FRANCE.

LETTER I.

TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.

We have not only had Mr. Canning in Paris, but Sir Walter Scott has

suddenly appeared among us. The arrival of the Great Unknown, or,

indeed, of any little Unknown from England, would be an event to throw

all the reading clubs at home, into a state of high moral and poetical

excitement. We are true village _lionizers_. As the professors of the

Catholic religion are notoriously more addicted to yielding faith to

miraculous interventions, in the remoter dioceses, than in Rome itself;

as loyalty is always more zealous in a colony, than in a court; as

fashions are more exaggerated in a province, than in a capital, and men

are more prodigious to every one else, than their own valets, so do we

throw the haloes of a vast ocean around the honoured heads of the

celebrated men of this eastern hemisphere. This, perhaps, is the natural

course of things, and is as unavoidable as that the sun shall hold the

earth within the influence of its attraction, until matters shall be

reversed by the earth’s becoming the larger and more glorious orb of the

two. Not so in Paris. Here men of every gradation of celebrity, from

Napoleon down to the Psalmanazar of the day, are so very common, that

one scarcely turns round in the streets, to look at them. Delicate and

polite attentions, however, fall as much to the share of reputation,

here, as in any other country, and perhaps more so, as respects literary

men, though there is so little _wonder-mongering_. It would be quite

impossible that the presence of Sir Walter Scott should not excite a

sensation. He was frequently named in the journals, received a good deal

of private, and some public notice, but, on the whole, much less of

both, I think, than one would have a right to expect for him, in a place

like Paris. I account for the fact, by the French distrusting the

forthcoming work on Napoleon, and by a little dissatisfaction which

prevails on the subject of the tone of “Paul’s Letters to his Kinsfolk.”

This feeling may surprise you, as coming from a nation as old and as

great as France, but, alas! we are all human.

The King spoke to him, in going to his chapel, Sir Walter being in

waiting for that purpose, but beyond this I believe he met with no

civilities from the court.

As for myself, circumstances that it is needless to recount, had brought

me, to a slight degree, within the notice of Sir Walter Scott, though we

had never met, nor had I ever seen him, even in public, so as to know

his person. Still I was not without hopes of being more fortunate now,

while I felt a delicacy about obtruding myself any further on his time

and attention. Several days after his arrival went by, however, without

my good luck bringing me in his way, and I began to give the matter up,

though the _Princesse_ ——, with whom I had the advantage of being on

friendly terms, flattered me with an opportunity of seeing the great

writer at her house, for she had a fixed resolution of making his

acquaintance before he left Paris, _coute qui coute_.

It might have been ten days after the arrival of Sir Walter Scott, that

I had ordered a carriage, one morning, with an intention of driving over

to the other side of the river, and had got as far as the lower flight

of steps, on my way to enter it, when, by the tramping of horses in the

court, I found that another coach was driving in. It was raining, and,

as my own carriage drove from the door, to make way for the new comer, I

stopped where I was, until it could return. The carriage-steps rattled,

and presently a large, heavy-moulded man appeared in the door of the

hotel. He was gray, and limped a little, walking with a cane. His

carriage immediately drove round, and was succeeded by mine, again; so I

descended. We passed each other on the stairs, bowing as a matter of

course. I had got to the door, and was about to enter the carriage, when

it flashed on my mind that the visit might be to myself. The two lower

floors of the hotel were occupied as a girl’s boarding-school; the

reason of our dwelling in it, for our own daughters were in the

establishment; _au seconde_, there was nothing but our own

_appartement_, and above us, again, dwelt a family whose visitors never

came in carriages. The door of the boarding-school was below, and men

seldom came to it, at all. Strangers, moreover, sometimes did honour me

with calls. Under these impressions I paused, to see if the visitor went

as far as our flight of steps. All this time, I had not the slightest

suspicion of who he was, though I fancied both the face and form were

known to me.

