ART. I.--_France in 1829-30._ By LADY MORGAN. _Author of_ "_France in
1816_," "_Italy_," _&c. &c. &c._ 2 vols. J. & J. Harper: New-York.
It was that solemn hour of the night, when, in the words of the poet,
"creation sleeps;"--a silence as of the dead reigned amid the streets
and alleys of the great city of Dublin, interrupted, ever and anon, only
by the solitary voice of the watchman, announcing the time, and the
prospects of fair or foul weather for the ensuing day. Even the noise of
carriages returning from revels and festive scenes of various kinds, was
no longer heard--
"The diligence of trades and noiseful gain,
And luxury more late, asleep were laid:
All was the night's:"
All! save the inhabitants of one mansion, situated in Kildare street,
who were still invading nature's rest. Why were they alone up and
stirring? Why were they debarred from taking their needful repose, and
obliged to employ the time which should have been devoted to it, in
active occupation? The reason is easily understood. Early in the
morning, the master and mistress were to set off on a trip to Paris, and
there was no small quantity of "packing up" yet to be done. Trunks
innumerable lay scattered about a romantically furnished bed-chamber;
some were partly filled with different articles of female habiliment;
others seemed to be appropriated to literary purposes, and books without
number, and of all descriptions, were lying around them--here was a pile
of novels, amongst which, the titles of "The Novice of St. Dominick,"
"Ida of Athens," "The Wild Irish Girl," &c. &c. could be
discerned--there was a heap of "Travels," composed of "Italy," "France
in 1816," and others:--a couple of volumes, entitled "Life and Times of
Salvator Rosa," were reposing in graceful dignity on the open lid of a
portmanteau. Several maids were exerting all their activity to get every
thing properly arranged; all was bustle and preparation.
Adjoining the chamber was a boudoir, furnished likewise in the most
romantic manner, in which sat a lady of even a more romantic appearance
than that of either of the apartments. How shall we describe her? She
certainly (we must tell the truth, and shame you know whom) did not seem
to be of that delightful age, in which a due regard to veracity would
allow us to apply to her the line of the poet, "Le printemps dans sa
fleur sur son visage est peint." Her cheeks, to be sure, were deeply
tinged with a roseate hue, but it was not that with which nature loves
to paint the face of spring; the colour proved too palpably, that it had
been placed there by the exercise of those "curious arts" with which the
sex are enabled to revive dim charms, "and triumph in the bloom of
fifty-five." Her dress was romantic in the extreme. Of the unity of
_time_, at all events, it was in direct violation, for its "gay rainbow
colours," and modish arrangement, were out of all keeping with her
matronly age. One would easily have inferred from it that she was fully
impressed with the conviction, that the years which had glided over her
head, were not of the old-fashioned kind that contain twelve months, or
at least, that she did not consider the lapse of time as at all
calculated to impair the attractions of her physiognomy, however
prejudicial its effect might be upon the faces of the rest of the female
part of the creation. In her countenance there was such an expression of
blended affectation and self-complacency, that it was impossible to look
upon it without feeling an inclination to smile. She was sitting near a
prettily ornamented writing-desk, surmounted by a mirror (in which, by
the way, she always found her greatest admirer), with her head reclining
on her open hand, her elbow resting on a volume which bore on its back
the appropriate title of "The Book of the Boudoir," and her eyes
directed, we need hardly say where,--for who does not love to be
admired? Her _reflections_ were suddenly disturbed by a knock at the
door, which she answered by an "Entrez!" "_Ah, Sir Charles, c'est
vous_," she lisped, as the door opened, and a person in male attire
entered, "_eh bien_, is every thing _pret_ for our _voyage_?" "Yes, my
dear"--we presume, from this appellation, that the gentleman was her
_caro sposo_, as she might say,--"or at least every thing will be ready
shortly; but let me essay again to dissuade you from this foolish
expedition"--"_de grace_, Sir Charles, _ayez pitie de moi_; do not
pester me with your _betises_; I am determined to _faire une autre
visite_ to my _cher_ Paris, so that all you may say will be _tout a
fait inutile_." "Well," sighed the _caro sposo_, "just as you please,"
and he returned to direct the "packing up," while she began to revel in
the anticipations of triumphs, both personal and intellectual, which she
intended to gain in the fashionable and literary capital of the world.
Alas! "oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it
promises."
Who is this lady? Had she lived in the days of Juvenal, it might have
been supposed that he had her in his eye, when he drew, in his sixth
satire, the picture of the "greatest of all plagues"--had her existence
been cast in the time of the prince of French comic writers, she would
undoubtedly have been presumed to be the prototype of the heroine in one
of his most exquisite comedies; we need hardly say, therefore, that she
is, in the words of Boileau, "_une precieuse_,
"Reste de ces esprits jadis si renommes
Que d'un coup de son art Moliere a diffames."
Pity, then, kind reader, pity the lot of the unfortunate gentleman whom
we have just introduced to your acquaintance. A further account of this
dame may prove not unacceptable.
Her father was an honest actor, accustomed to afford great delight to
those deities who inhabit the one shilling galleries of English and
Irish theatres, and to receive, himself, vast gratification from
worshipping at the shrine of Bacchus. The daughter having given early
indications of quickness and pertness, came to be considered quite a
genius by her family and friends, whose natural partiality soon induced
her to entertain the same opinion. Determined, accordingly, not to hide
her light under a bushel, she made her appearance before the world as an
authoress, from which it may very reasonably be inferred that she had
not yet attained the years of discretion. Her _debut_, of course, was as
a wanderer in the realms of imagination, alias, a novel-writer, and in
this capacity she continued to make the public stare for a series of
years. We say stare, for we can find no more appropriate word for
expressing the feelings which her fictions are calculated to excite.
