him
the following day but one. I was punctual, of course, and found him in a
new silk _douillette_ that he had just purchased, trying "as hard as he
could," as he pleasantly observed, to make a Frenchman of himself--an
undertaking as little likely to be successful, I should think, in the
case of his Scottish exterior, and Scottish interior too, as any
experiment well could be. There were two or three visitors, besides Miss
Ann Scott, his daughter, who was his companion in the journey. He was
just answering an invitation from the Princesse ----, to an evening
party, as I entered. "Here," said he, "you are a friend of the lady, and
_parlez-vous_ so much better than I; can you tell me whether this is for
_Jeudi_, or _Lundi_, or _Mardi_, or whether it means no day at all?" I
told him the day of the week intended. "You get notes occasionally from
the lady, or you could not read her scrawl so readily?" "She is very
kind to us, and we often have occasion to read her writing." "Well, it
is worth a very good dinner to get through a page of it." "I take my
revenge in kind, and I fancy she has the worst of it." "I don't know,
after all that she will get much the better of me with this _plume
d'auberge._" He was quite right, for, although Sir Walter writes a
smooth even hand, and one that appears rather well than otherwise on a
page, it is one of the most difficult to decipher I have ever met with;
the i's, u's, m's, n's, a's, e's, t's, etc., etc., for want of dots,
crossings, and being fully rounded, looking all alike, and rendering the
reading slow and difficult, without great familiarity with his mode of
handling the pen: at least, I have found it so.

He had sealed the note, and was about writing the direction, when he
seemed at a loss. "How do you address this lady--as Her Highness?" I
was much surprised at this question from him, for it denoted a want of
familiarity with the world, that one would not have expected in a man
who had been so very much and so long courted by the great. But, after
all, his life has been provincial, though, as his daughter remarked in
the course of the morning, they had no occasion to quit Scotland to see
the world, all the world coming to see Scotland.

The next morning he was with me again, for near an hour and we completed
our little affair. After this we had a conversation on the law of
copyrights in the two countries, which as we possess a common language,
is a subject of great national interest. I understood him to say that he
had a double right in England to his works; one under a statute, and the
other growing out of common law. Any one publishing a book, let it be
written by whom it might, in England, duly complying with the law, can
secure the right, whereas none but a _citizen_ can do the same in
America. I regret to say that I misled him on the subject of our
copyright law, which, after all, is not so much more illiberal than that
of England as I had thought it.

I told Sir Walter Scott, that, in order to secure a copyright in
America, it was necessary the book should never have been published
_anywhere else_. This was said under the popular notion of the matter;
or that which is entertained among the booksellers. Reflection and
examination have since convinced me of my error: the publication alluded
to in the law can only mean publication in America; for, as the object
of doing certain acts previously to publication is merely to forewarn
the _American_ public that the right is reserved, there can be no motive
for having reference to any other publication. It is, moreover, in
conformity with the spirit of all laws to limit the meaning of their
phrases by their proper jurisdiction. Let us suppose a case. An American
writes a book, he sends a copy to England, where it is published in
March complying with the terms of our own copyright law, as to the
entries and notices, the same work is published here in April. Now will
it be pretended that his right is lost, always providing that his own is
the first _American_ publication? I do not see how it can be so by
either the letter or the spirit of the law. The intention is to
encourage the citizen to write, and to give him a just property in the
fruits of his labour; and the precautionary provisions of the law are
merely to prevent others from being injured for want of proper
information. It is of no moment to either of these objects that the
author of a work has already reaped emolument in a foreign country: the
principle is to encourage literature by giving it all the advantages it
can obtain.

If these views are correct, why may not an English writer secure a right
in this country, by selling it in season, to a citizen here? An
equitable trust might not, probably would not be sufficient; but a _bona
fide_ transfer for a valuable consideration, I begin to think, would. It
seems to me that all the misconception which has existed on this point
has arisen from supposing that the term _publication_ refers to other
than a publication in the country. But, when one remembers how rare it
is to get lawyers to agree on a question like this, it becomes a layman
to advance his opinion with great humility. I suppose, after all a good
way of getting an accurate notion of the meaning of the law, would be to
toss a dollar into the air, and cry "heads," or "tails." Sir Walter
Scott seemed fully aware of the great circulation of his books in
America, as well as how much he lost by not being able to secure a
copyright. Still he admitted they produced him something. Our
conversation on this subject terminated by a frank offer, on his part,
of aiding me with the publishers of his own country;[16] but, although
grateful for the kindness, I was not so circumstanced as to be able to
profit by it.

[Footnote 16: An offer that was twice renewed, after intervals of several
years.]

He did not appear to me to be pleased with Paris. His notions of the
French were pretty accurate, though clearly not free from the old
fashioned prejudices. "After all," he remarked, "I am a true Scot,
never, except on this occasion, and the short visit I made to Paris in
1815, having been out of my own country, unless to visit England, and I
have even done very little of the latter." I understood him to say he
had never been in Ireland, at all.

I met him once more, in the evening, at the hotel of the Princesse ----.
The party had been got together in a hurry, and was not large. Our
hostess contrived to assemble some exceedingly clever people, however,
among whom were one or two women, who are already historical, and whom I
had fancied long since dead. All the female part of the company, with
the silent delicacy that the French so well understand, appeared with
ribbons, hats, or ornaments of some sort or other, of a Scottish stamp.
Indeed, almost the only woman in the room, that did not appear to be a
Caledonian was Miss Scott. She was in half-mourning, and, with her black
eyes and jet-black hair, might very well have passed for a French woman,
but for a slight peculiarity about the cheek-bones. She looked
exceedingly well, and was much admired. Having two or three more places
to go to, they stayed but an hour. As a matter of course, all the French
women were exceedingly _empressées_ in their manner towards the Great
Unknown; and as there were three or four that were very exaggerated on
the score of romance, he was quite lucky if he escaped some absurdities.
Nothing could be more patient than his manner, under it all; but as soon
as he very well could, he got into a corner, where I went to speak to
him. He said, laughingly, that he spoke French with so much difficulty,
he was embarrassed to answer the compliments. "I am as good a lion as
needs be, allowing my mane to be stroked as familiarly as they please,
but I can't growl for them, in French. How is it with you?" Disclaiming
the necessity of being either a good or a bad lion, being very little
troubled in that way, for his amusement I related to him an anecdote.
Pointing out to him a Comtesse de ----, who was present, I told him, I
had met this lady once a week for several months, and at every _soirée_
she invariably sailed up to me to say--"Oh, Monsieur ----, quelles
livres!--vos charmans livres--que vos livres sont charmans!" and I had
just made up my mind that she was, at least, a woman of taste, when she
approached me with the utmost _sang-froid_, and cried-- "Bon soir,
Monsieur ----; je viens d'acheter tous vos livres, et je compte profiter
de la première occasion pour les lire!"

I took leave of him in the ante-chamber, as he went away, for he was to
quit Paris the following evening.

Sir Walter Scott's person and manner have been so often described, that
you will not ask much of me in this way, especially as I saw so little
of him. His frame is large and muscular, his walk difficult, in
appearance, though be boasted himself a vigorous mountaineer, and his
action, in general, measured and heavy. His features and countenance
were very Scottish, with the short thick nose, heavy lips, and massive
cheeks. The superior or intellectual part of his head was neither deep
nor broad, but perhaps the reverse, though singularly high. Indeed, it
is quite uncommon to see a scull so round and tower-like in the
formation, though I have met with them in individuals not at all
distinguished for talents. I do not think a casual observer would find
anything unusual in the exterior of Sir Walter Scott, beyond his
physical force, which is great, without being at all extraordinary. His
eye, however, is certainly remarkable. Grey, small, and without lustre,
in his graver moments it appears to look inward, instead of regarding
external objects, in a way, though the expression, more or less, belongs
to abstraction, that I have never seen equalled. His smile is
good-natured and social; and when he is in the mood, as happened to be
the fact so often in our brief intercourse as to lead me to think it
characteristic of the man, his eye would lighten with a great deal of
latent fun. He spoke more freely of his private affairs than I had
reason to expect, though our business introduced the subject naturally;
and, at such times, I thought the expression changed to a sort of
melancholy resolution, that was not wanting in sublimity.

The manner of Sir Walter Scott is that of a man accustomed to see much
of the world without being exactly a man of the world himself. He has
evidently great social tact, perfect self-possession, is quiet, and
absolutely without pretension, and has much dignity; and yet it struck
me that he wanted the ease and _aplomb_ of one accustomed to live with
his equals. The fact of his being a lion may produce some such effect;
but I am mistaken if it be not more the influence of early habits and
opinions than of anything else.

Scott has been so much the mark of society, that it has evidently
changed his natural manner, which is far less restrained than it is his
habit to be in the world. I do not mean by this, the mere restraint of
decorum, but a drilled simplicity or demureness, like that of girls who
are curbed in their tendency to fun and light-heartedness, by the dread
of observation. I have seldom known a man of his years, whose manner was
so different in a _tête-à-tête_, and in the presence of a third person.
In Edinburgh the circle must be small, and he probably knows every one.
If strangers do go there, they do not go all at once, and of course the
old faces form the great majority; so that he finds himself always on
familiar ground. I can readily imagine that in Auld Reekie, and among
the proper set, warmed perhaps by a glass of mountain-dew, Sir Walter
Scott, in his peculiar way, is one of the pleasantest companions the
world holds.

There was a certain M. de ---- at the _soirée_ of the Princesse ----,
who has obtained some notoriety as the writer of novels. I had, the
honour of being introduced to this person, and was much amused with one
of his questions. You are to understand that the vaguest possible
notions exist in France on the subject of the United States. Empires,
states, continents, and islands are blended in inextricable confusion, in
the minds of a large majority of even the intelligent classes, and we
sometimes hear the oddest ideas imaginable. This ignorance, quite
pardonable in part, is not confined to France by any means, but exists
even in England, a country that ought to know us better. It would seem
that M. de ----, either because I was a shade or two whiter than
himself, or because he did not conceive it possible that an American
could write a book (for in this quarter of the world there is a strong
tendency to believe that every man whose name crosses the ocean from
America is merely some European who has gone there), or from some cause
that to me is inexplicable, took it into his head that I was an
Englishman who had amused a leisure year or two in the Western
Hemisphere. After asking me a few questions concerning the country, he
very coolly continued--"Et combien de temps avez-vous passé en Amérique,
monsieur?" Comprehending his mistake, for a little practice here makes
one quick in such matters, I answered, "Monsieur, nous y sommes depuis
deux siècles." I question if M. de ---- has yet recovered from his
surprise!

The French, when their general cleverness is considered, are singularly
ignorant of the habits, institutions, and civilization of other
countries. This is in part owing to their being little addicted to
travelling. Their commercial enterprise is not great; for though we
occasionally see a Frenchman carrying with him into pursuits of this
nature the comprehensive views, and one might almost say, the
philosophy, that distinguish the real intelligence of the country, such
instances are rare, the prevailing character of their commerce being
caution and close dealing. Like the people of all great nations, their
attention is drawn more to themselves than to others; and then the want
of a knowledge of foreign languages has greatly contributed to their
ignorance. This want of knowledge of foreign languages, in a nation that
has traversed Europe as conquerors, is owing to the fact that they have
either carried their own language with them, or met it everywhere. It is
a want, moreover, that belongs rather to the last generation than to the
present; the returned emigrants having brought back with them a taste
for English, German, Italian, and Spanish, which has communicated itself
to all, or nearly all, the educated people of the country. English, in
particular, is now very generally studied; and perhaps, relatively, more
French, under thirty years of age, are to be found in Paris who speak
English, than Americans, of the same age, are to be found in New York
who speak French.