The stranger got up the large stone steps slowly, leaning, with one

hand, on the iron railing, and with the other, on his cane. He was on

the first landing, as I stopped, and, turning towards the next flight,

our eyes met. The idea that I might be the person he wanted, seemed then

to strike him for the first time. “_Est-ce Mons. ——, que j’ai l’honneur

de voir?_” he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent.

“_Monsieur, je m’appele ——._” “_Eh bien, donc—je suis Walter Scott._”

I ran up to the landing, shook him by the hand, which he stood holding

out to me cordially, and expressed my sense of the honour he was

conferring. He told me, in substance, that the _Princesse_ —— had been

as good as her word, and having succeeded herself in getting hold of

him, she had good naturedly given him my address. By way of cutting

short all ceremony he had driven from his hotel to my lodgings. All this

time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in

English. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said—“Well, here have I been

_parlez-vousing_ to you, in a way to surprise you, no doubt; but these

Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half

forgotten my own language.” As we proceeded up the next flight of steps,

he accepted my arm, and continued the conversation in English, walking

with more difficulty than I had expected to see. You will excuse the

vanity of my repeating the next observation he made, which I do in the

hope that some of our own _exquisites_ in literature may learn in what

manner a man of true sentiment and sound feeling regards a trait that

they have seen fit to stigmatize as unbecoming. “I’ll tell you what I

most like,” he added, abruptly; “and it is the manner in which you

maintain the ascendancy of your own country on all proper occasions,

without descending to vulgar abuse of ours. You are obliged to bring the

two nations in collision, and I respect your liberal hostility.” This

will probably be esteemed treason in our own self-constituted mentors of

the press, one of whom, I observe, has quite lately had to apologize to

his readers for exposing some of the sins of the English writers in

reference to ourselves! But these people are not worth our attention,

for they have neither the independence which belongs to masculine

reason, nor manhood even to prize the quality in others. “I am afraid

the mother has not always treated the daughter well,” he continued,

“feeling a little jealous of her growth, perhaps; for, though we hope

England has not yet begun to descend on the evil side, we have a

presentiment that she has got to the top of the ladder.”

There were two entrances to our apartments; one, the principal, leading

by an ante-chamber and _salle à manger_ into the _salon_, and thence

through other rooms to a terrace; and the other, by a private

_corridor_, to the same spot. The door of my _cabinet_ opened on this

_corridor_, and though it was dark, crooked, and any thing but savoury,

as it lead by the kitchen, I conducted Sir Walter through it, under an

impression that he walked with pain, an idea, of which I could not

divest myself, in the hurry of the moment. But for this awkwardness on

my part, I believe I should have been the witness of a singular

interview. General Lafayette had been with me a few minutes before, and

he had gone away by the _salon_, in order to speak to Mrs. ——. Having a

note to write, I had left him there, and I think his carriage could not

have quitted the court when that of Sir Walter Scott entered. If so, the

General must have passed out by the ante-chamber, about the time we came

through the _corridor_.

There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this

interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the

conversation was more general. You will remember that Sir Walter was

still the _Unknown_,[1] and that he was believed to be in Paris, in

search of facts for the Life of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the former

circumstance, he spoke of his works with great frankness and simplicity,

and without the parade of asking any promises of secrecy. In short, as

he commenced in this style, his authorship was alluded to by us both,

just as if it had never been called in question. He asked me if I had a

copy of the —— by me, and on my confessing I did not own a single volume

of anything I had written, he laughed, and said he believed that most

authors had the same feeling on the subject: as for himself, he cared

not if he never saw a Waverly novel again, as long as he lived. Curious

to know whether a writer as great and as practised as he, felt the

occasional despondency which invariably attends all my own little

efforts of this nature, I remarked that I found the mere composition of

a tale a source of pleasure; so much so, that I always invented twice as

much as was committed to paper, in my walks, or in bed, and, in my own

judgment, much the best parts of the composition never saw the light;

for, what was written was usually written at set hours, and was a good

deal a matter of chance; and that going over and over the same subject,

in proofs, disgusted me so thoroughly with the book, that I supposed

every one else would be disposed to view it with the same eyes. To this

he answered, that he was spared much of the labour of proof-reading,

Scotland, he presumed, being better off than America, in this respect;

but, still, he said he “would as soon see his dinner again, after a

hearty meal, as to read one of his own tales when he was fairly rid of

it.”

