'A FAGGOT OF FRENCH STICKS' is the whimsical title of a work just
presented to the public, by the author of _Bubbles from the Brunnen of
Nassau_; the said work being as respectable a specimen of bookmaking
as has ever come under our notice. The object of the writer appears to
have been to fill so much paper, by saying something about all he saw
or heard of in a visit to Paris, no matter how insignificant the
circumstances; and by this ingenious means, he has actually contrived
to make up two goodly-sized volumes for the literary market.
The author of this strange melange, however, is not without a dash of
merit; he possesses a terrier-like power of poking about into holes
and corners, and dragging to light a variety of facts which might
escape the attention of less vigilant tourists. For example, he is not
satisfied with the mere sight or employment of omnibuses,
street-porters, _chiffonniers_, and other agents of the public
service, but must know all about them--how the omnibus horses live,
and how many miles they run per diem; what variety of occupations the
porters resort to for a livelihood; and what are the substances, and
their value, that the chiffonniers scrape every morning from the
kennel. Sir Francis is great on pig slaughter-houses, furnished
lodgings, and police-officers. He tells you every particular of his
lodging: how he ascended the stair; what landing-places there were;
what price he was to pay; how the servant brought him too few pieces
of butter to breakfast, and what he said in ordering more; how one day
he perceived a bad smell in his sitting-room, and shifted to a higher
part of the building, where the bad smell did not come; how he finally
paid his account, and how the _concierge_ bade him good-by. All
important information this. An equally true and particular narrative
is given of Sir Francis's object in visiting Paris, which was to
consult an occulist on the subject of his eyes. In going to the
occulist's, we are informed how he left his lodgings at a quarter
before seven o'clock; how he crossed the Place Vendôme, and saw a
sentinel pacing at the foot of Napoleon's Column; how he observed that
the sentinel had the misfortune to have a hole in his greatcoat, which
affords an opportunity too good to be lost for quoting that
little-known verse of Burns's--'If there's a hole in a' your coats,'
&c.; how he then, being done with looking at the sentinel, goes on his
way, crosses the Boulevard des Italiens, and enters the Rue de la
Chaussée d'Antin; how he looks about him till he sees No. 50, and,
having spoken a word to the door-keeper, goes up stairs. Then, he
informs his readers that he rang the doctor's bell; and how, the door
being opened by a boy in livery, he was shewn into a drawing-room.
Here, he tells us, he sat down in company with a number of other
patients, waiting their turn to be called by the doctor. Vastly
amusing all this, but nothing to what follows:--'For a considerable
time we all sat in mute silence, and, indeed, in our respective
attitudes, almost motionless, save that every now and then a
gentleman, and sometimes a lady, would arise, slowly walk diagonally
across the carpet to a corner close to the window, press with his or
her hand the top of a little mahogany machine that looked like an
umbrella-stand, look down into it, and then very slowly, at a sort of
funereal pace, walk back. All this I bore with great fortitude for
some time: at last, overpowered by curiosity, I arose, walked slowly
and diagonally across the carpet, pushed the thing in the corner
exactly as I had seen everybody else push it, looked just as they did,
downwards, where, close to the floor, I beheld open, in obedience to
the push I had given from the top, the lid of a spitting-box, from
which I very slowly, and without attracting the smallest observation,
walked back to my chair.' Wonderful power of description this!