I think the limited powers of the language, and the rigid laws to which
it has been subjected, contribute to render the French less acquainted
with foreign nations than they would otherwise be. In all their
translations there is an effort to render the word, however peculiar may
be its meaning, into the French tongue. Thus, "township" and "city," met
with in an American book, would probably be rendered by "_canton_" or
"_commune_" or "_ville_;" neither of which conveys an accurate idea of
the thing intended. In an English or American book we should introduce
the French word at once, which would induce the reader to inquire into
the differences that exist between the minor territorial divisions, of
his own country, and those of the country of which he is reading. In
this manner is the door open for further information, until both writers
and readers come to find it easier and more agreeable to borrow words
from others, than to curtail their ideas by their national vocabularies.
The French, however, are beginning to feel their poverty in this
respect, and some are already bold enough to resort to the natural cure.

The habit of thinking of other nations through their own customs,
betrays the people of this country into many ridiculous mistakes. One
hears here the queerest questions imaginable every day; all of which,
veiled by the good breeding and delicacy that characterize the nation,
betray an innocent sense of superiority that may be smiled at, and which
creates no feeling of resentment. A _savant_ lately named to me the
coasting tonnage of France, evidently with the expectation of exciting
my admiration; and on my receiving the information coolly, he inquired,
with a little sarcasm of manner--"Without doubt, you have some coasting
tonnage also in America?" "The coasting tonnage of the United Slates,
Monsieur, is greater than the entire tonnage of France." The man looked
astonished, and I was covered with questions as to the nature of the
trade that required so much shipping among a population numerically so
small. It could not possibly be the consumption of a country--he did not
say it, but he evidently thought it--so insignificant and poor? I told
him, that bread, wine, and every other article of the first necessity
excepted, the other consumption of America, especially in luxuries, did
not fall so much short of that of France as he imagined, owing to the
great abundance in which the middling and lower classes lived. Unlike
Europe, articles that were imported were mere necessaries of life, in
America, such as tea, coffee, sugar, etc. etc., the lowest labourer
usually indulging in them. He left me evidently impressed with new
notions, for there is a desire to learn mingled with all their vanity.

But I will relate a laughable blunder of a translator, by way of giving
you a familiar example of the manner in which the French fall into error
concerning the condition of other nations, and to illustrate my meaning.
In one of the recent American novels that have been circulated here, a
character is made to betray confusion, by tracing lines on the table,
after dinner, with some wine that had been spilt; a sort of idle
occupation sufficiently common to allow the allusion to be understood by
every American. The sentence was faithfully rendered; but, not satisfied
with giving his original, the translator annexes a note, in which he
says, "One sees by this little trait, that the use of table-cloths, at
the time of the American Revolution, was unknown in America!" You will
understand the train of reasoning that led him to this conclusion. In
France the cover is laid, perhaps, on a coarse table of oak, or even of
pine, and the cloth is never drawn; the men leaving the table with the
women. In America, the table is of highly polished mahogany, the cloth
is removed, and the men sit, as in England. Now the French custom was
supposed to be the custom of mankind, and wine could not be traced on
the wood had there been a cloth; America was a young and semi-civilized
nation, and, _ergo_, in 1779, there could have been no table-cloths
known in America!--When men even visit a people of whom they have been
accustomed to think in this way, they use their eyes through the medium
of the imagination. I lately met a French traveller who affirmed that
the use of carpets was hardly known among us.

LETTER XIII.

French Manufactures.--Sèvres China.--Tapestry of the Gobelins.--Paper
for Hangings.--The Savonnerie.--French Carpets.--American Carpets.
--Transfer of old Pictures from Wood to Canvass.--Coronation Coach.
--The Arts in France--in America.--American Prejudice.

To JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.

In my last, I gave you a few examples of the instances in which the
French have mistaken the relative civilization of their country and
America, and I shall now give you some in which we have fallen into the
same error, or the other side of the question.

There has lately been an exhibition of articles of French manufacture,
at Paris; one of, I believe, the triennial collections of this
character, that have been established here. The court of the Louvre was
filled with temporary booths for the occasion, and vast ranges of the
unfinished apartments in that magnificent palace have been thrown open
for the same purpose. The court of the Louvre, of itself, is an area
rather more than four hundred feet square, and I should think fully a
quarter of a mile of rooms in the building itself are to be added to the
space occupied for this purpose.

The first idea, with which I was impressed, on walking through the
booths and galleries, on this occasion, was the great disproportion
between the objects purely of taste and luxury, and the objects of use.
The former abounded, were very generally elegant and well-imagined,
while the latter betrayed the condition of a nation whose civilization
has commenced with the summit, instead of the base of society.

In France, nearly every improvement in machinery is the result of
scientific research; is unobjectionable in principles, profound in the
adaptation of its parts to the end, and commonly beautiful in form. But
it ends here, rarely penetrating the mass, and producing positive
results. The Conservatoire des Arts, for instance, is full of beautiful
and ingenious ploughs; while France is tilled with heavy, costly, and
cumbrous implements of this nature. One sees light mould turning up,
here, under a sort of agricultural _diligences_, drawn by four, and even
six heavy horses, which in America would be done quite as well, and much
sooner, by two. You know I am farmer enough to understand what I say, on
a point like this. In France, the cutlery, ironware, glass,
door-fastenings, hinges, locks, fire-irons, axes, hatchets, carpenter's
tools, and, in short, almost everything that is connected with homely
industry and homely comfort, is inferior to the same thing in America.
It is true, many of our articles are imported, but this produces no
change in the habits of the respective people; our manufactories are
merely in Birmingham, instead of being in Philadelphia.

I have now been long enough in France to understand that seeing an
article in an exhibition like the one I am describing, is no proof that
it enters at all into the comforts and civilization of the nation,
although it may be an object as homely as a harrow or a spade. The
scientific part of the country has little influence, in this way, on the
operative. The chasm between knowledge and ignorance is so vast in
France, that it requires a long time for the simplest idea to find its
way across it.

Exhibitions are everywhere bad guides to the average civilization of a
country, as it is usual to expose only the objects that have been
wrought with the greatest care. In a popular sense, they are proofs of
what can be done, rather than of what _is_ done. The cloths that I saw
in the booths, for instance, are not to be met with in the shops; the
specimens of fire-arms, glass, cutlery, etc., etc., too, are all much
superior to anything one finds on sale. But this is the case everywhere,
from the boarding-school to the military parade, men invariably putting
the best foot foremost when they are to be especially inspected. This is
not the difference I mean. Familiar as every American, at all accustomed
to the usages of genteel life in his own country, must be with the
better manufactures of Great Britain, I think he would be struck by the
inferiority of even the best specimens of the commoner articles that
were here laid before the public. But when it came to the articles of
elegance and luxury, as connected with forms, taste, and execution,
though not always in ingenuity and extent of comfort, I should think
that no Englishman, let his rank in life be what it would, could pass
through this wilderness of elegancies without wonder.

Even the manufactures in which we, or rather the English (for I now
refer more to use than to production), ordinarily excel, such as
carpets, rugs, porcelain, plate, and all the higher articles of personal
comfort, _as exceptions_, surpass those of which we have any notion. I
say, _as exceptions_, not in the sense by which we distinguish the
extraordinary efforts of the ordinary manufacturer, in order to make a
figure at an exhibition, but certain objects produced in certain
exclusive establishments that are chiefly the property of the crown, as
they have been the offspring of regal taste and magnificence.

Of this latter character is the Sèvres china. There are manufactures of
this name of a quality that brings them within the reach of moderate
fortunes, it is true; but one obtains no idea of the length to which
luxury and taste have been pushed in this branch of art without
examining the objects made especially for the king, who is in the habit
of distributing them as presents among the crowned heads and his
personal favourites. After the ware has been made with the greatest care
and of the best materials, artists of celebrity are employed to paint
it. You can easily imagine the value of these articles, when you
remember that each plate has a design of its own, beautifully executed
in colours, and presenting a landscape or an historical subject that is
fit to be framed and suspended in a gallery. One or two of the artists
employed in this manner have great reputations, and it is no uncommon
thing to see miniatures in gilded frames which, on examination, prove to
be on porcelain. Of course the painting has been subject to the action
of heat in the baking. As respects the miniatures, there is not much to
be said in their favour. They are well drawn and well enough coloured;
but the process and the material give them a glossy, unnatural
appearance, which must prevent them from ever being considered as more
than so many _tours de force_ in the arts. But on vases, dinner-sets,
and all ornamental furniture of this nature, in which we look for the
peculiarities of the material, they produce a magnificence of effect
that I cannot describe. Vases of the value of ten or fifteen thousand
francs, or even of more money, are not uncommon; and at the exhibition
there was a little table, the price of which I believe was two thousand
dollars, that was a perfect treasure in its way.

Busts, and even statues, I believe, have been attempted in this branch
of art. This of course is enlisting the statuary as well as the painter
in its service. I remember to have seen, when at Sèvres, many busts of
the late Duc de Berri in the process of drying, previously to being put
into the oven. Our cicerone on that occasion made us laugh by the
routine with which he went through his catalogue of wonders. He had
pointed out to us the unbaked busts in a particular room, and on
entering another apartment, where the baked busts were standing, he
exclaimed--"Ah! voilà son Altesse Royale toute cuite." This is just the
amount of the criticism I should hazard on this branch of the Sèvres
art, or on that which exceeds its legitimate limits--"Behold his Royal
Highness, ready cooked."

The value of some of the single plates must be very considerable, and
the king frequently, in presenting a solitary vase, or ornament of the
Sèvres porcelain, presents thousands.

The tapestry is another of the costly works that it has suited the
policy of France to keep up, while her ploughs, and axes, and carts, and
other ordinary implements, are still so primitive and awkward. The
exhibition contained many specimens from the Gobelins that greatly
surpassed my expectations. They were chiefly historical subjects, with
the figures larger than life, and might very well have passed with a
novice, at a little distance, for oil-paintings. The dimensions of the
apartment are taken, and the subject is designed, of course, on a scale
suited to the room. The effect of this species of ornament is very noble
and imposing, and the tapestries have the additional merit of warmth and
comfort. Hangings in cloth are very common in Paris, but the tapestry of
the Gobelins is chiefly confined to the royal palaces. Our neighbour the
Duc de ---- has some of it, however, in his hotel, a present from the
king; but the colours are much faded, and the work is otherwise the
worse for time. I have heard him say that one piece he has, even in its
dilapidated state, is valued at seven thousand francs. Occasionally a
little of this tapestry is found in this manner in the great hotels;
but, as a rule, its use is strictly royal.

The paper for hangings is another article in which the French excel. We
get very pretty specimens of their skill in this manufacture in America,
but, with occasional exceptions, nothing that is strictly magnificent
finds its way into our markets. I was much struck with some of these
hangings that were made to imitate velvet. The cloth appeared to be
actually incorporated with the paper, and by no ingenuity of which I was
master could I detect the means. The style of paper is common enough
everywhere, but this exhibition had qualities far surpassing anything of
the sort I had ever before seen. Curiosity has since led me to the
paper-maker, in order to penetrate the secrets of his art; and there,
like the affair of Columbus and the egg, I found the whole thing as
simple as heart could wish. You will probably smile when you learn the
process by which paper is converted into velvet, which is briefly
this:--

Wooden moulds are used to stamp the designs, each colour being put on,
by laying a separate mould on its proper place, one mould being used
after another, though only one is used on any particular occasion. Thus,
all the black is put on now, the green to-morrow, and the yellow next
day. As to the velvets, they are produced as follows:--Wool is chopped
fine, and dyed the desired hue. I am not certain that cotton, or even
other materials, may not be used. This chopped and coloured wool is
thrown into a tub; the mould is covered with some glutinous substance,
and, when applied, it leaves on the paper the adhesive property, as
types leave the ink. The paper passes immediately over the tub, and a
boy throws on the wool. A light blow or two, of a rattan, tosses it
about, and finally throws all back again into the tub that has not
touched the glue. The _printed_ part, of course, is covered with blue,
or purple, or scarlet wood, and is converted, by a touch of the wand,
into velvet! The process of covering a yard lasts about ten seconds, and
I should think considerably more than a hundred yards of paper could be
velvetized in an hour. We laughed at the discovery, and came away
satisfied that Solomon could have known nothing about manufacturing
paper-hangings, or he would not have said there was nothing "new under
the sun."

