LAFAYETTE'S TOMB--THE RADICAL--A COUNTRY WALK.
LAFAYETTE'S TOMB.
I am fond of being at perfect liberty to ramble where my fancy may lead.
If the sun shine pleasantly this morning, and I would like to hear the
birds sing and smell the flowers, I go to some pleasant garden and
indulge my mood. Or, if I am sad, I go to the grave of genius, and lean
over the tomb of Abelard and Heloise.
When I lived in Paris, I had no regularity in my wanderings, no method
in my sight-seeing, following a perhaps wayward fancy, and enjoying
myself the better for it.
One beautiful morning I sauntered out from my hotel, with a friend, who
was also a stranger in Paris.
"Where shall we go?" he asked.
"To a little cemetery called Picpus, far away from here."
"Will it be worth our while to go so far to see a small cemetery?"
"You shall see when we get there."
We went part of the way by an omnibus, and walked the rest, and when the
morning was nearly spent, we stood before No. 15, Rue de Picpus. The
place was once a convent of the order of St. Augustine, but is now
occupied by the "Women of the Sacred Heart." Within the convent, which
we entered, there is a pretty Doric chapel with an Ionic portal. There
was an air of privacy about, the little chapel which pleased me, and a
chasteness in its architecture which could not fail to please any one
who loves simple beauty. Within the walls of the court, there is a very
small private cemetery, but though private, the porter, if you ask him
politely, will let you enter, especially if you tell him you are from
America.
"Here is the cemetery which we have come to see," I said to my friend.
"Certainly, it is a very pretty one," he replied; "still I see nothing
to justify our coming so far to behold it."
"Wait a little while and you will not say so."
The first group of graves before which we stopped, was that of some
victims of the reign of terror--poor slaughtered men and women. The
grass was growing pleasantly above them, and all was calm, and sunny,
and beautiful around. Perhaps the sun shone as pleasantly when, on the
"_Place de la Concorde_," they walked up the steps of the scaffold to
die--for _Liberty_! Oh shame! One--two--three--four--there were eight
graves we counted, all victims of the reign of terror. For a moment I
forgot where I was; the graves were now at my feet, but I saw the poor
victims go slowly up to their horrible death. The faces of grinning,
scowling devils, male and female, were before me, all clamoring for
blood. I could see the tiger-thirst for human flesh in every
countenance--the fierce eye--the flushed face--and yet, how still were
the winds, how cheerful the sky.
Yet, though every pure-hearted man or woman must detest the horrible
cruelties of the great revolution must shudder at the bare mention of
the names of the leaders in it, is it not an eternal law of God, that
oppression at last produces madness? Have not tyrants this fact always
to dream over--_though you_ may escape the vengeance of outraged
humanity, yet your children, your children's children shall pay the
terrible penalty. Louis XVI. was a gentle king; unwise, but never at
heart tyrannical; but alas! he answered not merely for his own misdeeds,
but for the misdeeds, the tyrannical conduct of centuries of kingcraft.
It was an inevitable consequence--and it will ever be so. But I am
moralizing.
"You came to see these graves?" remarked my friend. "They are
interesting places to ponder and dream over."
"Not to see these, though, did I come," I replied.
We soon came to the graves of nobility. There was the tomb of a
Noailles, a Grammont, a Montagu. Plain, all of them, and yet with an air
at once chaste and artistic. There was the tomb of Rosambo and Lemoignon
amid the tangled grass. All of these names were once noble and great in
France, and as I bent over them, I could but call up France in the days
of the _ancien regime_, when all these names called forth bows and
fawnings from the people. Dead and buried nobility--what is it? The
nobility goes--names die with the body.
"You came out to see buried nobility," said my companion.
"Me! Did I ever go out of my way to see even buried _royalty_? Never,
unless the ashes had been something more than a mere king. To see the
grave of genius or goodness, but not empty, buried names!"
We went on a little farther--to a quiet spot, where the sun shone in
warmly, where the grass was mown away short, but where it was green and
bright. The song of a plaintive bird just touched our ears--where it was
we could not tell, only we heard it. It was a still, beautiful spot,
and there was a grave before us--yet how very plain! A pure, white
marble, a simple tomb.