With plots of almost incomprehensible absurdity, they combine a style
more inflated than any balloon in which Madame Blanchard ever sailed
through the regions of air--a language, or rather jargon, composed of
the pickings of nearly every idiom that ever did live, or is at present
in existence, and sentiments which would be often of a highly
mischievous tendency, if they were not rendered ridiculous by the manner
in which they are expressed. The singularity of these productions
excited a good deal of sensation, and, if we believe her own words, she
was placed by them "in a _definite_ rank among authors, and in no
undistinguished circle of society." In some of the principal journals,
however, the lady was severely taken to task, at the same time that she
was counselled to obtain for herself a partner in weal and wo, by which
she might be brought down from her foolish vagaries, to the sober
realities of domestic duty. Wonderful to relate, she followed the advice
of those whom her vanity must have taught her to consider as her
bitterest foes, namely critics,--and as
"Nought but a genius can a genius fit,
A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit."
This wit was a regular knight of the pestle and mortar--a physician,
whose pills and draughts had acquired for him the enviable right of
placing that dignified appellation, Sir, before his Christian name, by
which our authoress became entitled to be addressed as "Your Ladyship,"
as much as if she had married an Earl or a Marquis. Oh! how delighted
the ci-devant plain "Miss" must have been at hearing the servants say to
her, "Yes, my lady,"--"No, my lady."--The year in which the ceremony was
performed that gave her a lord and master, we cannot precisely
ascertain; but as the happy pair favoured the capital of France with
their presence in 1816, it may not be unreasonable to suppose, that they
went there to spend the honeymoon. Miraculous as are the changes which
matrimony sometimes operates, it was powerless in its influence upon her
Ladyship's propensities, and, consequently, not very long after
returning to her "_maison bijou_" in Dublin, she put forth a quarto!
with the magnificent title of "France." There are phenomena in the
physical world, in the moral world, in the intellectual world, but this
book was a phenomenon that beat them all. It was absolutely wonderful
how so much ignorance, nonsense, vanity, and folly, could be compressed
within the compass even of a quarto. All the sense that could be
discerned in it, was contained in four or five essays, upon Love, Law
and Physic, and Politics, contributed by Sir the husband. Being anxious
that "France" should have a companion, she subsequently made an
expedition to the land of the Dilettanti, in company with the dear man
who had made her, "she _trusts_, a respectable, and she is _sure_, a
happy mistress of a family," and forthwith "Italy" appeared to sustain
her well-earned reputation for qualities, which she has the singular
felicity of possessing without exciting envy. But her "never ending,
still beginning" pen, was not satisfied with two volumes as the fruits
of her Italian campaigning, especially as there happened to be a goodly
quantity of memoranda in the "diary" which had not yet been turned to
any use. Some subject, therefore, was to be hit upon for another
publication, in which they could be inserted, when beat out into a
sizeable shape; and what could be better adapted for that purpose than
the biography of a great Italian artist? The life of poor Salvator Rosa
was, in consequence, attempted. Just think of making one of the
greatest geniuses that ever lived, a peg to hang notes upon! The next
offspring of her Ladyship's brain, was, we believe, another novel, which
was as like its predecessors as possible. In the period that elapsed
between this birth, and the moment in which we have had the honour of
introducing her to our readers, her literary family was increased by
another child, with the delightful name of "The Book of the Boudoir."
We hope we have not been understood as meaning to insinuate, that
because her Ladyship is the mother of a couple of dozen of volumes, she
is on that account a _precieuse ridicule_. This was far, very far from
our intention. None can take more pleasure than ourselves in rendering
all homage to genuine female talent, employed for useful and honourable
purposes, or be more willing to acknowledge the peculiar excellence by
which its productions are frequently marked. Were it our pleasant duty
at present to notice the works of an Edgeworth, a Hemans, a Mitford, a
Sedgwick, or of any others of that fair and brilliant assemblage, who
reflect so great a lustre upon the literature of this age, we should use
language as eulogistic as their warmest admirers could desire. But we
have to do now with a person of a very different description from those
bright ornaments of their sex--with one in whose mind, whatever flowers
Nature may originally have planted, have been almost completely choked
by the rank weeds of ignorance, presumption, frivolity, and vanity
beyond measurement--who, in a list of works as long, to use one of her
own delicate illustrations, as "Leporello's catalogue of Don Juan's
mistresses," has given little or no aid to the cause of virtue
generally, or evinced the slightest anxiety to improve and benefit her
sex, but has devoted all her faculties to the erection of an altar on
which she might worship herself, and only herself--who has even afforded
cause, by the frequently extreme levity of her expressions, for the
charge of lending countenance to licentiousness and impiety--whose
writings, in fine, are calculated to inflict serious injury upon the
tastes, the understandings, and the hearts of her youthful female
readers, by accustoming them to a vicious and ridiculous style, by
filling their minds with false and perverted sentiments and wrong
impressions upon some of the most important matters, and by setting
before them the example of a woman who boasts of being a member of no
undistinguished circle of society, and yet constantly violates those
laws of delicacy and refinement, the full observance of which is
indispensable for every female who aspires to the name and character of
a lady.
Pale Aurora began now to appear, "_Tiphoni croceum linquens cubile_," in
vulgar parlance, day began to break. Behold our couple setting forth on
their Parisian expedition. Some months afterwards, the "_maison
bijou_," in Kildare street, again was illumined by the presence of our
fair traveller, whose pen was soon mended, dipped in ink, and busily
employed. In due time its labours were brought to a termination, and two
goodly volumes were ushered into the light of day, purporting to contain
an account of "France in 1829-30." These are the identical volumes which
it is our design in this article to notice.