But the manufacture of France that struck me as being strictly in the
best taste, in which perfection and magnificence are attained without
recourse to conceits, or doing violence to any of the proprieties, are
the products of the Savonnerie, and the exquisitely designed and
executed works of Beauvais. These include chair bottoms and backs,
hangings for rooms, and, I believe, carpets. At all events, if the
carpets do not come from these places, they are quite worthy to have
that extraction. Flowers, arabesques, and other similar designs,
exquisitely coloured and drawn, chiefly limit the efforts of the former;
and the carpets were in single pieces, and made to fit the room. Nothing
that you have ever seen, or probably have imagined, at all equals the
magnificence of some of these princely carpets. Indeed, I know nothing
that runs a closer parallel to the general civilization between France
and England, and I might almost add of America, than the history of
their respective carpets. In France, a vast majority of the people
hardly know what a carpet is. They use mud floors, or, rising a little
above the very lowest classes, coarse stone and rude tiles are
substituted. The middling classes, out of the large towns, have little
else besides painted tiles. The wooden _parquet_ is met with, in all the
better houses, and is well made and well kept. There is a finish and
beauty about them, that is not misplaced even in a palace. Among all
these classes, until quite lately, carpets were unknown, or at least
they were confined to the very highest class of society. The great
influx of English has introduced them into the public hotels and common
lodging-houses; but I have visited among many French of rank and
fortune, in the dead of winter, and found no carpets. A few of a very
coarse quality, made of rags, adroitly tortured into laboured designs,
are seen, it is true, even in indifferent houses; but the rule is as I
have told you. In short, carpets, in this country, until quite lately,
have been deemed articles of high luxury; and, like nearly everything
else that is magnificent and luxurious, at the point where they have
been taken up, they infinitely exceed anything of the sort in England.
The classical designs, perfect drawings, and brilliant colours, defeat
every effort to surpass them,--I had almost said, all competition.

In all America, except in the new regions, with here and there a
dwelling on the frontier, there is scarcely a house to be found without
carpets, the owners of which are at all above the labouring classes.
Even in many of the latter they are to be found. We are carpeted,
frequently, from the kitchen to the garret; the richness and rarity of
the manufacture increasing as we ascend in the scale of wealth and
fashion, until we reach the uttermost limits of our habits--a point
where beauty and neatness verge upon elegance and magnificence. At this
point, however, we stop, and the turn of the French commences. Now this
is the history of the comparative civilization of the two countries, in
a multitude of other matters; perhaps, it would be better to say, it is
the general comparative history of the two countries. The English differ
from us, only, in carrying their scale both higher and lower than
ourselves; in being sometimes magnificent, and sometimes impoverished;
but, rarely, indeed, do they equal the French in the light, classical,
and elegant taste that so eminently distinguishes these people. There is
something ponderous and purse-proud about the magnificence of England,
that is scarcely ever visible here; though taste is evidently and
rapidly on the increase in England on the one hand, as comfort is here
on the other. The French have even partially adopted the two words
"fashionable" and "comfortable."

One of the most curious things connected with the arts in France, is
that of transferring old pictures from wood to canvass. A large
proportion of the paintings of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
were done on wood or copper, and many of the former are, or have been,
in danger of being lost, from decay. In order to meet the evil, a
process has been invented by which the painting is transferred to
canvass, where it remains, to all appearance, as good as ever. I have
taken some pains to ascertain in what manner this nice operation is
performed. I have seen pictures in various stages of the process, though
I have never watched any one through it all; and, in one instance, I saw
a small Wouvermans stripped to the shirt, if it may be so expressed, or,
in other words, _when it was nothing but paint_. From what I have seen
and been told, I understand the mode of effecting this delicate and
almost incredible operation to be as follows:--

A glue is rubbed over the face of the picture, which is then laid on a
piece of canvass that is properly stretched and secured, to receive it.
Weights are now laid on the back of the picture, and it is left for a
day or two, in order that the glue may harden. The weights are then
removed, and the operator commences removing the wood, first with a
plane, and, when he approaches the paint, with sharp delicate chisels.
The paint is kept in its place by the canvass to which it is glued, and
which is itself secured to the table; and although the entire body of
the colours, hardened as it is by time, is usually not thicker than a
thin wafer, the wood is commonly taken entirely from it. Should a thin
fragment be left, however, or a crack made in the paint, it is
considered of no great moment. The Wouvermans alluded to, was pure
paint, however, and I was shown the pieces of wood, much worm-eaten,
that had been removed. When the wood is away, glue is applied to the
_back of the paint_, and to the canvass on which it is intended the
picture shall remain. The latter is then laid on the paint; new weights
are placed above it, and they are left two or three days longer, for
this new glue to harden. When it is thought the adhesion between the
second canvass and the paint is sufficient, the weights are removed, the
picture is turned, and warm water is used in loosening the first canvass
from the face of the picture, until it can be stripped off. More or less
of the varnish of the picture usually comes off with the glue, rendering
the separation easier. The painting is then cleaned, retouched, and,
should it be necessary, varnished and framed; after which it commonly
looks as well, and is really as sound and as good as ever, so far, at
least, as the consistency is concerned.

Among other wonders in the exhibition, was the coronation coach of
Charles X. This carriage is truly magnificent. It is quite large, as
indeed are all the royal carriages, perhaps as large as an American
stage-coach; the glass, pure and spotless as air, goes all round the
upper compartments, so as to admit of a view of the whole interior; the
panels are beautifully painted in design; the top has gilded and
well-formed angels blowing trumpets, and the crown of France surmounts
the centre. The wheels, and train, and pole, are red, striped with gold.
All the leather is red morocco, gilt, as is the harness. Plumes of
ostrich feathers ornament the angles, and, altogether, it is a most
glittering and gorgeous vehicle. The paintings, the gildings, and all
the details are well executed, except the running gear, which struck me
as clumsy and imperfect. The cost is said to have been about sixty
thousand dollars.

Many new rooms in the Louvre were thrown open on this occasion, in order
that the paintings on their ceilings might be viewed; and as I walked
through this gorgeous magnificence, I felt how small were our highest
pretensions to anything like elegance or splendour. The very extreme of
art, of this nature, may, of itself, be of no great direct benefit, it
is true; but is should be remembered, that the skill which produces
these extraordinary fruits, in its road to the higher points of
magnificence, produces all that embellishes life in the intermediate
gradations.

In America, in the eagerness of gain, and with the contracted habits
that a love of gain engenders, which by their own avidity, as is usual
with the grosser passions, too often defeat their own ends, we overlook
the vast importance of cultivating the fine arts, even in a pecuniary
sense, to say nothing of the increased means of enjoying the very money
that is so blindly pursued, which their possession entails. France is at
this moment laying all Christendom under contribution, simply by means
of her taste. Italy, where the arts have flourished still longer, and
where they have still more effectually penetrated society, would drive
the English and French out of every market on earth, were the national
energy at all equal to the national tastes. These things do not as
exclusively belong to extreme luxury as they may at first seem. Science,
skill of the nicest investigation, and great research, are all enlisted
in their behalf; and, in time, implements of the most homely uses derive
perfection, as by-plays, from the investigations consequent on the
production of luxuries. It is true, that, by blending a certain amount
of information with practice, as in the case of the American labourer,
our wants find the means of furnishing their own supplies; but, apart
from the fact that the man who makes a chair is not obliged to sit in
it, and is therefore content to consult his profits merely, the impulses
of practice are much aided by the accumulated knowledge of study. The
influence that the arts of design have had on the French manufactures is
incalculable. They have brought in the aid of chemistry, and
mathematics, and a knowledge of antiquity; and we can trace the effects
in the bronzes, the porcelain, the hangings, the chintzes, the silks,
down to the very ribands of the country. We shall in vain endeavour to
compete with the great European nations, unless we make stronger efforts
to cultivate the fine arts. Of what avails our beautiful glass, unless
we know how to cut it? or of what great advantage, in the strife of
industry, will be even the _skilful_ glass-cutter, should he not also be
the _tasteful_ glass-cutter? It is true that classical forms and
proportions are, as yet, of no great account among us; and the great
mass of the American people still cling to their own uninstructed
fancies, in preference to the outlines and proportions of the more
approved models, and to those hues which art has demonstrated to be
harmonious. This is the history of every society in its progress to
perfection; and, cut off as we are from the rest of the civilized world,
it is not to be expected that we are to make an extraordinary exception.
But, while we may be satisfied with our own skill and taste, the happy
lot of all ignorance, our customers will not have the same
self-complacency, to induce them to become purchasers. We find this
truth already. We beat all nations in the fabrication of common
unstamped cottons. Were trade as free as some political economists
pretend, we should drive all our competitors out of every market, as
respects this one article. But the moment we attempt to print, or to
meddle with that part of the business which requires taste, we find
ourselves inferior to the Europeans, whose forms we are compelled to
imitate, and of course to receive when no longer novel, and whose hues
defy our art.

The wisest thing the United States could do, would be to appropriate
thirty or forty millions to the formation of a marine, not to secure the
coast, as our hen-roost statesmen are always preaching, but to keep in
our own hands the control of our own fortunes, by rendering our enmity
or friendship of so much account to Europe that no power shall ever
again dare trespass on our national rights:--and one of the next wisest
measures, I honestly believe, would be to appropriate at once a million
to the formation of a National Gallery, in which copies of the antique,
antiques themselves, pictures, bronzes, arabesques, and other models of
true taste, might be collected, before which the young aspirants for
fame might study, and with which become imbued, as the preliminary step
to an infusion of their merits into society. Without including the vast
influence of such a cultivation on the manners, associations,
intellects, and habits of the people--an influence that can scarcely be
appreciated too highly--fifty years would see the first cost returned
fifty-fold in the shape of the much-beloved dollars. Will this happen?
Not till men of enlightened minds--_statesmen_, instead of _political
partizans_--are sent to Washington. It is the misfortune of America to
lie so remote from the rest of the civilized world, as to feel little of
the impulses of a noble competition, our rivalry commonly limiting
itself to the vulgar exhibitions of individual vanity; and this the more
to our disadvantage, as, denied access to the best models for even this
humble species of contention with the antagonists we are compelled to
choose, victory is as bad as defeat.

One of the great impediments to a high class of improvement in America,
is the disposition to resent every intimation that we can be any better
than we are at present. Few, perhaps no country, has ever enduced so
much evil-disposed and unmerited abuse as our own. It is not difficult
to trace the reasons, and every American should meet it with a just and
manly indignation. But, being deemed a nation of rogues, barbarous, and
manifesting the vices of an ancestry of convicts, is a very different
thing from standing at the head of civilization. This tendency to repel
every suggestion of inferiority is one of the surest signs of provincial
habits; it is exactly the feeling with which the resident of the village
resents what he calls the airs of the town, and that which the inland
trader brings with him among those whom he terms the "dandies" of the
sea-board. In short, it is the jealousy of inferiority on the exciting
points; whatever may be the merits of its subject in other matters, and
furnishes of itself the best possible proof that there is room for
amendment. The French have a clever and pithy saying, that of--"On peut
tout dire à un grand peuple." "One may tell all to a great nation."[17]

[Footnote 17:--Every one was telling me that I should find the country so
altered after an absence of eight years, that I should not know it.
Altered, indeed, I found it, but not quite so evidently improved. It
struck me that there was a vast expansion of mediocrity that was well
enough in itself, but which was so overwhelming as nearly to overshadow
everything that once stood prominent as more excellent. This was perhaps
no more than a natural consequence of the elasticity and growth of a
young, vigorous community, which, in its agregate character, as in that
of its individuals, must pass through youth to arrive at manhood. Still
it was painful and doubly so to one coming from Europe. I saw the towns
increased, more tawdry than ever, but absolutely with less real taste
than they had in my youth. The art of painting alone appeared to me to
have made any material advances in the right direction, if one excepts
increase in wealth, and in the facilities to create wealth. The
steam-boats were the only objects that approached magnificence; but
while they had increased in show, they had less comfort and
respectability. The taverns, as a whole, had deteriorated; though the
three first I happened to enter might well compete with a very high
class of European inns, viz. Head's, Barnum's, and Gadsby's.]