Now my companion asked no questions, but I saw that his lips quivered.
The name on the simple tomb was that of
"LAFAYETTE."
Here, away from the noise of the city, amid silence chaste and sweet,
without a monument, lie the remains of one of the greatest men of
France. Not in Pere la Chaise, amid grandeur and fashion, but in a
little private cemetery, with a cluster of extinguished nobles on one
side, and a band of victims of the reign of terror on the other!
We sat down beside his tomb, grateful to the dust beneath our feet for
the noble assistance which it gave to the sinking "Old Thirteen," when
the soul of Lafayette animated it. How vividly were the days of our long
struggle before us. We saw Bunker Hill alive with battalions, and
Charlestown lay in flames. Step by step we ran over the bitter struggle,
with so much power on one side, and on the other such an amount of
determination, but after all so many dark and adverse circumstances, so
little physical power in comparison with the hosts arrayed against us.
It was when the heart of the nation drooped with an accumulation of
misfortune, that Lafayette came and turned the balance in the scales.
And we were grateful to him; not so much for what he really
accomplished, as for what he attempted--for the daring spirit, the noble
generosity!
Then, too, I thought how Lafayette stood between the king and the
people, before and after the reign of terror--thought of his devotion to
France--of his stern patriotism, which would neither tremble before a
king nor an infuriated rabble. Yet he was obliged to fly for life from
Paris--from France. He lay in a felon's dungeon in a foreign land, for
lack of devotion to kingcraft, and could not return to France because he
loved humanity too well. Was it not hard?
France has never been just to her great men. She welcomes to her bosom
her most dangerous citizens, and casts out the true and the noble. She
did so when she sent Lafayette away. She did so in refusing Lamartine
and accepting Louis Napoleon.
* * * * *
THE RADICAL.
When I first visited Paris, while Louis Napoleon was president of the
republic instead of emperor, I became acquainted with a young man from
America who had lived seventeen years in Paris. He was thoroughly
acquainted with every phase of Parisian life, from the highest to the
lowest, and knew the principal political characters of the country. He
was a thorough radical, and an enthusiast. He came to Paris for an
education, and when he had finished it, he had imbibed the most radical
opinions respecting human liberty, and as his native town was New
Orleans, and his father a wealthy slaveholder, he concluded to remain in
Paris. When I found him, he was living in the Latin quarter, among the
students, at a cheap, though very neat hotel. He was refined, modest,
and highly educated, and was busy in political writing and speculations.
At that time he showed me a complete constitution for a "model republic"
in France, and a code of laws fit for Paradise rather than France. The
documents exhibited great skill and learning, but the impress of an
enthusiast was upon them all. By his conduct or manner, the stranger
would never have supposed that my friend was enthusiastic. He never
indulged in any flights of indignation at the existing state of things,
never was thrown off his guard so as to show by his speech or his manner
that he was passionately attached to liberal principles. It was only
after I had come to know him well, that I discovered this fact--that he
was a great enthusiast, and so deeply attached to the purest principles
respecting human freedom and happiness, that he would willingly have
died for them. Living in Paris, one of the most dissolute cities of the
world, he was pure in his morals, and as rigidly honest as any Puritan
in Cromwell's day. But with all his own purity he possessed unbounded
charity for others. His friends were among all classes, and were good
and bad. One day I saw him walking with one of the most distinguished
men of France. A few days after, while he was taking a morning walk, he
met a university student with a grisette upon his arm--his mistress. The
student wished to leave Paris for the day on business, and asked my
friend to accompany his mistress back to their rooms. With the utmost
composure and politeness the radical offered his arm, and escorted the
frail woman to her apartments.
Of course, this man was carefully watched by the police. He was well
known, and the eye of the secret police was constantly upon him. He
still clung to his old American passport, for it had repeatedly caused
him to be respected when other reasons were insufficient.
I one day wrote a note to a friend in a distant part of the city, and
was going to drop it into the post-office when my friend, who was with
me, remonstrated. "You can walk to the spot and deliver it yourself,"
said he, "and you will have saved the two sous postage. I am going that
way; let _me_ have the postage and I will deliver it."