"_Facit indignatio versus_," exclaimed the old Roman satirist, and
"indignation makes us write," would we exclaim, in assigning our motives
for devoting a number of our pages to "France in 1829-30," could we for
a moment be persuaded that our readers would credit the assertion. It
seems to us, that we already behold every one of them smiling in
derision, and giving an incredulous shake of the head, at the bare idea
of a cold-blooded reviewer being actuated by indignant feelings to place
his critical lance in rest, and run a course against an unfortunate
author. We must, nevertheless, be permitted to protest, that we do feel
a considerable quantity of very honest and virtuous indignation against
the trash last put forth by _Miladi_--quite as much, we are sure, as
impelled Juvenal to the composition of his searing satires. We may be
told, however, that we are waging battle with a lady, and that we should
be upon our guard not to give fresh cause for the exclamation, that "the
age of chivalry is gone." A lady, true; but, when in your boasted "age
of chivalry," persons of her sex buckled on armour and rushed into the
_melee_, were they spared by the courteous knights with whom they
measured swords? Did not Clorinda receive her death wound from the hand
of Tancred? And why should the Amazon who wields the pen, be more gently
dealt with than she who meddles with cold iron? In literature, as in
war, there is no distinction of sex. We hope, therefore, we shall not be
accused of ungallant, or anti-chivalric bearing, on account of the blows
we may inflict upon the literary person of a most daring Thalestris,
especially as her vanity is a panoply of proof.
In her preface, Lady M. says, that a second work on France from her pen
could only be justified by the novelty of its matter, or by the merit of
its execution. Then do we pronounce this second work, this "France in
1829-30," to be the most unjustifiable imposition on the good nature of
the reading community that ever was practised. Its matter is nothing
more nor less than Miladi herself; and is she a novelty? Something less
than half a century ago, her Ladyship undoubtedly was a novelty, and one
too of an extraordinary kind. As to the "merit of its execution," it is
quite sufficient to know that it is the work of Lady Morgan, to form an
idea of that requisite for its "justification." Out of thine own mouth
have we condemned thee. The fact is, that "France in 1829-30," is
almost, the counterpart of "France in 1816," and the same remarks may
be made concerning it which we have already applied to the latter. All
the information we could discover we had obtained from it on finishing
its perusal, was that its author had improved in neither wisdom,
knowledge, nor modesty, since her first visit to the land after which
both of these productions have been christened. France! and what right
have they to that name? Would it not induce one to suppose, that their
author had at least travelled through the greater portion of that
beautiful country, and eked out a number of her pages from the notes,
such as they might be, made during the tour? And yet her Ladyship, on
both occasions, went to Paris by the high road of Calais, remained in
the capital a few months, and then returned by another high road. Even
"Paris in 1816," "Paris in 1829-30," would be titles with which these
publications would possess scarcely more affinity, than that by which
children, on whom the preposterous fondness of their parents has
bestowed the high-sounding appellations of warriors and monarchs, are
connected with those worthies. Their only appropriate names would be,
"Lady Morgan in 1816," "Lady Morgan in 1829-30;" for what information do
they give about France or Paris, and what information do they _not_ give
about Lady Morgan? they even let us into the secrets of her Ladyship's
wardrobe. It was Paris that saw Lady Morgan, and not Lady Morgan that
saw Paris, in the same way as, according to Dr. Franklin, it was
Philadelphia that took Sir William Howe, and not Sir William Howe that
took Philadelphia.
To collect materials for a book of travels, it is necessary to be all
eyes and ears with regard to every thing but one's self. Her Ladyship,
however, was just the reverse throughout the whole period of her absence
from Kildare street,--it seems always to have been her object to
attract, and not to bestow, attention. In the volumes before us, it is
her perpetual endeavour to win admiration by making known the admiration
she entertains for herself, as well as that which she supposes she
excites in others. They are consequently, in great measure, filled with
what was said to Lady Morgan, and what Lady Morgan did and said during
her last visit to Paris. While discoursing about anything else than
herself, she appears to be on thorns until she gets back to that all
absorbing subject, and no matter what is the title of the chapter, she
generally contrives, by hook or by crook, to bring herself into it as
the main object of interest. The poor reader is thus often sadly
disappointed in the expectations he may form of deriving pleasure or
information from various parts of her work, in consequence of the
promises held out by their "headings." He almost always eventually
discovers, that however he may have been induced to anticipate a meeting
with other persons or matters, it is still "Monsieur Tonson come
again." We must confess, that it is rather too bad to be _Morbleued_ in
this way; though it is but fair to acknowledge, that her Ladyship is not
an intentional tormentor, like the malicious wags by whom the
unfortunate Frenchman was teased out of house and home. On the contrary,
her design is one altogether consonant to the general benevolence of her
character. It is to give pleasure; and as her greatest delight arises
from the contemplation of herself, she has presumed, naturally enough if
we may believe the philosophers, that the same cause will produce the
same effect upon the rest of the world. All her pictures, therefore,
like those of the painter who doated upon his mistress to such a degree
as to introduce her face into every one of his works, contain the object
of her idolatry, either prominently in the foreground, or so ingeniously
placed in the background, as to be quite as well fitted to draw
attention.--But it is time to follow her in some of her peregrinations.