LETTER XIV.

False Notions.--Continental Manners.--People of Paris.--Parisian Women.
--French Beauty.--Men of France.--French Soldiers.

To JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.

I cannot tell you whence the vulgar notions that we entertain of the
French, which, with many other pernicious prejudices, have made a part
of our great inheritance from England, have been originally obtained.
Certainly I have seen no thing, nor any person, after a long residence
in the country, to serve as models to the flippant _marquis_, the
overdressed courtiers, or the _petites maîtresses_ of the English
dramatists. Even a French _perruquier_ is quite as homely and plain a
personage as an English or an American barber. But these Athenians
grossly caricature themselves as well as their neighbours. Although
Paris is pretty well garnished with English of all degrees, from the
Duke down, it has never yet been my luck to encounter an English dandy.
Now and then one meets with a "_dresser_," a man who thinks more of his
appearance than becomes his manhood, or than comports with good
breeding; and occasionally a woman is seen who is a mere appendage to
her attire; but I am persuaded, that, as a rule, neither of these vulgar
classes exists among people of any condition, in either country. It is
impossible for me to say what changes the revolution, and the wars and
the new notions, may have produced in France, but there is no sufficient
reason for believing that the present cropped and fringeless,
bewhiskered, and _laceless_ generation of France, differs more from
their bewigged, belaced, and powdered predecessors, than the men and
women of any other country differ from their particular ancestors. Boys
wore cocked hats, and breaches, and swords, in America, previously to
the revolution; and our immediate fathers flourished in scarlet coats,
powder, ruffled fingers, and embroidered waistcoats.

The manners of the continent of Europe are more finished than those of
England, and while quiet and simplicity are the governing rules of good
breeding everywhere, even in unsophisticated America, this quiet and
simplicity is more gracious and more graceful in France than in the
neighbouring island. As yet, I see no other difference in mere
deportment, though there is abundance when one goes into the examination
of character.

I have met with a good many people of the old court at Paris, and though
now and then there is a certain _roué_ atmosphere about them, both men
and women, as if too much time had been passed at Coblentz, they have
generally, in other respects, been models of elegant demeanour. Usually
they are simple, dignified, and yet extremely gracious--gracious without
the appearance of affability, a quality that is almost always indicative
of a consciousness of superiority. The predominant fault of manner here
is too strong a hand in applying flattery; but this is as much the fault
of the head as of breeding. The French are fond of hearing pleasant
things. They say themselves that "a Frenchman goes into society to make
himself agreeable, and an Englishman to make himself disagreeable;" and
the _dire_ is not altogether without foundation in truth. I never met a
Frenchman in society here, who appeared to wish to enhance his
importance by what are called "airs," though a coxcomb in feeling is an
animal not altogether unknown to the natural history of Paris, nor is
the zoological science of M. Cuvier indispensable to his discovery.

I shall probably surprise you with one of my opinions. I think the
population of Paris, physically speaking, finer than that of London.
Fine men and fine women are, by no means, as frequent, after allowing
for the difference in whole numbers, in the French, as in the English
capital; but neither are there as many miserable, pallid, and squalid
objects. The French are a smaller race than the English, much smaller
than the race of English gentlemen, so many of whom congregate at
London; but the population of Paris has a sturdy, healthful look, that I
do not think is by any means as general in London. In making this
comparison, allowance must be made for the better dress of the English,
and for their fogs, whose effect is to bleach the skin and to give a
colour that has no necessary connexion with the springs of life,
although the female portion of the population of Paris has probably as
much colour as that of London. It might possibly be safer to say that
the female population of Paris is finer than that of London, though I
think on the whole the males may be included also. I do not mean by
this, that there is relatively as much female beauty in Paris as in
London, for in this respect the latter has immeasurably the advantage;
but, looks apart, that the _physique_ of the French of Paris is superior
to that of the English of London. The population of Paris is a
favourable specimen of that of the kingdom; while that of London,
Westminster excepted, is not at all above the level of the entire
country, if indeed it be as good.[18]

[Footnote 18: This opinion remains the same in the writer, who between
the years 1806 and 1833 has been six times in London, and between the
years 1826 and 1833, five times in Paris. In 1833 he left Paris for
London, sailing for home from the latter place. A few days after his
arrival he went to Washington, where _during the session of Congress_,
dress and air not considered, he thought he had never met so large a
proportion of fine men in any part of the world. He was particularly
struck with their size, as was an American friend who was with him, and
who had also passed many years abroad, having left Liverpool the same
day the writer sailed from Portsmouth.]

The very general notion which exists in America, that the French are a
slightly-built, airy people, and that their women in particular are thin
and without _embonpoint_, is a most extraordinary one, for there is not
a particle of foundation for it. The women of Paris are about as tall as
the women of America, and, could a fair sample of the two nations be
placed in the scales, I have no doubt it would be found that the French
women would outweigh the Americans in the proportion of six to five.
Instead of being meagre, they are compactly built, with good busts,
inclining to be full, and well-limbed, as any one may see who will take
the trouble to walk the streets after a hard shower; for, as Falstaff
told Prince Henry, "You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care
not who sees your back." Indeed, I know no females to whom the opinion
which we entertain of the French women may better apply than to our own,
and yet I know none who are so generally well-looking.

The French are not a handsome nation. Personal beauty in either sex is
rare: there is a want of simplicity, of repose, of dignity, and even of
harmonious expression, what they themselves call _finesse_, in their
countenances, and yet the liveliness of the eyes and the joyous
character of their looks render them agreeable. You are not to
understand from this that great personal beauty does not exist in
France, however, for there are so many exceptions to the rule, that they
have occasionally made me hesitate about believing it a rule at all. The
French often possess a feature in great perfection that is very rare in
England, where personal beauty is so common in both sexes. It is in the
mouth, and particularly in the smile. Want of _finesse_ about the mouth
is a general European deficiency (the Italians have more of it than any
other people I know), and it is as prevalent an advantage in America.
But the races of Saxon root fail in the chin, which wants nobleness and
volume. Here it is quite common to see profiles that would seem in their
proper places on a Roman coin.

Although female beauty is not common in France, when it is found, it is
usually of a very high order. The sweet, cherub-like, guileless
expression that belongs to the English female face, and through it to
the American, is hardly ever, perhaps never, met with here. The French
countenance seldom conveys the idea of extreme infantile innocence. Even
in the children there is a _manner_ which, while it does not absolutely
convey an impression of an absence of the virtues, I think leaves less
conviction of its belonging to the soul of the being, than the peculiar
look I mean. One always sees _woman_--modest, amiable, _spirituelle_,
feminine and attractive, if you will, in a French girl; while one
sometimes sees an _angel_ in a young English or American face. I have no
allusion now to religious education, or to religious feelings, which are
quite as general in the sex, particularly the young of good families,
under their characteristic distinctions, here as anywhere else. In this
particular the great difference is, that in America it is religion, and
in France it is infidelity, that is metaphysical.

There is a coquettish prettiness that is quite common in France, in
which air and manner are mingled with a certain sauciness of expression
that is not easily described, but which, while it blends well enough
with the style of the face, is rather pleasing than captivating. It
marks the peculiar beauty of the _grisette_, who, with her little cap,
hands stuck in the pockets of her apron, mincing walk, coquettish eye,
and well-balanced head, is a creature perfectly _sui generis_. Such a
girl is more like an actress imitating the character, than one is apt to
imagine the character itself. I have met with imitators of these roguish
beauties in a higher station, such as the wives and daughters of the
industrious classes, as it is the fashion to call them here, and even
among the banking community, but never among women of condition, whose
deportment in France, whatever may be their morals, is usually marked by
gentility of air, and a perfectly good tone of manner, always excepting
that small taint of _rouéism_ to which I have already alluded, and which
certainly must have come from the camp and emigration.

The highest style of the French beauty is the classical. I cannot recall
a more lovely picture, a finer union of the grand and the feminine, than
the Duchesse de ----, in full dress, at a carnival ball, where she shone
peerless among hundreds of the _élite_ of Europe. I see her now, with
her small, well-seated head; her large, dark, brilliant eye, rivetted on
the mazes of a _Polonaise_, danced in character; her hair, black as the
raven's wing, clustering over a brow of ivory; her graceful form
slightly inclining forward in delighted and graceful attention; her
features just Grecian enough to be a model of delicate beauty, just
Roman enough to be noble; her colour heightened to that of youth by the
heat of the room, and her costume, in which all the art of Paris was
blended with a critical knowledge of the just and the becoming. And yet
this woman was a grandmother!

The men of France have the same physical and the same conventional
peculiarities as the women. They are short, but sturdy. Including all
France, for there is a material difference in this respect between the
north and the south, I should think the average stature of the French
men (not women) to be quite an inch and a half below the average stature
of America, and possibly two inches. At home, I did not find myself
greatly above the medium height, and in a crowd I was always compelled
to stand on tiptoe to look over the heads of those around me; whereas,
here, I am evidently _un grand_, and can see across the Champs Elysées
without any difficulty. You may remember that I stand as near as may be
to five feet ten; it follows that five feet ten is rather a tall man in
France. You are not to suppose, however, that there are not occasionally
men of great stature in this country. One of the largest men I have ever
seen appears daily in the garden of the Tuileries, and I am told he is a
Frenchman of one of the north-eastern provinces. That part of the
kingdom is German rather than French, however, and the population still
retain most of the peculiarities of their origin.

The army has a look of service and activity rather than of force. I
should think it more formidable by its manoeuvres than its charges.
Indeed, the tactics of Napoleon, who used the legs of his troops more
than their muskets, aiming at concentrating masses on important points,
goes to show that he depended on alertness instead of _bottom_. This is
just the quality that would be most likely to prevail against your
methodical, slow-thinking, and slow-moving German; and I make no
question the short, sturdy, nimble legs of the little warriors of this
country have gained many a field.

A general officer, himself a six-footer, told me, lately, that they had
found the tall men of very little use in the field, from their inability
to endure the fatigues of a campaign. When armies shall march on
railroads, and manoeuvre by steam, the grenadiers will come in play
again; but as it is, the French are admirably adapted by their
_physique_ to return the career that history has given them. The Romans
resembled them in this respect, Cicero admitting that many people
excelled them in size, strength, beauty, and even learning, though he
claimed a superiority for his countrymen, on the score of love of
country and reverence for the gods. The French are certainly patriotic
enough, though their reverence for the gods may possibly be questioned.

The regiments of the guards, the heavy cavalry, and the artillery are
all filled with men chosen with some care. These troops would, I think,
form about an average American army, on the score of size. The
battalions of the line receive the rest. As much attention is bestowed
in adapting the duty to the _physique_, and entire corps are composed of
men of as nearly as possible the same physical force, some of the
regiments certainly make but an indifferent figure, as to dimensions,
while others appear particularly well. Still, if not overworked, I
should think these short men would do good service. I think I have seen
one or two regiments, in which the average height has not exceeded five
feet three inches. The chances of not being hit in such a corps are
worth something, for the proportion, compared to the chances in a corps
of six-footers, is as sixty-three to seventy-two, or is one-eighth in
favour of the Lilliputians. I believe the rule for retreating is when
one-third of the men are _hors de combat_.