"I will go with you," I said, at the same time giving him the two sous.
He took them without any remonstrance. On the way we met a poor old
family, singing and begging in the streets. "They must live," said my
friend, "and we will give them our mite in partnership." So he added two
sous to those I had given him, and tossed them to the beggars. This was
genuine charity, given not for ostentation, but to relieve suffering and
administer comfort. I found him at all times entirely true to his
principles, and became very much interested in him.
We took a walk together one evening, to hear music in the Luxembourg
Gardens. As we approached them, the clock on the old building of the
Chamber of Peers struck eight, and at once the band commenced playing
some operatic airs of exquisite beauty. Now a gay and enlivening passage
was performed, and then a mournful air, or something martial and
soul-stirring. The music ceased at nine, and a company of soldiers
marched to the drum around the frontiers of the gardens, to notify all
who were in it that the gates must soon close.
"What very fine drumming," I said to my companion.
"Yes," he replied, "but you should hear a night _rappel_. I heard it
often in the days of the June fight. One morning I heard it at three
o'clock, calling the soldiers together for battle. You cannot know what
a thrill of horror it sent through every avenue of this great city. I
got up hastily, and dressed myself and ran into the streets. It was not
for me to shrink from the conflict. But the alarm was a false one.
Soldiers were in every street, but there was no fighting that day."
A few months before, my friend ventured to publish a pamphlet on the
subject of French interference in Italy. He condemned in unequivocal
terms the expedition to Italy, and showed how it violated the feelings
of the French nation. A few days afterward, he received the following
laconic note:
"M. Blank is invited to call on the prefect of the police, at his
office, to-morrow, Friday, at eleven o'clock."
M. Blank sat down, first, and wrote an able letter to the minister for
the interior, for he well knew that the note signified the suppression
of the pamphlet, and very likely his ejection from France. He sent the
same letter to the American minister, and the next day answered the
summons of the prefect. This is the account of the interview which he
gave me from a journal he was in the habit of keeping at that time:
"I read the word '_Refugies_' over the door, and it reminded me of the
inscription on the gates of hell--'Leave all hope far behind.' Everyone
knows that the very reason that ghosts are dreaded, is that ghosts were
_never seen_. It is the same for policemen--those 'Finders out of
Occasions,' as Othello styles them--those 'rough and ready' to choke
ideas, as the bud is bit by the venomous worm 'ere it can spread its
sweet leaves to the air.' I was about to encounter the assailing eyes of
knavery. A gentleman of the administration welcomed me in. 'Sir,' I
said, coldly, 'I was invited to meet the _prefect of the police_. I wish
to know what is deemed an outrage to the established government of
France?'
"The reply, was, 'The procureur-general noticed several portions of
your book; sit down and we will read them!'
"I listened to several extracts, where there were allusions to
_princes_, (Louis Napoleon had been formerly a prince, and this was
objected to,) and remarked to them that France recognized _no
princes_--that what I had written about the expedition to Italy, I had
the right, as a publicist, to write. The world had universally
repudiated that expedition, and the president had tacitly done the same
in his letter to Colonel Ney, and in dismissing the ministers who
planned the expedition. The president being quoted as authority, the
agent of the executive thought it useless to hold the argument any
longer, and backed out. The gentlemen of the police knew nothing of
bush-fighting, and might have exclaimed with the muse in Romeo, 'Is this
poultice for my aching bones?'"
The upshot of the examination was, that the pamphlet was untouched, and
M. Blank remained in Paris.
But he was watched closer than ever. When I left him, he was waiting in
daily expectation of a _coup de etat_ on the part of Louis Napoleon. I
asked him what hopes there were for France. He shook his head sadly--he
despaired of success. It might be that Napoleon would be beaten down by
the populace, if he attempted to erect a throne, but he had faint hopes
of it, for he had got the army almost completely under his influence. Or
it was possible that Napoleon might not violate his solemn oaths to
support the republic--not for lack of disposition, but fearing the
people. I could see, however, that my friend had little faith in the
immediate future of "poor France," as he called her, as if she were his
mother. He thought the reason why the republic would be overthrown, was
from the conduct of those who had been at its head in the early part of
its history. The republicans, soon after Louis Philippe's flight, acted,
he thought, with great weakness. If strong men had been at the helm,
then no such man as Louis Napoleon would have been allowed afterward to
take the presidential chair. I think he was more right than wrong. A
vigorous and not too radical administration, might have preserved the
republic for years--possibly for all time. Louis Napoleon should not
have been allowed to enter France, nor any like him, who had proved
themselves disturbers of the peace.