Footnote 1:

He did not avow himself for several months afterwards.

He sat with me nearly an hour, and he manifested, during the time the

conversation was not tied down to business, a strong propensity to

humour. Having occasion to mention our common publisher in Paris, he

quaintly termed him, with a sort of malicious fun, “our Gosling;”[2]

adding, that he hoped he, at least, “laid golden eggs.”

Footnote 2:

His name was _Gosselin_.

I hoped that he had found the facilities he desired, in obtaining facts

for the forthcoming history. He rather hesitated about admitting

this.—“One can hear as much as he pleases, in the way of anecdote,” he

said, “but then, as a gentleman, he is not always sure how much of it he

can, with propriety, relate in a book—besides,” throwing all his latent

humour into the expression of his small gray eyes, “one may even doubt

how much of what he hears is fit for history, on another account.” He

paused, and his face assumed an exquisite air of confiding simplicity,

as he continued with perfect _bonne foi_ and strong Scottish feeling, “I

have been to see _my countryman_ M‘Donald, and I rather think that will

be about as much as I can do here, now.” This was uttered with so much

_naïveté_ that I could hardly believe it was the same man, who, a moment

before, had shown so much shrewd distrust of oral relations of facts.

I inquired when we might expect the work. “Some time in the course of

the winter,” he replied, “though it is likely to prove larger than I, at

first, intended. We have got several volumes printed, but I find I must

add to the matter, considerably, in order to dispose of the subject. I

thought I should get rid of it in seven volumes, which are already

written, but it will reach, I think, to nine.” “If you have two still to

write, I shall not expect to see the book before spring.” “You may. Let

me once get back to Abbotsford, and I’ll soon knock off those two

fellows.” To this I had nothing to say, although I thought such a _tour

de force_ in writing might better suit invention than history.

When he rose to go, I begged him to step into the _salon_, that I might

have the gratification of introducing my wife to him. To this he very

good naturedly assented, and entering the room, after presenting Mrs. ——

and my nephew W——, he took a seat. He sat some little time, and his fit

of pleasantry returned, for he illustrated his discourse by one or two

apt anecdotes, related with a slightly Scottish accent, that he seemed

to drop and assume at will. Mrs. —— observed to him that the _bergère_

in which he was seated, had been twice honoured that morning, for

General Lafayette had not left it more than half an hour. Sir Walter

Scott looked surprised at this, and said, inquiringly, “I thought he had

gone to America, to pass the rest of his days?” On my explaining the

true state of the case, he merely observed, “he is a great man;” and

yet, I thought the remark was made coldly, or in complaisance to us.

When Sir Walter left us, it was settled that I was to breakfast with

him, the following day but one. I was punctual, of course, and found him

in a new silk _douilliette_ that he had just purchased, trying “as hard

as he could,” as he pleasantly observed, to make a Frenchman of himself;

an undertaking as little likely to be successful, I should think, in the

case of his Scottish exterior, and Scottish interior, too, as any

experiment well could be. There were two or three visitors present,

besides Miss Ann Scott, his daughter, who was his companion in the

journey. He was just answering an invitation from the _Princesse_ ——, to

an evening party, as I entered. “Here,” said he, “you are a friend of

the lady, and _parlez-vous_ so much better than I, can you tell me

whether this is for _jeudi_, or _lundi_, or _mardi_, or whether it means

no day at all.” I told him the day of the week intended. “You get notes

occasionally from the lady, or you could not read her scrawl so

readily?” “She is very kind to us, and we often have occasion to read

her writing.” “Well, it is worth a very good dinner to get through a

page of it.” “I take my revenge in kind, and I fancy she has the worst

of it.” “I don’t know, after all, that she will get much the better of

me, with this _plume d’auberge_.” He was quite right, for, although Sir

Walter writes a smooth even hand, and one that appears rather well than

otherwise on a page, it is one of the most difficult to decipher I have

ever met with. The i’s, u’s, m’s, n’s, a’s, e’s, t’s, &c., &c., for want

of dots, crossings, and being fully rounded, looking all alike, and

rendering the reading slow and difficult, without great familiarity with

his mode of handling the pen; at least, I have found it so.