Having had the honour of receiving an invitation to dinner at the
Elysée, Sir Francis of course goes at the appointed hour, seven
o'clock. The following is his account of the affair. After passing
through the entrance-hall, 'I slowly walked through two or three
handsome rooms _en suite_, full of interesting pictures, into a
drawing-room, in which I found assembled, in about equal proportions,
about fifty very well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, the latter being
principally officers, whose countenances, not less clearly than the
decorations on their breasts, announced them to be persons of
distinction. The long sofas and chairs, as if they had only just come
out--or rather, as if they had just come up from the country to come
out--had arranged themselves so very formally, and altogether behaved
so very awkwardly, that it was almost impossible for the company
assembled to appear as much at their ease as, from their position,
education, and manners, they really were; and accordingly, biassed by
the furniture, they kept moving, and bowing, and courtesying, and
_sotto-voce_ talking, until they got into a parallelogram, in the
centre of which stood, distinguished by a broad ribbon, and by a mild,
thoughtful, benevolent countenance, Prince Louis Napoleon, whose
gentle and gentleman-like bearing to every person who approached him
entitled him to that monarchical homage in which the majority
evidently delighted, but which it was alike his policy as well as his
inclination--at all events to appear--to suppress; and accordingly the
parallelogram, which, generally speaking, was at the point of
congelation, sometimes and of its own accord froze into the formality
of a court, and then all of a sudden appeared to recollect that the
Prince was the President, and that the whole party had assembled to
enjoy _liberté_, _fraternité_, and _égalité_. As I was observing the
various phases that one after another presented themselves to view,
the principal officer of the household came up to me, and in a quiet
and appropriate tone of voice, requested me to do two things; one of
which appeared to me to be rather easy, and the other--or rather to do
both--extremely difficult. By an inclination of his forehead he
pointed to two ladies of rank, whose names he mentioned to me, but
with whom I was perfectly unacquainted, seated on the sofas at
different points of the parallelogram. 'When dinner is announced you
will be so good,' he said, 'as to offer your arm to ---- ' (the one)
'and to seat yourself next to ---- ' (the other.) Of course I silently
bowed assent; but while the officer who had spoken to me was giving
similar instructions to other gentlemen, I own I felt a little
nervous, lest, during the polite scramble in which I was about to
engage, like the dog in the fable, grasping at the shadow of the
second lady, I might lose the substance of the first, or _vice versâ_.
However, when the doors were thrown open, I very quickly, with a
profound reverence, obtained my prize, and at once confiding to
her--for had I deliberated I should have been lost--the remainder of
the pleasing duty it had been predestined I was to have the honour to
perform, we glided through couples darting in various directions for
similar objects, until, finding ourselves in a formal procession
sufficiently near to the lady in question, we proceeded, at a funereal
pace, towards our doom, which proved to be a most delightful one.
Seated in obedience to the orders I had received, we found ourselves
exactly opposite "le Prince," who had, of course, on his right and
left, the two ladies of highest rank. The table was very richly
ornamented, and it was quite delightful to observe at a glance what
probably in mathematics, or even in philosophy, it might have been
rather troublesome to explain--namely, the extraordinary difference
which existed between forty or fifty ladies and gentlemen standing in
a parallelogram in a drawing-room, and the very same number and the
very same faces, rectilinearly seated in the very same form in a
dining-room. It was the difference between sterility and fertility,
between health and sickness, between joy and sorrow, between winter
and summer; in fact, between countenances frozen into Lapland
formality and glowing with tropical animation and delight. Everybody's
mouth had apparently something kind to say to its neighbour's eyes;
and the only alloy was that, as each person had two neighbours, his
lips, under a sort of _embarras des richesses_, occasionally found it
rather difficult to express all that was polite and pleasing to both.'
Dinner being over, all returned to the drawing-room in the same formal
order. Each gentleman bowed ceremoniously to the lady he had
conducted, she withdrew her arm, 'and the sofas were again to be seen
fringed by rows of satin shoes; while the carpet, in all other
directions, was subjected to the pressure of boots, that often
remained for a short time motionless as before. A general buzz of
conversation, however, soon enlivened the room; and the President,
gladly availing himself of it, mingled familiarly with the crowd.'
In the course of his rambles through Paris, Sir Francis visits various
_casernes_ or military barracks, and military schools. He also makes
sundry investigations into the functions and _matériel_ of the French
army, and finally, in company with Louis Napoleon, goes to a review.
The sum of these proceedings is, that he is much struck with the
progress made by the French in strategy and military manoeuvres,
especially in their musket-ball firing, against which, he says, we
have no chance. Everybody knows that our author is an alarmist, ever
sighing over our want of national defences, and dreaming of invasion
and rapine. At the same time, his details on military affairs are
worth the notice of those to whom the business of military education
is intrusted.