On a certain day of the year 1829, which she has not had the goodness to
designate, she arrived at Calais. She was accompanied by an Irish
footman,--not, we presume, the "_illiterate literatus_," whom she has
immortalized in her first "France,"--and by a person whom she once or
twice alludes to in her volumes; first, by acknowledging her obligations
to a "Sir C. M." for some articles which had been contributed by him to
swell the dimensions of her work; and, secondly, by mentioning that
somebody sent a "flask of genuine _potteen_," to her Ladyship's great
delight, "with Mr. Somebody's compliments to Sir C. M." As there is an
individual designated once or twice also as "my husband," we have shrewd
suspicions that he and this Sir C. M. are one and the same being. The
first thing that Miladi does at Calais, is to experience a "burst of
agreeable sensations;" and the next, to feel a considerable degree of
surprise at being delighted again with that renowned place--renowned for
having been several times visited by Lady Morgan, besides other minor
causes of celebrity, such as its sieges, and its having been the place
where Yorick commenced his sentimental journey; but these have been
completely forgotten since the year 1816. After her "little heart" had
been fluttered by those agreeable and wonderful sensations, the nature
of its palpitations was unfortunately changed by the indignation with
which it was filled on her discovering "how English" every thing
appeared. "English carpets, and English cleanliness; English delf and
English damask," with various other _Englishiana_, gave such a John Bull
aspect to the room of the hotel into which she was ushered, that she was
on the point of swooning, when her ears were suddenly assailed by a loud
sound--Gracious heavens! What noise is that? Her delicate little head
is in a twinkling thrust out of the window, and she beholds,--oh horror
of horrors--she beholds a mail-coach, built on the regular English plan,
cantering into the yard, with all its concomitants completely _a
l'Anglaise_--"horses curvetting, and not a hair turned--a whip that
'tips the silk' like a feather--'ribbons,' not ropes--a coachman, all
capes and castor--a guard that cries 'all right,'" and who was at that
moment puffing most manfully into a "reg'lar mail-coach horn." This was
too much, and her Ladyship would inevitably have been driven distracted,
or, at least, have gone into hysterics, had not a most delicious idea
interposed its aid, and she exclaimed, "What luck to have written _my_
France, while France was still so French!"--and what luck, say we, to
have so commodious a safety-valve as vanity, by means of which to let
off the superabundant steam of one's ire!
Now, as to her Ladyship's having written her "France," while _France_
was still "so French," this we do not deny; but we do deny that _her_
France itself is "so French." It would be an affair of some considerable
difficulty, in our humble opinion, to find any thing French either about
it or the "France" we are now reviewing, except their titles, and
innumerable scraps of the French language, not unfrequently so expressed
and so applied that they would do honour to Mrs. Malaprop herself.
Lady M.'s fondness for generalizing, has led her to relate this
apparition of the "Bang-up" in such a way as would induce any one who
did not know better, to suppose that the "Coach" had entirely superseded
the "Diligence" upon the French roads. Truly would such a change be a
cause of regret; for the traveller in France would thus be deprived of a
fruitful source of amusement. But we have the pleasure of announcing,
for the satisfaction of such of our readers as may entertain the design
of paying a visit to that country, that the coach which Lady Morgan saw,
was the only vehicle of the kind with which her eyes could have been
annoyed. We speak _understandingly_ on the subject, as we happened to be
in France about the same time as her Ladyship. This coach, which, if we
recollect aright, was called the Telegraph, and not the "Bang-up," was a
speculation of some Englishman, who ran it for a short time between
Boulogne and Calais, but without much success. The old national vehicle
had too strong a hold upon the affections of the most national people in
the world, to be pushed from the field by any foreign opponent, and the
slow, sure, and comfortable Diligence kept on the even tenor of its way,
while the dashing, rapid Telegraph arrived prematurely at the end of its
journeying.
We do not deem ourselves competent to decide upon so momentous a subject
as the respective merits of the English and French stages, to give them
our technical appellation; but it may be remarked as perhaps somewhat
singular, that with regard to comfort--a matter respecting which the
French are as noted for their general heedlessness as the English are
for their almost uniform concern--the Diligence can lay claim to
unquestionable superiority over the coach. On the other hand, the coach
is constructed in such a way as to possess far greater facilities for
rapidity of locomotion,--a quality which it might be supposed the quick
vivacious temperament of the French would especially prize in their
conveyances. As to appearance also, the English vehicle is certainly a
good deal better off than the French. Nothing, indeed, that a stranger
may have heard or read about the latter, can prepare him for it
sufficiently, to prevent him on first beholding it from giving way to
something more than a smile. It is not, however, so much the mere
machine itself that operates upon his risible faculties, as the whole
equipage, or _atalage_,--the scare-crow horses, that seem to have been
once the property of the keeper of some museum by whom their bones have
been linked together and covered with skin as well as they might be,
without inserting something between as a substitute for flesh; the
non-descript gear by which these living anatomies are kept together and
attached to the vehicle, composed of rope, leather, iron, steel, brass,
and every thing else that could by any possibility be used for the
purpose; the queer-looking postillion, with his long cue, huge boots,
and pipe, all combine with the grotesque appearance of the Diligence
itself, to form an _ensemble_ irresistibly ludicrous.
What a difference, too, there is in the facility with which they get
"under weigh." One crack of the coachman's whip, causes his fine animals
to give "a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull together," and away you
whirl in an instant. But the traveller in France does not find starting
so easy a matter. He gets into the Diligence; every thing seems ready.