He had sealed the note, and was about writing the direction, when he

seemed at a loss. “How do you address this lady—as ‘Her Highness’?” I

was much surprised at this question from him, for it denoted a want of

familiarity with the world, that one would not have expected in a man

who had been so very much and so long courted by the great. But, after

all, his life has been provincial, though, as his daughter remarked in

the course of the morning, they had no occasion to quit Scotland, to see

the world, all the world coming to see Scotland.

The next morning he was with me again, for near an hour, and we

completed our little affair. After this, we had a conversation on the

Law of Copy-Rights, in the two countries, which, as we possess a common

language, is a subject of great national interest. I understood him to

say that he had a double right, in England, to his works; one under a

statute, and the other growing out of common law. Any one publishing a

book, let it be written by whom it might, in England, duly complying

with the law, can secure the right, whereas, none but a _citizen_ can do

the same in America. I regret to say, that I misled him on the subject

of our copy-right law, which, after all, is not so much more illiberal

than that of England, as I had thought it.

I told Sir Walter Scott, that, in order to secure a copy-right in

America, it was necessary the book should never have been published

_anywhere else_. This was said under the popular notion of the matter;

or that which is entertained among the booksellers. Reflection and

examination have since convinced me of my error: the publication alluded

to in the law, can only mean publication in America; for, as the object

of doing certain acts previously to publication is merely to forewarn

the _American_ public that the right is reserved, there can be no motive

for having reference to any other publication. It is, moreover, in

conformity with the spirit of all laws to limit the meaning of their

phrases by their proper jurisdiction. Let us suppose a case. An American

writes a book. He sends a copy to England, where it is published in

March. Complying with the terms of our own Copy-Right Law, as to the

entries and notices, the same work is published here in April. Now, will

it be pretended that his right is lost, always providing that his own is

the first _American_ publication? I do not see how it can be so, by

either the letter or the spirit of the law. The intention is to

encourage the citizen to write, and to give him a just property in the

fruits of his labour; and the precautionary provisions of the law are

merely to prevent others from being injured for want of proper

information. It is of no moment to either of these objects that the

author of a work has already reaped emolument, in a foreign country. The

principle is to encourage literature, by giving it all the advantages it

can obtain.

If these views are correct, why may not an English writer secure a right

in this country, by selling it in season, to a citizen here? An

equitable trust might not, probably would not be sufficient, but a _bonâ

fide_ transfer for a valuable consideration, I begin to think, would. It

seems to me that all the misconception which has existed on this point,

has arisen from supposing that the term _publication_ refers to other

than a publication in the country. But, when one remembers how rare it

is to get lawyers to agree on a question like this, it becomes a layman

to advance his opinion with great humility. I suppose, after all, a good

way of getting an accurate notion of the meaning of the law, would be to

toss a dollar into the air, and cry “heads,” or “tails.” Sir Walter

Scott seemed fully aware of the great circulation of his books in

America, as well as how much he lost by not being able to secure a

copy-right. Still, he admitted they produced him something. Our

conversation on this subject terminated by a frank offer, on his part,

of aiding me with the publishers of his own country,[3] but, although

grateful for the kindness, I was not so circumstanced as to be able to

profit by it.

Footnote 3:

An offer that was twice renewed, after intervals of several years.

He did not appear to me to be pleased with Paris. His notions of the

French were pretty accurate, though clearly not free from the

old-fashioned prejudices. “After all,” he remarked, “I am a true Scot,

never, except on this occasion, and the short visit I made to Paris in

1815, having been out of my own country, unless to visit England, and I

have even done very little of the latter.” I understood him to say he

had never been in Ireland, at all.

I met him once more, in the evening, at the hotel of the _Princesse_ ——.