Sir Francis is very much pleased with the Parisian street
_commissionaires_ or porters, and wonders that no such luxury is
general in London. One day he invites the nearest commissionaire to
visit his lodging, and tell him his whole story, which the man gladly
did. Setting off at a great rate, he said:--'Sir, I black boots; I saw
wood; I take it up into the apartments; I carry portmanteaus and
luggage, and whatever offers itself; I carry letters and parcels; I
rub the floors of apartments and stairs; I wash the floors and the
dining-rooms; I change furniture from one house to another with a
handbarrow--carried by two men with leathern straps; I draw a cart
with portmanteaus, wood, or furniture; I beat carpets, take them up
out of the apartments, and carry them to the barrier outside Paris
(yes, sir); I bring them back to the persons to whom they belong; I
lay them down. I know how to arrange a room; I make the beds; I colour
the inlaid floors of the apartments; I watch a sick person through the
night and day (a shrug) for so much a day (a shrug), and for the night
also (a shrug); I agree as to the price with those persons who employ
me, for five francs the night, eight francs for the twenty-four
hours, when they do not feed me; besides, I watch the dead in the
apartment during the twenty-four hours that they remain exposed; in
short (three shrugs), I do whatever is offered to me. I receive
commercial notes for whoever will charge me with the commission, and
who will give me the note to enable me to receive it; I bring back the
money to the person who has intrusted me with the note, and the person
pays me for my commission; I pawn at the Mont de Piété whatever the
public is willing to intrust to me--jewels (a shrug), chains, watches,
gold or silver; I pawn silver spoons and forks, for eating; I pawn
clocks, linen; they take everything in pawn (a shrug) at the Mont de
Piété--furniture, pianos, mattresses, candelabras, lustres: in short,
they take in pawn everything of value; and I bring back the money and
the pawnbroker's ticket to the person who has intrusted me with the
commission, and at the same time that person pays me for my
commission. Afterwards, I redeem pawned articles from the Mont de
Piété for all those persons who choose to honour me with their
commissions, provided that the person puts his signature on the back
of the paper which the Mont de Piété delivered to him on the day when
he pawned the aforesaid articles. I act as commissioner throughout all
the departments of France, and also (shrug) in foreign countries,
according to the price agreed on, and at a reasonable price; I travel
on the railways (shrug), in the diligence (shrug); I go as quick as I
can, and I come back as quick as I can; I rub down a horse--I can! I
feed him; wash the carriage; drive the carriage; arrange the cellar;
rinse out the bottles; bottle the wine; pile up the bottles after they
are corked and stamped; lower the hogsheads of wine into the cellar
with a thick rope, with the help of a comrade, and the price is two
francs for each hogshead. In my own country, I am a labourer, and do
everything relating to the cultivation of the ground. I root up the
trees; I saw them into several lengths; I split the wood; pile it up
to dry; then load it on mules, and carry it to the house to be burned;
afterwards I mow the hay and corn; carry the corn into the barn
(shrug), and the hay also; thrash the corn, and put it away into the
granary; from whence they take it out by little and little to have it
ground and to make bread. I prune the vines.' Here the commissionaire
gives an account of the whole process of wine-making, in which he is
an adept; and then goes on to explain how he is employed as a spy on
families and others, all in the way of business. He ends with saying
that trade is dull, and blames the revolution of 1848 for ruining his
employment--for why? 'Everybody is afraid of the future. Everybody is
economical; everybody is hiding, hoarding, or saving his money,
because he knows that affairs cannot continue as they are, that sooner
or later there will be another revolution.' Such a country! The
revolution thus anticipated has taken place. By relieving the
Parisians from the fears of a social upbreak--a universal sack of
property--for that was preying on their minds--the grand _coup_ of
Louis Napoleon will doubtless set money afloat, and restore occupation
to the humbler classes--the real sufferers by revolutions.