The passengers are all in their places, and have saluted each other with
true French politeness, except some gruff John Bull sitting in a corner
seat and eyeing his associates with mingled scorn and distrust--the five
or six apologies for horses are standing in an attitude of the greatest
patience, waiting for the signal to make an attempt at putting one foot
before the other--the _conducteur_, a person who has the supreme
direction of the movements of the Diligence, is in his place on the
top--the boots in which the legs of the postillion are buried, are
dangling on both sides of the wheel horse on the left--crack! goes his
whip--a jingling sound responds, caused by the endeavours of the
"cattle" to advance--"mais que diable"--crack! crack! crack!--something
like motion is experienced, when there is a sudden stop, and the
conducteur is seen descending from his eminence, muttering sundry
expressions of no very gentle nature--"what the devil's the matter now,"
growls a more than bass voice out of one window--"qu'est ce que c'est,
conducteur," simultaneously demand a treble and a tenor from another
window--"rien, Madame," the answer is always addressed to the lady,
"rien du tout," he replies whilst endeavouring to repair some part of
the "rigging" that could not stand the efforts of the poor beasts to
move from their position. At length, however, you get fairly under
weigh, with about a four knot breeze, and continue to make some progress
for an hour or two amidst a noise caused by the rumbling of the vehicle,
the creaking, jingling, rattling, and clanking, of the _atalage_, the
unceasing crack of the whip, and the chattering of your companions, to
which the sounds at Babel were music. The movement then becomes
_adagio_, and soon afterwards the conducteur's voice is heard, begging
the passengers in all parts of the vehicle to descend. Wondering what is
the matter, you get out with the rest, and find the cause of this
commotion to be a _grande Montagne_--anglice, a little hill--in mounting
which, the tender care that is taken of the animals upon the road,
however much the state of their flesh shows it is diminished in the
stable, renders it indispensable that they should be relieved of every
possible weight. To this inconvenience you are subjected on approaching
almost every little elevation, the like of which in England or the
United States, would not cause the slightest diminution of speed. But it
must be confessed, that occasionally, a hill is to be passed of a
magnitude which the steeds could never surmount without diminishing
their load, and then the notice that is said to have been affixed to one
of the Diligences, may very well be appended to all. "MM. les voyageurs,
sont pries, quand ils descendent, de ne pas aller plus vite que la
voiture:" passengers are requested, when they descend, not to go faster
than the vehicle. A most necessary request! La Fontaine, when he wrote
the fable in which he gives an account of a vehicle ascending a steep
eminence, and the exertions of a fly to assist the horses, must have
just returned from some excursion in a Diligence, during which he was
witness to the creeping, toiling, panting of the animals pulling it up a
hill. Pauvres diables! as the women are constantly exclaiming, a fly
might really lend them some aid in their efforts. About every eight
miles, fresh horses are in readiness, but the change is rarely for the
better,--for the worse it cannot be.
It is only on the road that the postillions drive slowly; when they
enter a town it is a sort of signal for them to dash on at a furious
rate, notwithstanding the danger of going rapidly through streets which
are little better than alleys, and in which there are no side-pavements
to mark the limits for pedestrians. We never before experienced such
philanthropic alarm for the safety of our fellow-mortals, as on the
evening of our arrival in Paris, whilst whirling at a furious rate
through its narrow streets, which were thronged with people, when it was
so dark that their ears alone could give them warning to get out of the
way. No accident, however, occurred. The French drivers, it must be
confessed, though not very elegant or stylish "whips," are very sure;
they contrive to guide the immense Diligences through the crowded
labyrinths of a large city with wonderful safety, notwithstanding the
swiftness with which they generally pass through them, and the loose
manner in which the horses are linked together.
But where did we leave our Ladyship? Oh, with her head out of the window
of the hotel, saying something about _her_ France and the other France.
We really beg her pardon for keeping her so long in such a situation,
and hasten to relieve her from it, by placing her, together with Sir C.
M. and the Irish footman, in a,--but here again we are at fault. She has
not had the kindness to inform us what was the species of conveyance
that she consecrated to eternal veneration by employing for her journey
to Paris, and as we have neither time nor space for an adequate
investigation of this important point, we must leave it to be mooted by
other commentators, contenting ourselves with the knowledge that the
illustrious trio arrived safely at the capital.
On reaching the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, which she had resolved upon
immortalizing by residing in it during her sojourn in Paris, she was
again fearfully agitated by that dreadful fondness for things English,
in France, by which her nervous system had before been so greatly
discomposed. Woful to relate, she was received by "a smart, dapper,
English-innkeeper-looking landlord," and conducted to apartments "which
were a box of boudoirs, as compact as a Chinese toy." "There were
carpets on every floor, chairs that were moveable, mirrors that
reflected, sofas to sink on, footstools to stumble over; in a word, all
the incommodious commodities of my own cabin in Kildare street." Poor
Miladi! this was really too provoking, to have all the trouble and
expense of journeying from Dublin to see just what was to be seen there;
but no matter, it will serve for the subject of some twenty pages in
your intended book. But then the change, so trying to the nerves of a
romantic lady, which had taken place since 1816. In that year, she
remembered, on driving into the paved court of the hotel d'Orleans, she
had seen "an elderly gentleman, sitting under the shelter of a vine, and
looking like a specimen of the restored emigration. His white hair,
powdered and dressed _a l'oiseau royale_; his Persian slippers and _robe
de chambre, a grand ramage_, (we hope, reader, you have a French
dictionary near you) spoke of principles as old as his toilet. He was
reading, too, a loyal paper, loyal, at least, in those days,--the
_Journal des Debats._ Bowing, as we passed, he consigned us, with a
graceful wave of the hand, to the care of Pierre, the _frotteur_. I took
him for some fragment of a _duc et pair_ of the old school; but, on
putting the question to _the frotteur_, who himself might have passed
for a _figurante_ at the opera, he informed us that he was '_Notre
bourgeois_,' the master of the hotel." It is quite wonderful to us how
Miladi could have survived to relate so shocking a metamorphosis. Ovid
has nothing half so strange and heart-rending.
The instances we have mentioned are far from being the only ones in
which her Ladyship was "put out of sorts" by the Anglomania, which, she
would make us believe, is operating at present as great a revolution in
the social, as was effected in '98 in the political condition of France.
All along the road from Calais to Paris, she sees nothing but "youths
galloping their horses in the cavalry costume of Hyde Park," "smart gigs
and natty dennets," "cottages of gentility, with white walls and green
shutters, and neat offices, rivalling the diversified orders of the
Wyatvilles of Islington and Highgate," in short, nothing but "English
neatness and propriety on every side," with one terrible exception,
however, "an Irish jaunting car!" of which she chanced, to her infinite
dismay, to catch a glimpse. The second appearance that she makes in the
streets of Paris, is for the purpose of buying some "_bonbons_,
_diablotins en papillotes_, _Pastilles de Nantes_, and other sugared
prettinesses," for which Parisian confectioners are so renowned.