About a year after the time I have been describing, while walking down
Nassau street, in New York, I very suddenly and unexpectedly met my
friend, the radical!
"Aha!" said I, "you have left Paris. Well, you have shown good taste."
"No! no!" he replied, "I did not leave it till Louis Napoleon forced me
to choose exile or imprisonment. I had no choice in the matter."
He seemed to feel lost amid the bustle of New York. His dream was over,
and at thirty-five he found himself amid the realities of a
money-seeking nation. The look upon his face was sad, almost despairing.
I certainly never pitied a man more than I did him. Pure, guileless
generous--and poor, what could he do in New York?
A WALK INTO THE COUNTRY.
The summer and autumn are the seasons one should spend in Paris, to see
it in its full glory. The people of Paris live out of doors, and to see
them in the winter, is not to know them thoroughly. The summer weather
is unlike that of London. The air is pure, the sky serene, and the whole
city is full of gardens and promenades. The little out-of-door theaters
reap harvests of money--the tricksters, the conjurors, the street
fiddlers, and all sorts of men who get their subsistence by furnishing
the people with cheap amusements, are in high spirits, for in these
seasons they can drive a fine business. Not so in the winter. Then they
are obliged either to wander over the half-deserted _places_, gathering
here and there a sou, or shut themselves up in their garret or cellar
apartments, and live upon their summer gains. To the stranger who must
be economical, Paris in the winter is not to be desired, for fuel is
enormously high in that city. A bit of wood is worth so much cash, and a
log which in America would be thrown away, would there be worth a little
fortune to a poor wood-dealer.
The country around Paris is scarcely worth a visit in the winter or
early spring months, but in the summer it is far different. I remember a
little walk I took one day past the fortifications. When I came to the
walls of the city, I was obliged to pass through a narrow gate. All who
enter the city are inspected, for there is a heavy duty upon provisions
of nearly all kinds which are brought from the provinces into Paris. The
duty upon wines is very heavy. Upon a bottle of cheap wine, which costs
in the country but fifteen sous, there is a gate-duty of five sous.
This is one reason why the poor people of Paris on _fete_ days, crowd to
the country villages near Paris. There they can eat and drink at a much
cheaper rate than in town, besides having the advantage of pure air and
beautiful scenery. I witnessed an amusing sight at this gate. A man was
just entering from the country. He was very large in the abdominal
regions, so much so that the gate-keeper's suspicions were aroused, and
he asked the large traveler a few leading questions. He protested that
he was innocent of any attempt to defraud the revenues of Paris. The
gate-keeper reached out his hand as if to examine the unoffending man,
and he grew very angry. His face assumed a scarlet hue, and his voice
was hoarse with passion, probably from the fact that he was sensitive
about his obesity. But the gate-keeper saw in his conduct only increased
proof of his guilt, and finally insisted upon laying his hand upon the
suspicious part, when with a poorly-concealed smile, but a polite "beg
your pardon," he let the man pass on his way. It is probable the
gate-keeper was more rigid in his examinations, from the fact that not
long before a curious case of deception had occurred at one of the other
gates, or rather a case of long-continued deception was exposed. A man
who lived in a little village just outside of the walls, became
afflicted with the dropsy in the abdominal regions. He then commenced
the business of furnishing a certain hotel in Paris with fresh
provisions, and for this purpose he visited it twice a day with a large
basket on his head or arm. The basket, of course, was always duly
examined, and the man passed through. He became well-known to the
gate-keeper, and thus weeks and months passed away, until one day the
keeper was sure he smelt brandy, and searched the basket more carefully
than usual. Nothing was discovered, but the fragrance of the brandy grew
stronger, and his suspicions were directed to the man. He was examined,
and it was found that his dropsy could easily be cured, for it consisted
in wearing something around his body which would contain several
gallons, for the man was really small in size, though tall, and he had
made it his business to carry in liquors to the city, and evade the
taxes. But at last, unfortunately, the portable canteen sprung a leak,
and this was the cause which led to the discovery.