The curious thing about all the revolutions and coups that have ever
taken place in France is, that they never give the slightest particle
of real liberty to the people; and, what is equally surprising, the
people do not know what liberty is. It is a thing they talk about, and
paint over doorways, but further they go not. When, in 1848, a mob was
suffered to assume supreme authority, it might have been anticipated
that the very first thing they would do would be to turn the whole
police system about its business and destroy its records. No such
thing. The triumphant insurrectionists, complaining of tyranny, were
as tyrannical as anybody; they retained the obnoxious system of
passports, and kept up the usual routine of police administration,
spies and all. The truth appears to be, that the French cannot
comprehend the idea of social organisation without a minute machinery
of management and interference. Society in England, where people may
speak and do pretty much what they like, go here and go there without
leave asked, and set up any business anywhere as suits their fancy--is
anarchy, a chaos, according to French notions. Sir Francis inclines to
the belief that a system of government interference and regulation, as
in France, is an advantage, because it protects society against some
gross abuses--such as the indiscriminate sale of medicines, want of
sanitary arrangements, the open spectacle of vice, and so forth. True
this, in some respects, and we could wish for a little more vigour in
certain departments of our social policy; but in this, as in many
things, we have to make a choice of evils. Better, we think, allow
abuses to be corrected by the comparatively sluggish action of public
opinion, than accustom a people to have everything done for them,
every action regulated by laws and prefects of police. The account
given by Sir Francis of the manner in which the authority of the
police bears on common workmen, is only a version of what every
traveller speaks of with execration. Although we ourselves alluded to
the subject on a former occasion, we may recapitulate a few points
from the volume before us: 'Every workman or labouring boy is obliged,
all over France, to provide himself with a book termed _un livret_,
indorsed in Paris by a commissaire of police, and in other towns by
the mayor or his assistants, containing his description, name, age,
birthplace, profession, and the name of the master by whom he is
employed. In fact, no person, under a heavy fine, can employ a workman
unless he produce a livret of the above description, bearing an
acquittal of his engagements with his last master. Every workman,
after inscribing in his livret the day and terms of his engagement
with a new master, is obliged to leave it in the hands of his said
master, who is required, under a penalty, to restore it to him on the
fulfilment of his engagement. Any workman, although he may produce a
regular passport, found travelling without his book, is considered as
"vagabond," and as such may be arrested and punished with from three
to six months' imprisonment, and after that subjected to the
surveillance of the _haute-police_ for at least five and not exceeding
ten years. No new livret can be indorsed until its owner produces the
old one filled up. In case of a workman losing his livret, he may, on
the presentation of his passport, obtain provisional permission to
work, but without authority to move to any other place until he can
satisfy the officer of police that he is free from all engagements to
his last master. Every workman coming to Paris with a passport is
required, within three days of his arrival, to appear at the
prefecture of police with his livret, in order that it may be
indorsed. In like manner, any labourer leaving Paris with a passport
must obtain the _visé_ of the police to his livret, which, in fact,
contains an abstract history of his industrial life. As a description
of the political department of the police of Paris would involve
details, the ramifications of which would almost be endless, I will
only briefly state, that from the masters of every furnished hotel and
lodging-house--who are required to insert in a register, indorsed by a
commissaire de police, the name, surname, profession, and usual
domicile of every person who sleeps in their house for a single
night--and from innumerable other sources, information is readily
obtained concerning every person, and especially every stranger,
residing in the metropolis. For instance, at the entrance of each
lodging, and of almost every private house, there sits a being termed
a _concierge_, who knows the hour at which each inmate enters and goes
out; who calls on him; how many letters he receives; by their
post-marks, where they come from; what parcels are left for him; what
they appear to contain, &c. &c. &c. Again, at the corner of every
principal street, there is located, wearing the badge of the police, a
commissionaire, acquainted with all that outwardly goes on within the
radius of his Argus-eyed observations. From these people, from the
drivers of fiacres, from the sellers of vegetables, from fruiterers,
and lastly, from the masters of wine-shops, who either from people
sober, tipsy, or drunk, are in the habit of hearing an infinity of
garrulous details, the police are enabled to track the conduct of
almost any one, and, if necessary, to follow up their suspicions by
their own agents in disguises which, practically speaking, render them
invisible.' Sir Francis mentions that he was considered of sufficient
importance to be under surveillance. '"You are," said very gravely to
me a gentleman in Paris of high station, on whom I had had occasion to
call, "a person of some consideration. Your object here is not
understood, and you are therefore under the surveillance of the
police." I asked him what that meant. "Wherever you go," he replied,
"you are followed by an agent of police. When one is tired, he hands
you over to another. Whatever you do, is known to them; and at this
moment there is one waiting in the street until you leave me."'
We need say no more. The people who, under all phases of
government--despotism, constitutional monarchy, and universal-suffrage
republic--coolly tolerate, nay, they admire and vindicate, this
atrocious system of personal restraint and espionage, are totally
unfit for the enjoyment of civil liberty. In conclusion, we can hardly
recommend the book before us, further than to say, that its gossip,
though often prosy to the verge of twaddle, is also sometimes droll
and amusing from its graphic minuteness.
* * * * *
[Footnote 2: _A Faggot of French Sticks_, 2 vols. London: Murray. 1852.]