Riot at the Porte St. Martin.--Prevented by a shower of
Rain.--The Mob in fine weather.--How to stop Emeutes.--Army
of Italy.--Théâtre Français.--Mademoiselle Mars in
Henriette.--Disappearance of Comedy.
Though Paris is really as quiet at present as any great city can
possibly be, still we continue to be told regularly every morning,
"qu'il y avait une émeute hier soir à la Porte St. Martin." But I do
assure you that these are very harmless little pastimes; and though it
seldom happens that the mysterious hour of revolution-hatching passes
by without some arrest taking place, the parties are always liberated
the next morning; it having appeared clearly at every examination that
the juvenile aggressors, who are seldom above twenty years of age, are
as harmless as a set of croaking bull-frogs on the banks of the
Wabash. The continually repeated mention, however, of these nightly
meetings, induced two gentlemen of our party to go to this often-named
Porte St. Martin a few nights ago, in hopes of witnessing the humours
of one of these small riotings. But on arriving at the spot they
found it perfectly tranquil--everything wore the proper stillness of
an orderly and well-protected night. A few military were, however,
hovering near the spot; and of these they made inquiry as to the cause
of a repose so unlike what was usually supposed to be the state of
this celebrated quarter of the town.
"Mais ne voyez-vous pas que l'eau tombe, messieurs?" said the national
guard stationed there: "c'est bien assez pour refroidir le feu de nos
républicains. S'il fait beau demain soir, messieurs, nous aurons
encore notre petit spectacle."
Determined to know whether there was any truth in these histories or
not, and half suspecting that the whole thing, as well as the
assurance of the civil _militaire_ to boot, was neither more nor less
than a hoax, they last night, the weather being remarkably fine, again
attempted the adventure, and with very different success.
On this occasion, there was, by their description, as pretty a little
riot as heart could wish. The numbers assembled were stated to be
above four hundred: military, both horse and foot, were among them;
pointed hats were as plenty as blackberries in September, and "banners
waved without a blast" on the tottering shoulders of little
ragamuffins who had been hired for two sous apiece to carry them.
On this memorable evening, which has really made a figure this morning
in some of the republican journals, a considerable number of the most
noisy portion of the mob were arrested; but, on the whole, the
military appear to have dealt very gently with them; and our friends
heard many a crazy burst of artisan eloquence, which might have easily
enough been construed into treason, answered with no rougher repartee
than a laughing "Vive le Roi!"
At one point, however, there was a vehement struggle before a young
hero, equipped cap-à-pie à la Robespierre, could be secured; and while
two of the civic guard were employed in taking him, a little fellow of
about ten years old, who had a banner as heavy as himself on his
shoulder, and who was probably squire of the body to the prisoner,
stood on tiptoe before him at the distance of a few feet, roaring
"Vive la République!" as loud as he could bawl.
Another fellow, apparently of the very lowest class, was engaged,
during the whole time that the tumult lasted, in haranguing a party
that he had collected round him. His arms were bare to the shoulders,
and his gesticulation exceedingly violent.
"Nous avons des droits!" he exclaimed with great vehemence.... "Nous
avons des droits!... Qui est-ce qui veut les nier?... Nous ne
démandons que la charte.... Qu'ils nous donnent la charte!"...
The uproar lasted about three hours, after which the crowd quietly
dispersed; and it is to be hoped that they may all employ themselves
honestly in their respective callings, till the next fine evening
shall again bring them together in the double capacity of actors and
spectators at the "petit spectacle."
The constant repetition of this idle riot seems now to give little
disturbance to any one; and were it not that the fines and
imprisonments so constantly, and sometimes not very leniently
inflicted, evidently show that they are thought worth some attention,
(though, in fact, this system appears to produce no effect whatever
towards checking the daring demonstrations of disaffection manifested
by the rabble and their newspaper supporters,) one might deem this
indifference the result of such sober confidence of strength in the
government, as left them no anxiety whatever as to anything which this
troublesome faction could achieve.
Such, I believe, is in fact the feeling of King Philippe's government:
nevertheless, it would certainly conduce greatly to the well-being of
the people of Paris, if such methods were resorted to as would
effectually and at once put a stop to such disgraceful scenes.
[Illustration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.
PORTE ST. MARTIN.
London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1835.]
"LIBERTY AND ORDER" is King Philippe's motto: he could only improve it
by adding "Repose and Quiet;" for never can he reign by any other
power than that given by the hope of repose and tranquillity. The
harassed nation looks to him for these blessings; and if it be
disappointed, the result must be terrible.
Louis-Philippe is neither Napoleon nor Charles the Tenth. He has
neither the inalienable rights of the one, nor the overpowering glory
of the other; but should he be happy enough to discover a way of
securing to this fine but strife-worn and weary country the tranquil
prosperity that it now appears beginning to enjoy, he may well be
considered by the French people as greater than either.
Bold, fearless, wise, and strong must be the hand that at the present
hour can so wield the sceptre of France; and I think it may reasonably
be doubted if any one could so wield it, unless its first act were to
wave off to a safe distance some of the reckless spirits who are ready
to lay down their lives on the scaffold--or in a gutter--or over a pan
of charcoal, rather than "live peaceably in that state of life unto
which it has pleased God to call them."