Accordingly, she goes into a shop where she supposes that "fanciful
idealities, sweet nothings, candied epics and eclogues in spun sugar, so
light, and so perfumed as to resemble (was there ever such nonsense)
congealed odours, or a crystallization of the essence of sweet flowers,"
are to be sold, but on inquiry she is told by a "demoiselle behind the
counter, as neat as English muslin and French (what a wonder it wasn't
English) _tournure_ could make her," that 'we sell no such a ting,' but
that she might have 'de cracker, de bun, de plom-cake, de spice
gingerbread, de mutton and de mince pye, de crompet and de muffin, de
gelee of de calves foot, and de apple dumplin.' Reader, Lady Morgan "was
struck dumb!" She purchased a bundle of crackers, "hard enough to
_crack_ the teeth of an elephant," and hurried from the shop. But
misfortunes never come single, and her ladyship, though an exception to
most other general rules, was not destined to prove the correctness of
that one in this instance, for just as she was escaping from the place
where she had experienced the serious inconvenience of being "struck
dumb," she was struck in another way--viz. on the left cheek, by the
explosion of a bottle of "Whitbread's entire," the consequence of which
was, that the exterior of her head became covered with precisely the
same thing with which its interior is filled--"froth."--
Foaming with rage and brown-stout, her Ladyship was hastening home as
fast as her "little feet" could carry her, when a perfumer's shop
"caught the most acute of all her senses."--What a delightful mode, by
the way, her ladyship has, of imparting knowledge _en passant_, as it
were; here we have the important information communicated to us, that
her "acutest sense" is situated in her nose, just because she happened
to pass by a perfumery store; but what a nose her ladyship's nose must
be, since it is endowed with more wonderful faculties than her eyes,
which possess such miraculous powers as to enable her to see things in
France perceptible by no other mortal optics! But to proceed with our
dismal story. Her ladyship's olfactory nerves, as we have already
mentioned, having made her aware of the proximity of a perfumer's shop,
she was induced to go into it by the desire of procuring something which
might relieve them from the torture produced by the exhalations of
'Whitbread's entire.' But here again she was doomed to disappointment.
She asked for various "_eaux_, _essences_, and _extraits_," and was
presented with bottles of "_lavendre vatre_, _honey vatre_, and _tief
his vinaigre_;" she asked for _savons_, and was shown cakes of "_Vindsor
soap_," and "_de Regent's vashball_." In an agony of despair, she rushes
from the shop, first taking care, however, to "gather up her purse and
reticule," and soon arrives at her--alas! English furnished apartments.
After stumbling over a footstool, and being incommoded by other
"incommodious commodities," she at length sinks exhausted upon a sofa,
just opposite to a "mirror that reflected." But what other singular
looking object, besides Miladi's face, is it that forms a subject of
that glass's reflections, and is lying on a table just behind her? It is
a little basket, the contents of which her ladyship soon begins to
investigate,--and what do you suppose she finds?--"A flask of _genuine
potteen_!!" This time she is struck loquacious, and she shrieks out,
"this is too much! was it for this we left the snugness and economical
comfort of our Irish home, and encountered the expensive inconveniencies
of a foreign journey, in the hope of seeing nothing British, 'till the
threshold of that home should be passed by our feet;'--to meet at every
step with all that taste, health, and civilization (exemplified by
'lavendre vatre,' 'vindsor soap,' and 'a flask of _potteen_,') we cry
down at home, as cheap and as abundant abroad," &c. &c. The piercing key
on which her Ladyship pitched her voice while declaiming this
magnificent soliloquy, brought Sir C. M., the Irish footman, and the
English-looking landlord into the room, in a terrible flurry. "My
dearest dear what is the matter?"--"Och! my leddy, what is it now that
ails you?"--"_Ah! madame, mille pardons, qu'est ce que c'est?_"
simultaneously issue from the mouths of the three worthies. "Avaunt! get
out of my sight, you _maudit imitateur_; and you Sir Charles, _et vous_,
Patrick, see that _tout est prepare_ for returning to Dublin _dans
l'heure meme_," meekly responds Miladi. But a sudden change comes over
her countenance--sudden as that which took place in the aspect of Juno
when she beheld the waves raised to the very heavens by the power of
Neptune, and supposed that they had overwhelmed the bark which carried
AEneas and his companions, the objects of her eternal hatred. She smiled,
as the face of Nature smiles when the clouds that have long covered it
with gloom, have disappeared before the potent influence of the
"glorious orb that gives the day," and at length she rapturously cried
out, "How lucky to have written _my_ France, while France was still so
French!"--Lady Morgan was herself again.
Now we beg leave to observe, that this Anglomania bugbear, by which her
ladyship pretends to have been so much distressed, is the merest piece
of nonsense and affectation in the world. We will not be so ungallant as
to suppose that Lady Morgan has intentionally related what is not
altogether so true as might be, but she has been accustomed for such a
length of time to roam about the varied realms of fancy, that it would
be impossible for her ever to descend to the flat regions of fact.
Besides, as we have already stated, she has been gifted with powers of
vision more surprising than those of the lynx or the seer--the first can
only see through a stone, the second can only see things which may exist
at a future day, when they will be visible to every one else--but she
sees things existing at present, that defy the ken of all other animals,
rational and irrational. While reading her account of the English
vehicles, English cottages, &c. &c. which she observed in her journey
from Calais to Paris, we could not help asking ourselves, where were our
eyes during the time we travelled that road? We are satisfied, however,
that they were in their right place, and tolerably well employed; and
that if they did not encounter the signs of Anglomania mentioned by her
Ladyship, it was because these were to be perceived by no one but
herself. Wide indeed is the difference between travelling in France and
England! The poet Grey, in one of his charming letters, affirms, that in
the former country it would be the finest in the world, were it not for
the terrible state of the inns; but it must have greatly deteriorated
there, or have improved in his native isle since his time, for there can
not be the slightest question as to the superior delights of journeying
in the latter at present. The inns in France are still bad enough, in
all conscience, and offer but a dreary welcome to one who has been
accustomed to the neatness and comforts of English hostels. There are,
however, various other particulars of importance for a traveller's
enjoyment, which Shakspeare's "sea-walled garden" furnishes in by far
the greater abundance. In France the roads are comparatively much
inferior, and the general appearance of the country is less pleasing.