Now, supposing a regiment of three thousand grenadiers were obliged to
retire with a loss of one thousand men, the little fellows, under the
same fire, should have, at the same time, two thousand one hundred and
thirty-seven sound men left, and of course, unless bullied out of it,
they ought to gain the day.

LETTER XV.

Perversion of Institutions.--The French Academy.--Laplace.--Astronomy.
--Theatres of Paris.--Immoral Plot.--Artificial Feelings.--French
Tragedy.--Literary Mania.--The American Press.--American
Newspapers.--French Journals--Publishing Manoeuvres.--Madame Malibran.

To JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.

It appears to be the melancholy lot of humanity, that every institution
which ingenuity can devise shall be perverted to an end different from
the legitimate. If we plan a democracy, the craven wretch who, in a
despotism, would be the parasite of a monarch, heads us off, and gets
the best of it under the pretence of extreme love for the people; if we
flatter ourselves that by throwing power into the hands of the rich and
noble, it is put beyond the temptation to abuse it, we soon discover
that rich is a term of convention, no one thinking he has enough until
he has all, and that nobility of station has no absolute connexion with
nobleness of spirit or of conduct; if we confide all to one, indolence,
favouritism, and indeed the impossibility of supervision, throws us
again into the hands of the demagogue, in his new, or rather true
character of a courtier. So it is with life; in politics, religion,
arms, arts and letters, yea, even the republic of letters, as it is
called, is the prey of schemes and parasites, and things _in fact_, are
very different from things _as they seem to be_.

"In the seventeen years that I have been a married man," said Captain
---- of the British navy, "I have passed but seventeen months with my
wife and family," "But, now there is peace, you will pass a few years
quietly in America, to look after your affairs," said I, by way of
awkward condolence. "No, indeed; I shall return to England as soon as
possible, to make up for lost time. I have been kept so much at sea,
that they have forgotten me at home, and duty to my children requires
that I should be on the spot." In the simplicity of my heart, I thought
this strange, and yet nothing could be more true. Captain ---- was a
scion of the English aristocracy, and looked to his sword for his
fortune. Storms, fagging, cruising, all were of small avail compared to
interest at the Admiralty, and so it is with all things else, whether in
Europe or America. The man who really gains the victory, is lucky,
indeed, if he obtain the meed of his skill and valour. You may be
curious to know of what all this is _à propos?_ To be frank with, you, I
have visited the French Academy--"ces quarante qui ont l'esprit comme
quatre," and have come away fully impressed with the vanity of human
things!

The occasion was the reception of two or three new members, when,
according to a settled usage, the successful candidates pronounced
eulogies on their predecessors. You may be curious to know what
impression the assembled genius of France produced on a stranger from
the western world. I can only answer, none. The Academy of the Sciences
can scarcely ever be less than distinguished in such a nation; but when
I came to look about me, and to inquire after the purely literary men, I
was forcibly struck with the feebleness of the catalogue of names. Not
one in five was at all known to me, and very few, even of those who
were, could properly be classed among the celebrated writers of the day.
As France has many very clever men who were not on the list, I was
desirous of knowing the reason, and then learned that intrigue,
court-favour, and "_log-rolling_" to use a quaint American term, made
members of the academy as well as members of the cabinet. A moment's
reflection might have told me it could not well be otherwise. It would
be so in America, if we were burthened with an academy; it is so as
respects collegiate honours; and what reason is there for supposing it
should not be so in a country so notoriously addicted to intrigue as
France?

One ought not to be the dupe of these things. There are a few great
names, distinguished by common consent, whose claims it is necessary to
respect. These men form the front of every honorary institution; if
there are to be knights and nobles, and academicians, they must be of
the number; not that such distinctions are necessary to them, but that
they are necessary to the distinctions; after which the _oi polloi_ are
enrolled as they can find interest. Something very like an admission of
this is contained in an inscription on the statue of Molière, which
stands in the vestibule of the hall of the Academy, which frankly says,
"Though we are not necessary to your glory, you are necessary to ours."
He was excluded from the forty, by intrigue, on account of his
profession being that of a player. Shakspeare, himself, would have fared
no better. Now, fancy a country in which there was a club of select
authors, that should refuse to enrol the name of William Shakspeare on
their list!

The sitting was well attended, and I dare say the addresses were not
amiss; though there is something exceedingly tiresome in one of these
eulogies, that is perpetrated by malice prepense. The audience applauded
very much, after the fashion of those impromptus which are made _à
loisir_, and I could not but fancy that a good portion of the assembly
began to think the Academy was what the cockneys call a _rum_ place,
before they heard the last of it. We had a poem by Comte Daru, to which
I confess I did not listen, notwithstanding my personal respect for the
distinguished writer, simply because I was most heartily wearied before
he began, and because I can never make anything of French poetry, in the
Academy or out of it.

It would be unjust to speak lightly of any part of the French Academy,
without a passing remark in honour of those sections of it to which
honour is due. In these sections may be included, I think, that of the
arts, as well as that of the sciences. The number of respectable artists
that exist in this country is perfectly astonishing. The connoisseurs, I
believe, dispute the merits of the school, and ignorant as I am, in such
matters, I can myself see that there is a prevalent disposition, both in
statuary and painting, to sacrifice simplicity to details, and that the
theatrical is sometimes mistaken for the grand; but, after admitting
both these faults, and some defects in colouring, there still remains a
sufficient accumulation of merit, to create wonder in one, like myself,
who has not had previous opportunities of ascertaining the affluence of
a great nation in this respect.

As regards the scientific attainments of the French, it is unnecessary
to say anything; though I believe you will admit that they ought at
least to have the effect of counteracting some of the prejudices about
dancing-masters, _petits maîtres_, and _perruquiers_, that have
descended to us, through English novels and plays. Such a man as
Laplace, alone, is sufficient to redeem an entire people from these
imputations. The very sight of one of his demonstrations will give
common men, like ourselves, headaches, and you will remember that having
successfully got through one of the toughest of them, he felicitated
himself that there was but one other man living who could comprehend it,
now it was made.

What a noble gift would it have been to his fellow-creatures, had some
competent follower of Laplace bestowed on them a comprehensive but
popular compend of the leading astronomical facts, to be used as one of
the most ordinary school-books! Apart from the general usefulness of
this peculiar species of knowledge, and the chances that, by thus
popularizing the study, sparks might be struck from the spirit of some
dormant Newton, I know no inquiry that has so strong a tendency to raise
the mind from the gross and vulgar pursuits of the world, to a
contemplation of the power and designs of God. It has often happened to
me, when, filled with wonder and respect for the daring and art of man,
I have been wandering through the gorgeous halls of some palace, or
other public edifice, that an orrery or a diagram of the planetary
system has met my eye, and recalled me, in a moment, from the
consideration of art, and its intrinsic feebleness, to that of the
sublimity of nature. At such times, this globe has appeared so
insignificant, in comparison with the mighty system of which it forms so
secondary a part, that I felt a truly philosophical indifference, not to
give it a better term, for all it contained. Admiration of human powers,
as connected with the objects around me, has been lost in admiration of
the mysterious spirit which could penetrate the remote and sublime
secrets of the science; and on no other occasions have I felt so
profound a conviction of my own isolated insignificance, or so lively a
perception of the stupendous majesty of the Deity.

Passing by the common and conceded facts of the dimensions of the
planets, and the extent of their orbits, what thoughts are awakened by
the suggestion that the fixed stars are the centres of other solar
systems, and the eccentric comets are links to connect them all in one
great and harmonious design! The astronomers tell us that some of these
comets have no visible nucleuses--that the fixed stars are seen through
their apparent densest parts, and that they can be nothing but luminous
gases; while, on the other hand, others do betray dark compact bodies of
more solid matter. Fixed stars unaccountably disappear, as if suddenly
struck out of their places. Now, we know that aerolites are formed in
the atmosphere by a natural process, and descend in masses of pure iron.
Why may not the matter of one globe, dispersed into its elements by the
fusion of its consummation, reassemble in the shape of comets, gaseous
at first, and slowly increasing and condensing in the form of solid
matter, varying in their course as they acquire the property of
attraction, until they finally settle into new and regular planetary
orbits by the power of their own masses, thus establishing a regular
reproduction of worlds to meet the waste of eternity? Were the earth
dissolved into gases by fusion, what would become of its satellite the
moon? Might not the principles of our planet, thus volatilized, yield to
its nearer attraction, assemble around that orb, which, losing its
governing influence, should be left to wander in infinite space, subject
to a new but eccentric law of gravity, until finally reduced again
within the limits of some new system? How know we that such is not the
origin of comets?

Many astronomers have believed that the solar system, in company with
thousands of other systems, revolves around a common centre, in orbits
so vast as to defy computation, and a religious sentiment might well
suggest that this centre of the universe is the throne of the Most High.
Here we may fancy the Deity seated in power, and controlling, by his
will, the movements of worlds, directing each to the completion of his
own mysterious and benevolent designs.

It certainly might be dangerous to push our speculations too far, but
there can be no risk in familiarizing men to consider the omnipotence of
God, and to feel their own comparative insignificance. What ideas of
vastness are obtained by a knowledge of the fact that there exist stars
in the firmament which ordinary telescopes show us only as single
bodies, but which, on examination, by using reflectors of a higher
power, are found to be clusters of orbs--clusters of worlds--or clusters
of suns! These, again, are found to be _binary_ stars, or two stars
revolving round each other, while they are thought, at the same time, to
revolve around their central sun, and accompanied by this again,
probably, to revolve round the great common centre of all!

But, in the words of the quaint old song, I must cry "Holla! my fancy,
whither dost thou go?" Before taking leave of the stars altogether,
however, I will add that the French, and I believe all Europe, with the
exception of England, follow the natural order of time, in counting the
seasons. Thus the spring commences with the vernal equinox, and the
autumn with the autumnal. This division of the year leaves nearly the
whole of March as a winter month, June as a spring month, and September
as belonging to the summer. No general division of the seasons can suit
all latitudes; but the equinoxes certainly suggest the only two great
events of the year, that equally affect the entire sphere. Had the old
method of computing time continued, the seasons would gradually have
made the circle of the months, until their order was reversed as they
are now known to be in the northern and southern hemispheres.

Quitting the Academy, which, with its schools of the classical and the
romantic, has tempted me to a higher flight than I could have believed
possible, let us descend to the theatres of Paris. Talma was still
playing last year, when we arrived, and as in the case of repentance, I
put off a visit to the Théâtre Français, with a full determination to
go, because it might be made at any time. In the meanwhile, he fell ill
and died, and it never was my good fortune to see that great actor.
Mademoiselle Mars I have seen, and, certainly, in her line of
characters, I have never beheld her equal. Indeed, it is scarcely
possible to conceive of a purer, more severe, more faultless, and yet
more poetical representation of common nature, than that which
characterizes her art. Her acting has all the finish of high breeding,
with just as much feeling as is necessary to keep alive the illusion. As
for rant, there is not as much about her whole system, as would serve a
common English, or American actress, for a single "length."

To be frank with you, so great is the superiority of the French actors,
in _vaudevilles_, the light opera, and genteel comedy, that I fear I
have lost my taste for the English stage. Of tragedy I say nothing, for
I cannot enter into the poetry of the country at all, but, in all below
it, these people, to my taste, are immeasurably our superiors; and by
_ours_, you know I include the English stage. The different lines here,
are divided among the different theatres; so that if you wish to laugh,
you can go to the Variétés; to weep, to the Théâtre Français; or, to
gape, to the Odéon. At the Porte St. Martin, one finds vigorous touches
of national character, and at the Gymnase, the fashionable place of
resort, just at this moment, national traits polished by convention.
Besides these, there are many other theatres, not one of which, in its
way, can be called less than tolerable.