At another gate, a woman was detected in carrying quantities of brandy
under her petticoats, and only passing for a large woman. I knew of a
woman who, in passing the Liverpool custom house, sewed cigars to a
great number into her skirt, but was, to her great chagrin, detected,
and also to the dismay of her husband, whom she intended to benefit.
Such taxes would not be endured in any American city, but the old world
is used to taxation. In the very out-skirts of London there are
toll-gates in the busiest of streets, but that is not so bad as the
local tariff system.
I soon came, in my walk, to the fortifications of Paris. They were
constructed by Louis Phillippe, and are magnificent works of defense.
There is one peculiar feature of this chain of defense which has excited
a great deal of remark. It is quite evident that a part of the
fortifications were constructed with a view to defend one's self from
enemies _within_, as well as without. Louis Phillippe evidently
remembered the past history of Paris, and felt the possibility of a
future in which he might like to have the command of Paris with his
guns, as well as an enemy outside the wall. But the fortifications and
the cannon were of no manner of use to him. So, very possibly, the
grand army which Louis Napoleon has raised may be of no use to him, and
the little prince, the young king of Algeria, may end his days a
wanderer in the United States, as his father was before him. It is to be
hoped, if he does, that he will pay his bills.
The fortifications of Paris extend entirely around the city, and are
seventeen miles in length. I went to the top of them, but I had not
stood there five minutes before the soldiers warned me off. The approach
to the city side of the wall is very gradual, by means of a
grass-covered bank. While standing upon the summit, a train of
cars--came whizzing along at a fine rate. I saw for the first time
people riding on the tops of cars as on a coach. The train was bound to
Versailles, and as the distance is short, and probably the speed
attained not great, seats are attached to the tops of the cars, and for
a very small sum the poorer classes can ride in them. In fine weather it
is said that this kind of riding is very pleasant.
I passed out through the gates beyond the fortifications, and was in the
open country--among the trees, the birds and flowers, and the cultivated
fields. The contrast between what I saw and the city, was great. Here,
all was beautiful nature. There, all that is grand and exquisite in art.
The fields around me were green with leaves and plants; the branches of
the trees swayed to and fro in the restless breeze; the little peasant
huts had a picturesque appearance in the distance, and the laborers at
work seemed more healthy than the artisans of Paris. I approached a
peasant who was following the plow. I was surprised to find the plow he
used to be altogether too heavy for the use to which it was put. Yet I
was in sight of Paris, the city of the arts and sciences. Such a plow
could not have been found in all New England. I looked at the man, too,
and compared him with an American farmer or native workman. He was
miserably dressed, and wore shoes which might have been made in the
twelfth century. He had no look of intelligence upon his face, but
stared at me with a dull and idiotic eye. This was the peasant under the
walls of Paris--what must he be in the provincial forests?
Leaving the plowman, I walked on, following a pretty little road, until
I came to a large flock of sheep in the care of a shepherd-boy and a
dog. While I stood looking at them, the boy started them off across the
fields and through the lawns to some other place. All that he did was to
follow the sheep, but I certainly never saw a dog so capable and
intelligent as that one. He seemed to catch from his master the idea of
their destination at once, and kept continually running around the
flock, now stirring them into a faster gait, then heading off some
wayward fellow who manifested a strong disposition to sheer off to the
right or left, and again turning the whole body just where the master
wished. It was an amusing sight, and well worth the walk from the city.
To be sure, the dog was rather egotistical and ostentatious. He knew his
smartness, and was quite willing that bystanders should know it too, for
he pawed, and fawned, and barked at a tremendous rate. The flock seemed
to know his ways, and while they obeyed his voice, they were not
particularly frightened at it.