You meet there with few or none of those detached farm-houses, with
their little dependencies of cottages, which everywhere greet the eye in
England, bespeaking the honest and well-conditioned yeoman, and
presenting a picture of prosperity and contentment,--the villages
through which you pass, mostly wear a decayed and squalid
appearance--the magnificent country-seats, with their parks and other
appurtenances, whose frequent recurrence in England constitutes so rich
a feast for the gaze of the stranger, are rarely rivalled in France--the
landscape here, also, is much seldomer able to borrow that venerable
grace and romantic charm which the remains of feudal ages alone can
lend. This last circumstance is one greatly to be regretted; for perhaps
the most exquisite gratification to be derived from travelling through a
country, where for centuries civilization in a greater or less degree
has exercised sway, arises from the contemplation of the various
monuments of by-gone days, some slowly mouldering into dust, others
still proudly defying the assaults of the great destroyer. The mind
dwells upon them with a species of pensive delight, and that peculiar
charm which their association with the fictions and annals of times past
inspires. It would seem, that France should be especially rich in the
relics of that feudalism of which for a long time it was the chief seat,
but a reason for their scantiness may be found in the policy which
caused Louis XI., and which was subsequently pursued by Richelieu, and
completed by Louis le Grand, to call the nobles from their estates,
where they exercised almost sovereign authority, to the capital, and
convert them into mere hangers on of the court--in the destructive
hostilities which have almost incessantly desolated the kingdom--and
especially in the determined war that was made upon castles by the
patriots of the Revolution. These, at all events, are the causes which
Sir Walter Scott, in his "Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk," assigns for
the circumstance we are lamenting. The first one of them had also been
previously intimated by that worthy personage, the father of Tristram
Shandy,--"Why are there so few palaces and gentlemen's seats, (he would
ask with some emotion, as he walked across the room,) throughout so many
delicious provinces in France? Whence is it that the few remaining
_chateaux_ amongst them are so dismantled, so unfurnished, and in so
ruinous and desolate a condition?--Because, sir, (he would say,) in that
kingdom no man has any country-interest to support:--the little interest
of any kind which any man has anywhere in it, is concentrated in the
court, and the looks of the Grand Monarch; by the sunshine of whose
countenance, or the clouds which pass across it, every Frenchman lives
or dies." This, however, is certainly not the case with Frenchmen of the
present day.
But the principal drawback upon the pleasure of travelling in France, is
decidedly the multitude of mendicants by whom you are continually
annoyed, and whose miserable appearance offends the eye, while it
sickens the heart. Scarcely ever does the vehicle stop without being
immediately surrounded by the most distressing objects that the mind can
conceive, in such numbers as to render it impossible for any one except
the possessor of Fortunatus's or Rothschild's purse, to bestow alms,
however inconsiderable, upon them all. A humane individual, who should
attempt to do it, with a pocket of but moderate dimensions, would soon
be reduced to the necessity of enrolling himself in the mendicant band,
and crying out with the rest of them, in their peculiar tone, "_Donnez
un sous, a un pauvre malheureux, pour l'amour de Dieu, et de la Sainte
Vierge_." "Give a sous to a poor unfortunate, for the love of God and of
the Holy Virgin." The crowds of these beggars upon the French roads,
lead the stranger to apprehend that in Paris they will swarm to such an
extent as to mar in a degree the pleasure of his residence there; he is,
however, agreeably disappointed at finding in his perambulations through
its streets, that they are completely free from them, in consequence of
the admirable regulations of the police. It is worthy of remark, that
the reverse of this is the case in England. There the roads and villages
rarely afford cause for the tear of compassion, or the exclamation of
disgust, elicited by scenes of misery; but in walking about London, one
must be made of sterner stuff than was sentimental Yorick, who can avoid
endeavouring to repeat "Psha! with an air of carelessness," at almost
every step, after being obliged to refuse infinitely stronger claims
upon charity than those which were advanced by the poor Franciscan.
We have thus enumerated most of the reasons why travelling in England is
preferable to that in France, yet there is one circumstance to be
remarked in favour of the latter, which almost counterbalances every
consideration of an unfavourable kind. We allude to the facility with
which a stranger can make acquaintance with his fellow passengers, in
the "gay, smiling land of social mirth and ease." In England he may
journey from Plymouth to Berwick without speaking more than ten words to
any persons who chance to be his companions in the coach, or hearing ten
words spoken by them if they happen not to know each other; but in a
French public conveyance, only a short time elapses before all its
occupants are as much at ease, and upon as good terms with each other,
as if they were familiar acquaintances. Many a pleasant hour have we
spent in a diligence, in consequence of the conversations we have fallen
into with individuals whom we have there encountered, some of which were
of a highly ludicrous character. We shall never forget a series of
interrogatories put to us by a loquacious fellow next to whom we were
seated in the diligence in going from Rouen to Paris, and who was about
as ignorant as he was garrulous. Hearing us say, in answer to a question
of another person, that we were from the United States, he asked us how
we liked Italy; and on our telling him we had never been there, inquired
with a face of great surprise, whether the United States was not on the
other side of Italy? After endeavouring to give him an idea of the
situation of our country, he asked successively, if we had crossed the
ocean in a steam-boat, if the United States belonged to England or to
France, and if Philadelphia was not the place where the great revolt of
the Negroes took place. But we must return to her Ladyship, with the
wish that she would contrive to render her company more agreeable, that
we might have less temptation to wander from her at this rate.