One can say but little in favour of the morals of too many of the pieces
represented here. In this particular there is a strange obliquity of
reason, arising out of habitual exaggeration of feeling, that really
seems to disqualify most of the women, even from perceiving what is
monstrous, provided it be sentimental and touching. I was particularly
advised to go to the Théâtre Madame to see a certain piece by a
_côterie_ of very amiable women, whom I met the following night at a
house where we all regularly resorted, once a week. On entering, they
eagerly inquired if "I had not been charmed, fascinated; if any thing
could be better played, or more touching?" Better played it could not
easily be, but I had been so shocked with the moral of the piece, that I
could scarcely admire the acting. "The moral! This was the first time
they had heard it questioned." I was obliged to explain. A certain
person had been left the protector of a friend's daughter, then an
infant. He had the child educated as his sister, and she grew to be a
woman, ignorant of her real origin. In the meantime, she has offers of
marriage, all of which she unaccountably refuses. In fine, she was
secretly cherishing a passion for her guardian _and supposed brother_;
an explanation is had, they marry, and the piece closes. I objected to
the probability of a well-educated young woman's falling in love with a
man old enough to be selected as her guardian, when she was an infant,
and against whom there existed the trifling objection of his being her
own brother.

"But he was _not_ her brother--not even a relative." "True; but she
_believed_ him to be her brother." "And nature--do you count nature as
nothing?--a _secret sentiment_ told her he was not her brother." "And
use, and education, and an _open sentiment_, and all the world told her
he was. Such a woman was guilty of a revolting indelicacy and a heinous
crime, and no exaggerated representation of love, a passion of great
purity in itself, can ever do away with the shocking realities of such a
case."

I found no one to agree with me. He was _not_ her brother, and though
his tongue and all around her told her he was, her heart, that
infallible guide, told her the truth. What more could any reasonable man
ask?

It was _à propos_ of this play, and of my objection to this particular
feature of it, that an exceedingly clever French woman laughingly told
me she understood there was no such thing as love in America. That a
people of manners as artificial as the French, should suppose that
others, under the influence of the cold, formal exterior which the
puritans have entailed on so large a portion of the public, were without
strong feeling, is not altogether as irrational as may at first appear.
Art, in ordinary deportment, is both cause and effect. That which we
habitually affect to be, gets in the end to be so incorporated with our
natural propensities as to form a part of the real man. We all know that
by discipline we can get the mastery of our strongest passions, and, on
the other hand, by yielding to them and encouraging them, that they soon
get the mastery over us. Thus do a highly artificial people, fond of,
and always seeking high excitement, come, in time, to feel it
artificially, as it were, by natural impulses.

I have mentioned the anecdote of the play, because I think it
characteristic of a tone of feeling that is quite prevalent among a
large class of the French, though I am far from saying there is not a
class who would, at once, see the grave sacrifice of principle that is
involved, in building up the sentiments of a fiction on such a
foundation of animal instinct. I find, on recollection, however, that
Miss Lee, in one of her Canterbury Tales, has made the love of her plot
hinge on a very similar incident. Surely she must have been under the
influence of some of the German monstrosities that were so much in
vogue, about the time she wrote, for even Juvenal would scarcely have
imagined anything worse, as the subject of his satire.

You will get a better idea of the sentimentalism that more or less
influences the tables of this country, however, if I tell you that the
ladies of the _côterie_, in which the remarks on the amorous sister were
made, once gravely discussed in my presence the question whether Madame
de Staël was right or wrong, in causing Corinne to go through certain
sentimental _experiences_, as our canters call it at home, on a clouded
day, instead of choosing one on which the sun was bright: or, _vice
versa_; for I really forget whether it was on the "windy side" of
sensibility or not, that the daughter of Necker was supposed to have
erred.

The first feeling is that of surprise at finding a people so artificial
in their ordinary deportment, so chaste and free from exaggeration in
their scenic representations of life. But reflection will show us that
all finish has the effect of bringing us within the compass of severe
laws, and that the high taste which results from cultivation repudiates
all excess of mere manner. The simple fact is, that an educated
Frenchman is a great actor all the while, and that when he goes on the
stage, he has much less to do to be perfect, than an Englishman who has
drilled himself into coldness, or an American who looks upon strong
expressions of feeling as affectation. When the two latter commence the
business of playing assumed parts, they consider it as a new occupation,
and go at it so much in earnest, that everybody sees they are acting.[19]

[Footnote 19: Mr. Mathews and Mr. Power were the nearest to the neat
acting of France of any male English performers the writer ever saw. The
first sometimes permitted himself to be led astray, by the caricatures
he was required to represent, and by the tastes of his audience; but the
latter, so far as the writer has seen him, appears determined to be
chaste, come what, come will.]

You will remember, I say nothing in favour of the French tragic
representations. When a great and an intellectual nation, like France,
unites to applaud images and sentiments that are communicated through
their own peculiar forms of speech, it becomes a stranger to distrust
his own knowledge, rather than their taste. I dare say that were I more
accustomed to the language, I might enjoy Corneille and Racine, and even
Voltaire, for I can now greatly enjoy Molière; but, to be honest in the
matter, all reciters of heroic French poetry appear to me to depend on a
pompous declamation, to compensate for the poverty of the idioms, and
the want of nobleness in the expressions. I never heard any one, poet or
actor, he who read his own verses, or he who repeated those of others,
who did not appear to mouth, and all their tragic playing has had the
air of being on stilts. Napoleon has said, from the sublime to the
ridiculous it is but a step. This is much truer in France than in most
other countries, for the sublime is commonly so sublimated, that it will
admit of no great increase. Racine, in a most touching scene, makes one
of his heroic characters offer to wipe off the tears of a heroine lest
they should discolour her _rouge_! I had a classmate at college, who was
so very ultra courtly in his language, that he never forgot to say, Mr.
Julius Caesar, and Mr. Homer.

There exists a perfect mania for letters throughout Europe, in this
"piping time of peace." Statesmen, soldiers, peers, princes, and kings,
hardly think themselves _illustrated_, until each has produced his book.
The world never before saw a tithe of the names of people of condition,
figuring in the catalogues of its writers. "Some thinks he writes
Cinna--he owns to Panurge," applies to half the people one meets in
society. I was at a dinner lately, given by the Marquis de ----, when
the table was filled with peers, generals, ex-ministers, ex-ambassadors,
naturalists, philosophers, and statesmen of all degrees. Casting my eyes
round the circle, I was struck with the singular prevalence of the
_cacoethes scribendi_, among so many men of different educations,
antecedents, and pursuits. There was a soldier present who had written
on taste, a politician on the art of war, a _diplomate_ who had dabbled
in poetry, and a jurist who pretended to enlighten the world in ethics,
it was the drollest assemblage in the world, and suggested many queer
associations, for, I believe, the only man at table, who had not dealt
in ink, was an old Lieutenant-General, who sat by me, and who, when I
alluded to the circumstance, strongly felicitated himself that he had
escaped the mania of the age, as it was an _illustration_ of itself.
Among the _convives_ were Cuvier, Villemain, Daru, and several others
who are almost as well known to science and letters.

Half the voluntary visits I receive are preceded by a volume of some
sort or other, as a token of my new acquaintance being a regularly
initiated member of the fraternity of the quill. In two or three
instances, I have been surprised at subsequently discovering that the
regular profession of the writer is arms, or some other pursuit, in
which one would scarcely anticipate so strong a devotion to letters. In
short, such is the actual state of opinion in Europe, that one is hardly
satisfied with any amount, or any quality of glory, until it is
consummated by that of having written a book. Napoleon closed his career
with the quill, and his successor was hardly on his throne, before he
began to publish. The principal officers of the Empire, and _émigrés_
without number, have fairly set to work as so many disinterested
historians, and even a lady, who, by way of abbreviation, is called "The
Widow of the Grand Army," is giving us regularly volumes, whose
eccentricities and periodicity, as the astronomers say, can be reduced
to known laws, by the use of figures.

In the middle ages golden spurs were the object of every man's ambition.
Without them, neither wealth, nor birth, nor power was properly
esteemed; and, at the present time, passing from the lance to the pen,
from the casque and shield to the ink-pot and fool's cap, we all seek a
passport from the order of Letters. Does this augur good or evil, for
the world? The public press of France is conducted with great spirit and
talents, on all sides. It has few points in common with our own, beyond
the mere fact of its general character. In America, a single literary
man, putting the best face on it, enters into a compact with some person
of practical knowledge, a printer perhaps, and together they establish a
newspaper, the mechanical part of which is confided to the care of the
latter partner, and the intellectual to the former. In the country, half
the time, the editor is no other than the printer himself, the division
of labour not having yet reached even this important branch of industry.
But looking to the papers that are published in the towns, one man of
letters is a luxury about an American print. There are a few instances
in which there are two, or three; but, generally, the subordinates are
little more than scissors-men. Now, it must be apparent, at a glance,
that no one individual can keep up the character of a daily print, of
any magnitude; the drain on his knowledge and other resources being too
great. This, I take it, is the simple reason why the press of America
ranks no higher than it does. The business is too much divided; too much
is required, and this, too, in a country where matters of grave import
are of rare occurrence, and in which the chief interests are centred in
the vulgar concerns of mere party politics, with little or no connexion
with great measures, or great principles. You have only to fancy the
superior importance that attaches to the views of powerful monarchs, the
secret intrigues of courts, on whose results, perhaps, depend the
fortunes of Christendom, and the serious and radical principles that are
dependent on the great changes of systems that are silently working
their way, in this part of the world, and which involve material
alterations in the very structure of society, to get an idea of how much
more interest a European journal, _ceteris paribus_, must be, compared
to an American journal, by the nature of its facts alone. It is true
that we get a portion of these facts, as light finally arrives from the
remoter stars, but mutilated, and necessarily shorn of much of their
interest, by their want of importance to our own country. I had been in
Europe some time, before I could fully comprehend the reason why I was
ignorant of so many minor points of its political history, for, from
boyhood up, I had been an attentive reader of all that touched this part
of the world, as it appeared in our prints. By dint of inquiry, however,
I believe I have come at the fact. The winds are by no means as regular
as the daily prints; and it frequently happens, especially in the winter
and spring months, that five or six packets arrive nearly together,
bringing with them the condensed intelligence of as many weeks. Now,
newspaper finders notoriously seek the latest news, and in the hurry and
confusion of reading and selecting, and bringing out, to meet the wants
of the day, many of the connecting links are lost, readers get imperfect
notions of men and things, and, from a want of a complete understanding
of the matter, the mind gives up, without regret, the little and
unsatisfactory knowledge it had so casually obtained. I take it, this is
a principal cause of the many false notions that exist among us, on the
subject of Europe and its events.

In France, a paper is established by a regular subscription of capital;
a principal editor is selected, and he is commonly supported, in the
case of a leading journal, by four or five paid assistants. In addition
to this formidable corps, many of the most distinguished men of France
are known to contribute freely to the columns of the prints in the
interest of their cause.

The laws of France compel a journal that has admitted any statement
involving facts concerning an individual, to publish his reply, that the
antidote may meet the poison. This is a regulation that we might adopt
with great advantage to truth and the character of the country.

There is not at this moment, within my knowledge, a single critical
literary journal of received authority in all France. This is a species
of literature to which the French pay but little attention just now,
although many of the leading daily prints contain articles on the
principal works as they appear.

By the little that has come under my observation, I should say the
fraudulent and disgusting system of puffing and of abusing, as interest
or pique dictates, is even carried to a greater length in France than it
is in either England or America. The following anecdote, which relates
to myself, may give you some notion of the _modus operandi_.