If King Louis-Philippe would undertake a crusade to restore
independence to Italy, he might convert every traitor into a hero. Let
him address the army raised for the purpose in the same inspiring
words that Napoleon used of yore. "Soldats!... Partons! Rétablir le
capitole.... Réveiller le peuple romain engourdi par plusieurs siècles
d'esclavage.... Tel sera le fruit de vos victoires. Vous rentrerez
alors dans vos foyers, et vos concitoyens diront en vous montrant--Il
était de l'armée d'Italie!" And then let him institute a new order,
entitled "L'Ordre Impérial de la Redingote grise," or "L'Ordre
indomptable des Bras croisés," and accord to every man the right of
admission to it, with the honour to boot of having an eagle
embroidered on the breast of his coat if he conducted himself
gallantly and like a Frenchman in the field of battle, and we should
soon find the Porte St. Martin as quiet as the Autocrat's
dressing-room at St. Petersburg.
If such an expedient as this were resorted to, there would no longer
be any need of that indecent species of safety-valve by which the
noxious vapour generated by the ill-disposed part of the community is
now permitted to escape. It may be very great, dignified, and
high-minded for a king and his ministers to laugh at treasonable
caricatures and seditious pleasantries of all sorts,--but I do greatly
doubt the wisdom of it. Human respect is necessary for the maintenance
and support of human authority; and that respect will be more
profitably shown by a decent degree of general external deference,
than by the most sublime kindlings of individual admiration that ever
warmed the heart of a courtier. This "_avis au lecteur_" might be
listened to with advantage, perhaps, in more countries than one.
Since I last gave you any theatrical news, we have been to see
Mademoiselle Mars play the part of Henriette in Molière's exquisite
comedy of "Les Femmes Savantes;" and I really think it the most
surprising exhibition I ever witnessed. Having seen her in "Tartuffe"
and "Charlotte Brown" from a box in the first circle, at some distance
from the stage, I imagined that the distance had a good deal to do
with the effect still produced by the grace of form, movement, and
toilet of this extraordinary woman.
To ascertain, therefore, how much was delusion and how much was truth
in the beauty I still saw or fancied, I resolved upon the desperate
experiment of securing that seat in the balcony which is nearest to
the stage. It was from this place that I saw her play Henriette; a
character deriving no aid whatever from trick or stage effect of any
kind; one, too, whose charm lies wholly in simple, unaffected
youthfulness: there are no flashes of wit, no startling hits either of
pathos or pleasantry--nothing but youth, gentleness, modesty, and
tenderness--nothing but a young girl of sixteen, rather more quiet and
retiring than usual. Yet this character, which seems of necessity to
require youth and beauty in the performer, though little else, was
personated by this miraculous old lady in a manner that not only
enchanted me--being, as I am, _rococo_--but actually drew forth from
the omnipotent _jeunes gens_ in the _parterre_ such clamorous rapture
of applause as must, I think, have completely overset any actress less
used to it than herself. Is not this marvellous?
How much it is to be regretted that the art of writing comedy has
passed away! They have vaudevilles here--charming things in their way;
and we have farces at home that certainly cannot be thought of without
enjoying the gratification of a broad grin. But for comedy, where the
intellect is called upon as well as the muscles, it is dead and gone.
The "Hunchback" is perhaps the nearest approach to it, whose birth I
remember in our country, and "Bertrand and Raton" here; but in both
cases the pleasurable excitement is produced more by the plot than the
characters--more by the business of the scene than by the wit and
elegance of the dialogue, except perhaps in the pretty wilfulness of
Julia in the second act of the "Hunchback." But even here I suspect it
was more the playful grace of the enchanting actress who first
appeared in the part, than anything in the words "set down for her,"
which so delighted us.
We do now and then get a new tragedy,--witness "Fazio" and "Rienzi;"
but Comedy--genuine, easy, graceful, flowing, talking Comedy--is dead:
I think she followed Sheridan to the grave and was buried with him!
But never is one so conscious of the loss, or so inclined to mourn it,
as after seeing a comedy of Molière's of the first order,--for his
pieces should be divided into classes, like diamonds. What a burst of
new enjoyment would rush over all England, or all France, if a thing
like "The School for Scandal" or "Les Femmes Savantes" were to appear
before them!
Fancy the delight of sitting to hear wit--wit that one did not know by
rote, bright, sparkling, untasted as yet by any--new and fresh from
the living fountain!--not coming to one in the shape of coin, already
bearing the lawful stamp of ten thousand plaudits to prove it genuine,
and to refuse to accept which would be treason; but as native gold, to
which the touchstone of your own intellect must be applied to test its
worth! Shall we ever experience this?
It is strange that the immense mass of material for comedy which the
passing scenes of this singular epoch furnish should not be worked up
by some one. Molière seems not to have suffered a single passing
folly to escape him. Had he lived in these days, what delicious whigs,
radicals, "penny-rint" kings, from our side of the water,--what tragic
poets, republicans, and parvenus from his own, would he have cheered
us withal!
Rousseau says, that when a theatre produces pieces which represent the
real manners of the people, they must greatly assist those who are
present at them to see and amend what is vicious or absurd in
themselves, "comme on ôte devant un miroir les taches de son visage."
The idea is excellent; and surely there never was a time when it would
be so easy or so useful to put it in practice. Would the gods but send
a Sheridan to England and a Molière to France, we might yet live to
see some of our worst misfortunes turned to jest, and, like the man
choking in a quinsey, laugh ourselves into health again.