Leaving the flock and their master, I soon came to a little inn, and sat
down to dine. It was not much like the restaurants on the Boulevard, or
even like those within the city on retired streets, but I got a very
comfortable meal, and for a very small sum of money. I found that the
mere mention that I was an American, in all such places as this, insured
me polite attention, and I could often notice, instantly, the change of
manners after I had informed my entertainers of my country. It is but a
slight fact from which to draw an inference, but yet I could not help
inferring that the more intelligent of the common people of Paris are
yet, notwithstanding the despotism which hovers over France, in their
secret hearts longing for the freedom of a just republic.
A young American was a few months since visiting Paris with a much
younger brother. The latter went out one day into the country, alone,
and seeing that a party of people from Paris were enjoying themselves in
the gardens connected with a small public house, he drew near to witness
their gayety. They were artisans, but of the most intelligent class.
They were neatly dressed, and their faces were bright and intelligent.
Whole families were there, down to the little children, and they were
enjoying a holiday. Seeing a young man (he was but sixteen years' old)
gazing upon them, and judging him to be a stranger, one of the party
approached him, and with great politeness asked if he would not come
into the garden and drink a glass of wine. The act was a spontaneous
one, and arose from good-nature and high spirits. The young American
entered, and in the course of a conversation told the company that he
was an American. Instantly the scene changed. He was loudly cheered, and
one man remarked, with very significant gestures and looks, that "_he
came from a republic_!" Nothing would do but that the guest must sit
down and accept of food and wine to an alarming extent. He was, in fact,
made so much of, that he became somewhat alarmed, for he was young and
inexperienced. I may as well finish the story by saying what was the
truth, that so many of the party begged the privilege of drinking with
him, that he became somewhat giddy and unfit to retrace his steps. He
was unused to wine, and the moment the Parisians saw it, they urged him
to drink no more, and asking his hotel, they took him carefully and
kindly to it in a carriage, after an hour or two had passed away and he
had pretty much recovered from his dissipation. Now there can be no
doubt that the enthusiastic politeness of the artisans, arose from the
fact that he was a republican, and from a great republican country, and
such facts which I have repeatedly witnessed, or heard of, assure me
that the old republican fire is not extinguished in the hearts of the
common people of Paris.
After a frugal dinner at the inn, I sauntered still further into the
country, so as, if possible, to get a glimpse of the farm-houses. But
one cannot get any fair idea of French agriculture so near Paris. A
great deal of the land is used in cultivating vegetables for the Paris
markets, and this land is scarcely a specimen of the farms of France, it
is more like gardens. I found a few buildings which were occupied by
these gardeners, and one or two genuine farmers, and while there was
evidently scientific culture bestowed upon the land, the tools were
generally clumsy, and altogether too heavy for convenience and dispatch.
It struck me as very singular. Paris excels in the manufacturing of
light and graceful articles of almost every kind. Certainly, in jewelry,
cutlery, and all manner of ornamental articles, it is the first city in
the world. How comes it, then, that so near Paris, agricultural
implements are so far behind the age? I would by no means have the
reader infer that the best of agricultural tools are not manufactured in
France. Such is not the fact, as the Paris Exhibition proved, but _who
buys them_? Now is it not a significant fact, that within a bow-shot of
Paris I found tools in use, which would be laughed at in the free states
of America? The true reason for this, is to be found in the condition of
the French agricultural laborer. He is ignorant and unambitious. Where
the laborer is intelligent, he will have light and excellent tools to
work with. This is a universal fact. The slaves of the southern states
are in a state of brutal ignorance, and their agricultural implements
are heavy and large. Such is the fact with all those men and women who
are in a condition somewhat similar. After looking upon the plowman I
have before alluded to, I could easily believe what reliable Frenchmen
told me--that in the famous (shall I call it _in_famous?) election, very
many of the farmers of the interior supposed they were voting for
Napoleon the Great, instead of Louis Napoleon!
I passed, in returning to my hotel, one of the finest buildings in
Paris--the _Palace d' Orsay_. It was begun in the time of Napoleon, and
is a public building.
[Illustration: Palais de Quai D'Orsay.]
[Illustration: CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME.]