All the works I had written previously to coming to Europe had been
taken from the English editions and translated, appearing simultaneously
with their originals. Having an intention to cause a new book to be
printed in English in Paris, for the sake of reading the proofs, the
necessity was felt of getting some control over the translation, lest,
profiting by the interval necessary to send the sheets home to be
reprinted, it might appear as the original book. I knew that the sheets
of previous books had been purchased in England, and I accordingly sent
a proposition to the publishers that the next bargain should be made
with me. Under the impression that an author's price would be asked,
they took the alarm, and made difficulties. Finding me firm, and
indisposed to yield to some threats of doing as they pleased, the matter
was suspended for a few days. Just at this moment, I received through
the post a single number of an obscure newspaper, whose existence, until
then, was quite unknown to me. Surprised at such an attention, I was
curious to know the contents. The journal contained an article on my
merits and demerits as a writer, the latter being treated with a good
deal of freedom. When one gets a paper in this manner, containing abuse
of himself, he is pretty safe in believing its opinions dishonest. But I
had even better evidence than common in this particular case, for I
happened to be extolled for the manner in which I had treated the
character of Franklin, a personage whose name even had never appeared in
anything I had written. This, of course, settled the character of the
critique, and the next time I saw the individual who had acted as agent
in the negociation just mentioned, I gave him the paper, and told him I
was half disposed to raise my price on account of the pitiful manoeuvre
it contained. We had already come to terms, the publishers finding that
the price was little more than nominal, and the answer was a virtual
conclusion that the article was intended to affect my estimate of the
value of the intended work in France, and to bring me under subjection
to the critics.[20]

[Footnote 20: The writer suffers this anecdote to stand as it was written
nine years since; but since his return home, he has discovered that we
are in no degree behind the French in the corruption and frauds that
render the pursuits of a writer one of the most humiliating and
revolting in which a man of any pride of character can engage, unless he
resolutely maintains his independence, a temerity that is certain to be
resented by all those who, unequal to going alone in the paths of
literature, seek their ends by clinging to those who can, either as
pirates or robbers.]

I apprehend that few books are brought before the public in France,
dependent only on their intrinsic merits; and the system of intrigue,
which predominates in everything, is as active in this as in other
interests.

In France, a book that penetrates to the provinces may be said to be
popular; and as for a book coming _from_ the provinces, it is almost
unheard of. The despotism of the trade on this point is unyielding.
Paris appears to deem itself the arbiter in all matters of taste and
literature, and it is almost as unlikely that a new fashion should come
from Lyon, or Bordeaux, or Marseilles, as that a new work should be
received with favour that was published in either of those towns. The
approbation of Paris is indispensable, and the publishers of the
capital, assisted by their paid corps of puffers and detractors, are
sufficiently powerful to prevent that potent public, to whom all affect
to defer, from judging for itself.

We have lately had a proof here of the unwillingness of the Parisians to
permit others to decide for them, in anything relating to taste, in a
case that refers to us Americans. Madame Malibran arrived from America a
few months since. In Europe she was unknown, but the great name of her
father stood in her stead. Unluckily it was whispered that she had met
with great success in America. America! and this, too, in conjunction
with music and the opera! The poor woman was compelled to appear under
the disadvantage of having brought an American reputation with her, and
seriously this single fact went nigh to destroy her fortunes. Those
wretches who, as Coleridge expresses it, are "animalculae, who live by
feeding on the body of genius," affected to be displeased, and the
public hesitated, at their suggestions, about accepting an artist from
the "colonies," as they still have the audacity to call the great
Republic. I have no means of knowing what sacrifices were made to the
petty tyrants of the press before this woman, who has the talents
necessary to raise her to the summit of her profession, was enabled to
gain the favour of a "_generous and discerning public!_"

LETTER XVI.

Environs of Paris.--Village of St. Ouen.--Our House there.--Life on the
River.--Parisian Cockneys.--A pretty Grisette.--Voyage across the Seine.
--A rash Adventurer.--Village Fête.--Montmorency.--View near Paris.

TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.

We have been the residents of a French village ever since the 1st of
June, and it is now drawing to the close of October. We had already
passed the greater part of a summer, and entire autumn, winter and
spring, within the walls of Paris, and then we thought we might indulge
our tastes a little, by retreating to the fields, to catch a glimpse of
country life. You will smile when I add that we are only a league from
the Barrière de Clichy. This is the reason I have not before spoken of
the removal, for we are in town three or four times every week, and
never miss an occasion, when there is anything to be seen. I shall now
proceed, however, to let you into the secret of our actual situation.

I passed the month of May examining the environs of the capital in quest
of an house. As this was an agreeable occupation, we were in no hurry;
but having set up my cabriolet, we killed two birds with one stone, by
making ourselves familiarly acquainted with nearly every village or
hamlet within three leagues of Paris, a distance beyond which I did not
wish to go.

On the side of St. Cloud, which embraces Passy, Auteuil, and all the
places that encircle the Bois de Boulogne, the Hyde Park of Paris, there
are very many pleasant residences, but from one cause or another, no one
suited us exactly, and we finally took a house in the village of St.
Ouen, the Runnymeade of France. When Louis XVIII. came, in 1814, to his
capital, in the rear of the allies, he stopped for a few days at St.
Ouen, a league from the barriers, where there was a small chateau that
was the property of the crown. Here he was met by M. de Talleyrand and
others, and hence he issued the celebrated charter, that is to render
France for evermore a constitutional country.

The chateau has since been razed, and a pavilion erected in its place,
which has been presented to the Comtesse de ----, a lady who, reversing
the ordinary lot of courtiers, is said to cause majesty to live in the
sunshine of _her_ smiles. What an appropriate and encouraging monument
to rear on the birth-place of French liberty! At the opposite extremity
of the village is another considerable house, that was once the dwelling
of M. Necker, and is now the property and country residence of M.
Ternaux, or the _Baron_ Ternaux, if it were polite to style him thus,
the most celebrated manufacturer of France. I say polite, for the mere
_fanfaronnade_ of nobility is little in vogue here. The wags tell a
story of some one, who was formally announced as "Monsieur le Marquis
d'un tel," turning short round on the servant, and exclaiming with
indignation, "Marquis toi-même!" But this story savours of the
Bonapartists; for as the Emperor created neither _marquis_ nor
_vicomtes_, there was a sort of affectation of assuming these titles at
the restoration as proofs of belonging to the old _régime_.

St. Ouen is a cluster of small, mean, stone houses, stretched along the
right bank of the Seine, which, after making a circuit of near twenty
miles, winds round so close to the town again, that they are actually
constructing a basin, near the village, for the use of the capital; it
being easier to wheel articles from this point to Paris, than to contend
with the current and to tread its shoals. In addition to the two houses
named, however, it has six or eight respectable abodes between the
street and the river, one of which is our own.

This place became a princely residence about the year 1800, since which
time it has been more or less frequented as such down to the 4th June,
1814, the date of the memorable charter.[21] Madame de Pompadour
possessed the chateau in 1745, so you see it has been "dust to dust"
with this place, as with all that is frail.

[Footnote 21: The chateau of St. Ouen, rather less than two centuries
since, passed into the possession of the Duc de Gesvre. Dulaure gives
the following,--a part of a letter from this nobleman,--as a specimen of
the education of a _duc_ in the seventeenth century:--"Monsieur, me
trouvant obligé de randre une bonne party de largan que mais enfant ont
pris de peuis qu'il sont au campane, monsieur, cela moblige a vous
suplier tres humblemant monsieur de me faire la grasse de commander
monsieur quant il vous plera que lon me pay la capitenery de Monsaux
monsieur vous asseurant que vous mobligeres fort sansiblement monsieur
comme ausy de me croire avec toute sorte de respec, etc." This beats
Jack Cade out and out. The great connétable Anne de Montmorency could
not write his name, and as his signature became necessary, his secretary
stood over his shoulder to tell him when he had made enough _piès de
mouche_ to answer the purpose.]

The village of St. Ouen, small, dirty, crowded and unsavoury as it is,
has a _place_, like every other French village. When we drove into it,
to look at the house, I confess to having laughed outright, at the idea
of inhabiting such a hole. Two large _portes-cochères_, however, opened
from the square, and we were admitted, through the best-looking of the
two, into a spacious and an extremely neat court. On one side of the
gate was a lodge for a porter, and on the other, a building to contain
gardeners' tools, plants, etc. The walls that separate it from the square
and the adjoining gardens are twelve or fourteen feet high, and once
within them, the world is completely excluded. The width of the grounds
does not exceed a hundred and fifty feet; the length, the form being
that of a parallelogram, may be three hundred, or a little more; and yet
in these narrow limits, which are planted _à l'Anglaise_, so well is
everything contrived, that we appear to have abundance of room. The
garden terminates in a terrace that overhangs the river, and, from this
point, the eye ranges over a wide extent of beautiful plain, that is
bounded by fine bold hills which are teeming with gray villages and
_bourgs_.

The house is of stone, and not without elegance. It may be ninety feet
in length, by some forty in width. The entrance is into a vestibule,
which has the offices on the right, and the great staircase on the left.
The principal _salon_ is in front. This is a good room, near thirty feet
long, fifteen or sixteen high, and has three good windows, that open on
the garden. The billiard-room communicates on one side, and the _salle à
manger_ on the other; next the latter come the offices again, and next
the billiard-room is a very pretty little boudoir. Up stairs, are suites
of bed-rooms and dressing-rooms; every thing is neat, and the house is
in excellent order, and well furnished for a country residence. Now, all
this I get at a hundred dollars a month, for the five summer months.
There are also a carriage-house, and stabling for three horses. The
gardener and porter are paid by the proprietor. The village, however, is
not in much request, and the rent is thought to be low.

Among the great advantages enjoyed by a residence in Europe, are the
facilities of this nature. Furnished apartments, or furnished houses,
can be had in almost every town of any size; and, owning your own linen
and plate, nearly every other necessary is found you. It is true, that
one sometimes misses comforts to which he has been accustomed in his own
house; but, in France, many little things are found, it is not usual to
meet with elsewhere. Thus, no principal bedroom is considered properly
furnished in a good house, without a handsome secretary, and a bureau.
These two articles are as much matters of course, as are the eternal two
rooms and folding doors, in New York.

This, then, has been our Tusculum since June. M. Ternaux enlivens the
scene, occasionally, by a dinner; and he has politely granted us
permission to walk in his grounds, which are extensive and well laid
out, for the old French style. We have a neighbour on our left, name
unknown, who gives suppers in his garden, and concerts that really are
worthy of the grand opera. Occasionally, we get a song, in a female
voice, that rivals the best of Madame Malibran's. On our right lives a
staid widow, whose establishment is as tranquil as our own.

One of our great amusements is to watch the _living_ life on the river,
--there is no _still_ life in France. All the washerwomen of the village
assemble, three days in the week, beneath our terrace, and a merrier set
of _grisettes_ is not to be found in the neighbourhood of Paris. They
chat, and joke, and splash, and scream from morning to night, lightening
the toil by never-ceasing good humour. Occasionally an enormous
scow-like barge is hauled up against the current, by stout horses,
loaded to the water's edge, or one, without freight, comes dropping down
the stream, nearly filling the whole river as it floats broad-side to.
There are three or four islands opposite, and, now and then, a small
boat is seen paddling among them. We have even tried _punting_
ourselves, but the amusement was soon exhausted.