With regard to the English furniture of her Ladyship's apartments, and
the English confectionaries and perfumeries which gave rise to the
memorable adventures we have related above, we may remark that it may
have been so ordained by fate that she should light upon one of the very
few hotels, one of the very few confectionary shops, and one of the very
few perfumery stores in Paris, in which matters are ordered in the
English style; but to give us to understand, in consequence, that all
the hotels are furnished in the same way, and that _bonbons_,
_extraits_, &c. are not to be procured, is like the proceeding of the
Hon. Frederick de Roos, R. N. who affirms, in his sapient work on the
United States, that all the inhabitants in Philadelphia take tea on the
steps before their doors in summer evenings, because, forsooth, he saw a
family sitting on those of the house in which they lived, in order to
enjoy a July twilight.
One of the first things that her Ladyship does on the morning subsequent
to her arrival, is to give notice to her friends of that important
event,--a gratuitous piece of kindness altogether, as it seems to us,
for it must doubtless have been announced by as many portentous signs as
accompanied the birth of Owen Glendower. Nevertheless, in order to make
assurance doubly sure, she despatched 'cards to some, and notes to
others, after the Parisian fashion,' but previously indulged in a very
pretty sentimental fit. This was caused by the first name that met her
eye as she opened her 'old Paris visiting book for 1818'--that of Denon,
"the page, minister, and _gentilhomme de la chambre_ of Louis XV., the
friend of Voltaire, the intimate of Napoleon, the traveller and
historian of Modern Egypt, the director of the _Musee_ of France," &c.
&c., who, we are informed, used always to be so particularly delighted
with her Ladyship's visits to Paris, that he was wont to hail them with
his hand, and welcome them with a cordial smile. Alas! death had
overtaken him, notwithstanding his friendship with Lady Morgan; and she
could no longer expect his salutations. "Other hands were now extended,
other smiles beamed now as brightly; but his were dimmed for ever!" How
kind her Ladyship is! Fearing her readers might be distressed by the
idea, that, in consequence of the decease of Denon, she might have been
in some want of welcoming, she has taken the precaution of setting them
at ease upon that point, by the above ingenious sentence. In mentioning
the reasons of her intimacy with Denon, she employs language of a very
singular kind, which, if maliciously interpreted to the letter, might
subject her to uncomfortable remarks, though we are sure it is nothing
but an effusion of gurgling vanity. It is an instance, however, to what
a degree that sentiment, when extreme, gets the better of all sense of
propriety and decorum. She says, that even if Denon had not been such a
person as she describes him, "still, _he suited me, I suited him_. There
was between us that sympathy, in spite of the disparity of years and
talents, which, whether in trifles or essentials,--between the frivolous
or the profound,--makes the true basis of _those ties, so sweet to bind,
so bitter to break_!" It is well for Sir Charles Morgan's peace of mind,
that he is acquainted, as he must be, with his wife's frivolity and
egotism. How, indeed, he could have allowed her to come before the world
with such phraseology in her mouth, we cannot imagine, unless on the
supposition that he is such a husband as La Bruyere has described. "_Il
ne sert dans sa famille qu' a montrer l'exemple, d'un silence timide et
d'une parfaite soumission. Il ne lui est du ni douaire ni conventions;
mais a cela pres, et qu'il n'accouche pas, il est la femme, et elle le
mari._"
After her Ladyship had "shuddered," and "felt as if she was throwing
earth upon Denon's grave whilst drawing her pen across his precious and
historical name," she spent about half an hour in weeping, "like a fair
flower surcharged with dew," over the names of others of her departed
friends, Guinguene, Talma, Langlois, Lanjuinais, &c., until she
fortunately recollected that the climate of Paris is one that "developes
a sensibility prompt, not deep." Lucky thought! She immediately threw
down the visiting-book, threw up the window to let in the climate, wiped
from her eyes the tears "which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds
dropp'd," and began to think of "all that death had left her, of the
'greater still behind,'--of friends, each in his way, a specimen of that
genius and virtue, which, in all regions, and in all ages, make the _ne
plus ultra_ of human excellence." Admire the delicacy of the method by
which Miladi lets us into the secret of her being a _ne plus ultra_; it
is not by a bold assertion, but by a modest inuendo. She keeps company
with _ne plus ultras_--birds of the same feather flock together--ergo,
she is a _ne plus ultra_ herself. And so she is, but in her own way.
"_Il y a malheureusement_," observes a French writer of the present day
"_plus d'une maniere de se rendre celebre_,"--"there is, unfortunately,
more than one method of becoming celebrated,"--and as this writer is an
acquaintance of Lady Morgan, we are half inclined to think he committed
that sentence to paper after returning from a visit to _her_
Celebrityship.
We may as well cite here a few more instances of her ingenuity in
communicating, obliquely, how distinguished a personage she is,--a
quality she possesses in a degree that we do not recollect ever to have
seen rivalled. We copy _verbatim_.
"The other day I dined in the Chaussee d'Antin, in that house
where it is always such a privilege to dine; where the wit of
the host, like the _menus_ of his table, combines all that is
best in French or Irish peculiarity; _and where the society is
chosen with reference to no other qualities than merit and
agreeability_."
Speaking of the weekly assemblies at an eminent individual's house, at
which she was a constant attendant, she says, they
"Are among the most select and remarkable in Paris.
Inaccessible to _commonplace mediocrity and pushing
pretension_, their visitor must be _ticketted_ in some way or
another" (by writing a "France," or an "Italy," for instance,)
"to obtain a presentation."
With regard to another circle of which she was a large segment, she
observes,--
"It is sufficient to have merit, agreeability, or the claims of
old acquaintance to belong to it, but, truth to tell, it is
still so far exclusive, that what Madame Roland calls
_l'universelle mediocrite_, gains no admission there."