Sunday is a great day with us, for then the shore is lined with
Parisians, as thoroughly cockney as if Bow-bells could be heard in the
Quartier Montmartre! These good people visit us, in all sorts of ways;
some on donkeys, some in cabriolets, some in fiacres, and by far the
larger portion on foot. They are perfectly inoffensive and unobtrusive,
being, in this respect, just as unlike an American inroad from a town as
can well be. These crowds pass vineyards on their way to us, unprotected
by any fences. This point in the French character, however, about which
so much has been said to our disadvantage, as well as to that of the
English, is subject to some explanation. The statues, promenades,
gardens, etc. etc. are, almost without exception, guarded by sentinels;
and then there are agents of the police, in common clothes, scattered
through the towns, in such numbers as to make depredations hazardous. In
the country each _commune_ has one, or more, _gardes champêtres_, whose
sole business it is to detect and arrest trespassers. When to these are
added the _gendarmes à pied_ and _à cheval_, who are constantly in
motion, one sees that the risk of breaking the laws is attended with
more hazard here than with us. There is no doubt, on the other hand,
that the training and habits, produced by such a system of watchfulness,
enter so far into the character of the people, that they cease to think
of doing that which is so strenuously denied them.

Some of our visitors make their appearance in a very quaint style. I met
a party the other day, among whom the following family arrangement had
obtained:--The man was mounted on a donkey, with his feet just clear of
the ground. The wife, a buxom brunette, was trudging afoot in the rear,
accompanied by the two younger children, a boy and girl, between twelve
and fourteen, led by a small dog, fastened to a string like the guide of
a blind mendicant; while the eldest daughter was mounted on the crupper,
maintaining her equilibrium by a masculine disposition of her lower
limbs. She was a fine, rosy-cheeked _grisette_, of about seventeen; and,
as they ambled along, just fast enough to keep the cur on a slow trot,
her cap flared in the wind, her black eyes flashed with pleasure, and
her dark ringlets streamed behind her, like so many silken pennants. She
had a ready laugh for every one she met, and a sort of malicious
pleasure in asking, by her countenance, if they did not wish they too
had a donkey? As the seat was none of the most commodious, she had
contrived to make a pair of stirrups of her petticoats. The gown was
pinned up about her waist, leaving her knees, instead of her feet, as
the _points d'appui_. The well-turned legs, and the ankles, with such a
_chaussure_ as at once marks a Parisienne, were exposed to the
admiration of a _parterre_ of some hundreds of idle wayfarers. Truly, it
is no wonder that sculptors abound in this country, for capital models
are to be found, even in the highways. The donkey was the only one who
appeared displeased with this _monture_, and he only manifested
dissatisfaction by lifting his hinder extremities a little, as the man
occasionally touched his flanks with a nettle, that the ass would much
rather have been eating.

Not long since I passed half an hour on the terrace, an amused witness
of the perils of a voyage across the Seine in a punt. The adventurers
were a _bourgeois_, his wife, sister, and child. Honest Pierre, the
waterman, had conditioned to take the whole party to the island opposite
and to return them safe to the main for the modicum of five sous. The
old fox invariably charged me a franc for the same service. There was
much demurring, and many doubts about encountering the risk; and more
than once the women would have receded, had not the man treated the
matter as a trifle. He affirmed _parole d'honneur_ that his father had
crossed the Maine a dozen times, and no harm had come of it! This
encouraged them, and, with many pretty screams, _mes fois_, and _oh,
Dieu_, they finally embarked. The punt was a narrow scow that a ton
weight would not have disturbed, the river was so low and sluggish that
it might have been forded two-thirds of the distance, and the width was
not three hundred feet. Pierre protested that the danger was certainly
not worth mentioning, and away he went, as philosophical in appearance
as his punt. The voyage was made in safety, and the bows of the boat had
actually touched the shore on its return, before any of the passengers
ventured to smile. The excursion, like most travelling, was likely to be
most productive of happiness by the recollections. But the women were no
sooner landed, than that rash adventurer, the husband, brother, and
father, seized an oar, and began to ply it with all his force. He merely
wished to tell his _confrères_ of the Rue Montmartre how a punt might be
rowed. Pierre had gallantly landed to assist the ladies, and the boat,
relieved of its weight, slowly yielded to the impulse of the oar, and
inclined its bows from the land. "Oh! Edouard! mon mari! mon frère!--que
fais-tu?" exclaimed the ladies. "Ce n'est rien," returned the man,
puffing, and giving another lusty sweep, by which he succeeded in
forcing the punt fully twenty feet from the shore. "Edouard! cher
Edouard!" "Laisse-moi m'amuser,--je m'amuse, je m'amuse," cried the
husband in a tone of indignant remonstrance. But Edouard, a tight, sleek
little _épicier_, of about five-and-thirty, had never heard that an oar
on each side was necessary in a boat, and the harder he pulled the less
likely was he to regain the shore. Of this he began to be convinced, as
he whirled more into the centre of the current; and his efforts now
really became frantic, for his imagination probably painted the horrors
of a distant voyage in an unknown bark to an unknown land, and all
without food or compass. The women screamed, and the louder they cried,
the more strenuously he persevered in saying, "Laisse-moi m'amuser--je
m'amuse, je m'amuse." By this time the perspiration poured from the face
of Edouard, and I called to the imperturbable Pierre, who stood in
silent admiration of his punt while playing such antics, and desired him
to tell the man to put his oar on the bottom, and to push the boat
ashore. "Oui, Monsieur," said the rogue, with a leer, for he remembered
the francs, and we soon had our adventurer safe on _terra firma_ again.
Then began the tender expostulations, the affectionate reproaches, and
the kind injunctions for the truant to remember that he was a husband
and a father. Edouard, secretly cursing the punt and all rivers in his
heart, made light of the matter, however, protesting to the last that he
had only been enjoying himself.

We have had a fête too; for every village in the vicinity of Paris has
its fête. The square was filled with whirligigs and flying-horses, and
all the ingenious contrivances of the French to make and to spend a sou
pleasantly. There was service in the parish church, at which our
neighbours sang in a style fit for St. Peter's, and the villagers danced
quadrilles on the green with an air that would be thought fine in many a
country drawing-room.

I enjoy all this greatly; for, to own the truth, the crowds and mannered
sameness of Paris began to weary me. Our friends occasionally come from
town to see us, and we make good use of the cabriolet. As we are near
neighbours to St. Denis, we have paid several visits to the tombs of the
French kings, and returned each time less pleased with most of the
unmeaning obsequies that are observed in their vaults. There was a
ceremony, not long since, at which the royal family and many of the
great officers of the court assisted, and among others M. de Talleyrand.
The latter was in the body of the church, when a man rushed upon him and
actually struck him, or shoved him to the earth, using at the same time
language that left no doubt of the nature of the assault. There are
strange rumours connected with the affair. The assailant was a Marquis
de ----, and it is reported that his wrongs, real or imaginary, are
connected with a plot to rob one of the dethroned family of her jewels,
or of some crown jewels, I cannot say which, at the epoch of the
restoration. The journals said a good deal about it at the time, but
events occur so fast here that a quarrel of this sort produces little
sensation. I pretend to no knowledge of the merits of this affair, and
only give a general outline of what was current in the public prints at
the time.

We have also visited Enghien, and Montmorency. The latter, as you know
already, stands on the side of a low mountain, in plain view of Paris.
It is a town of some size, with very uneven streets, some of them being
actually sharp acclivities, and a Gothic church that is seen from afar
and that is well worth viewing near by. These quaint edifices afford us
deep delight, by their antiquity, architecture, size, and pious
histories. What matters it to us how much or how little superstition may
blend with the rites, when we know and feel that we are standing in a
nave that has echoed with orisons to God, for a thousand years! This of
Montmorency is not quite so old, however, having been rebuilt only three
centuries since.

Dulaure, a severe judge of aristocracy, denounces the pretension of the
Montmorencies to be the _Premiers Barons Chrétiens_, affirming that they
were neither the first barons, nor the first Christians, by a great
many. He says, that the extravagant title has most probably been a
war-cry, in the time of the crusaders. According to his account of the
family it originated, about the year 1008, in a certain Borchard, who,
proving a bad neighbour to the Abbey of St. Denis, the vassals of which
he was in the habit of robbing, besides, now and then, despoiling a
monk, the king caused his fortress in the Isle St. Denis to be razed;
after which, by a treaty, he was put in possession of the mountain hard
by, with permission to erect another hold near a fountain, at a place
called in the charters, Montmorenciacum. Hence the name, and the family.
This writer thinks that the first castle must have been built of wood!

We took a road that led us up to a bluff on the mountain, behind the
town, where we obtained a new and very peculiar view of Paris and its
environs. I have said that the French towns have no straggling suburbs.
A few winehouses (to save the _octroi_) are built near the gates,
compactly, as in the town itself, and there the buildings cease as
suddenly as if pared down by a knife. The fields touch the walls, in
many places, and between St. Ouen and the guinguettes and winehouses, at
the Barrière de Clichy, a distance of two miles, there is but a solitary
building. A wide plain separates Paris, on this side, from the
mountains, and of course our view extended across it. The number of
villages was absolutely astounding. Although I did not attempt counting
them, I should think not fewer than a hundred were in sight, all grey,
picturesque, and clustering round the high nave and church tower, like
chickens gathering beneath the wing. The day was clouded, and the
hamlets rose from their beds of verdure, sombre but distinct, with their
faces of wall, now in subdued light, and now quite shaded, resembling
the glorious _darks_ of Rembrandt's pictures.

LETTER XVII.

Rural Drives.--French Peasantry.--View of Montmartre.--The Boulevards.
--The Abattoirs.--Search for Lodgings.--A queer Breakfast.--Royal
Progresses and Magnificence.--French Carriages and Horses.--Modes of
Conveyance.--Drunkenness.--French Criminal Justice.--Marvellous Stories
of the Police.

To CAPT. M. PERRY, U.S.N.

I am often in the saddle since our removal to St. Ouen. I first
commenced the business of exploring in the cabriolet, with my wife for a
companion, during which time, several very pretty drives, of whose
existence one journeying along the great roads would form no idea, were
discovered. At last, as these became exhausted, I mounted, and pricked
into the fields. The result has been a better knowledge of the details
of ordinary rural life, in this country, than a stranger would get by a
residence, after the ordinary fashion, of years.

I found the vast plain intersected by roads as intricate as the veins of
the human body. The comparison is not unapt, by the way, and may be even
carried out much further; for the _grandes routes_ can be compared to
the arteries, the _chemins vicinaux_, or cross-roads, to the veins, and
the innumerable paths that intersect the fields, in all directions, to
the more minute blood-vessels, circulation being the object common to
all.

I mount my horse and gallop into the fields at random, merely taking
care not to quit the paths. By the latter, one can go in almost any
direction; and as they are very winding there is a certain pleasure in
following their sinuosities, doubtful whither they tend. Much of the
plain is in vegetables, for the use of Paris; though there is
occasionally a vineyard, or a field of grain. The weather has become
settled and autumnal, and is equally without the chilling moisture of
the winter, or the fickleness of the spring. The kind-hearted peasants
see me pass among them without distrust, and my salutations are answered
with cheerfulness and civility. Even at this trifling distance from the
capital, I miss the brusque ferocity that is so apt to characterise the
deportment of its lower classes, who are truly the people that Voltaire
has described as "ou singes, ou tigres." Nothing, I think, strikes an
American more than the marked difference between the town and country of
France. With us, the towns are less town-like, and the country less
country-like, than is usually the case. Our towns are provincial from
the want of tone that can only be acquired by time, while it is a fault
with our country to wish to imitate the towns. I now allude to habits
only, for nature at home, owing to the great abundance of wood, is more
strikingly rural than in any other country I know. The inhabitant of
Paris can quit his own door in the centre of the place, and after
walking an hour he finds himself truly in the country, both as to the
air of external objects, and as to the manners of the people. The
influence of the capital doubtless has some little effect on the latter,
but not enough to raise them above the ordinary rusticity, for the
French peasants are as rustic in their appearance and habits as the
upper classes are refined.

One of my rides is through the plain that lies between St. Ouen and
Montmartre, ascending the latter by its rear to the windmills that,
night and day, are whirling their ragged arms over the capital of