The party had been got together in a hurry, and was not large. Our

hostess contrived to assemble some exceedingly clever people, however,

among whom were one or two women, who are already historical, and whom I

had fancied long since dead. All the female part of the company, with

the silent delicacy that the French so well understand, appeared with

ribbons, hats, or ornaments of some sort or other, of a Scottish stamp.

Indeed, almost the only woman in the room that did not appear to be a

Caledonian was Miss Scott. She was in half-mourning, and with her black

eyes and jet-black hair, might very well have passed for a French woman,

but for a slight peculiarity about the cheek bones. She looked

exceedingly well, and was much admired. Having two or three more places

to go to, they staid but an hour. As a matter of course, all the French

women were exceedingly _empressées_ in their manner towards the Great

Unknown, and as there were three or four that were very exaggerated on

the score of romance, he was quite lucky if he escaped some absurdities.

Nothing could be more patient than his manner, under it all, but as soon

as he very well could, he got into a corner, where I went to speak to

him. He said, laughingly, that he spoke French with so much difficulty

he was embarrassed to answer the compliments. “I’m as good a lion as

needs be, allowing my mane to be stroked as familiarly as they please,

but I can’t growl for them, in French. How is it with you?” Disclaiming

the necessity of being either a good or a bad lion, being very little

troubled in that way, for his amusement I related to him an anecdote.

Pointing out to him a _Comtesse de_ ——, who was present, I told him,

this lady I had met once a week, for several months, and at every

_soirée_ she invariably sailed up to me to say—“_Oh, Monsieur ——,

quelles livres!—vos charmants livres—que vos livres sont charmants!_”

and I had just made up my mind that she was, at least, a woman of taste,

when she approached me with the utmost _sang froid_, and cried—“_Bon

soir, Monsieur ——; je viens d’acheter tous vos livres et je compte

profiter de la premiere occasion pour les lire!_”

I took leave of him, in the ante-chamber, as he went away, for he was to

quit Paris the following evening.

Sir Walter Scott’s person and manner have been so often described, that

you will not ask much of me, in this way, especially as I saw so little

of him. His frame is large and muscular, his walk difficult, in

appearance, though he boasted himself a vigorous mountaineer, and his

action, in general, measured and heavy. His features and countenance

were very Scottish, with the short thick nose, heavy lips, and massive

cheeks. The superior or intellectual part of his head was neither deep

nor broad, but perhaps the reverse, though singularly high. Indeed, it

is quite uncommon to see a scull so round and tower-like in the

formation, though I have met with them in individuals not at all

distinguished for talents. I do not think a casual observer would find

anything unusual in the exterior of Sir Walter Scott, beyond his

physical force, which is great, without being at all extraordinary. His

eye, however, is certainly remarkable. Gray, small, and without lustre,

in his graver moments it appears to look inward, instead of regarding

external objects, in a way, though the expression, more or less, belongs

to abstraction, that I have never seen equalled. His smile is

good-natured and social; and when he is in the mood, as happened to be

the fact so often in our brief intercourse as to lead me to think it

characteristic of the man, his eye would lighten with a great deal of

latent fun. He spoke more freely of his private affairs than I had

reason to expect, though our business introduced the subject naturally;

and, at such times, I thought the expression changed to a sort of

melancholy resolution, that was not wanting in sublimity.

The manner of Sir Walter Scott is that of a man accustomed to see much

of the world without being exactly a man of the world himself. He has

evidently great social tact, perfect self-possession, is quiet, and

absolutely without pretension, and has much dignity; and yet it struck

me that he wanted the ease and _àplomb_ of one accustomed to live with

his equals. The fact of his being a lion, may produce some such effect,

but I am mistaken if it be not more the influence of early habits and

opinions than of any thing else.

Scott has been so much the mark of society, that it has evidently

changed his natural manner, which is far less restrained, than it is his

habit to be in the world. I do not mean by this, the mere restraint of

decorum, but a drilled simplicity or demureness, like that of girls who

are curbed in their tendency to fun and light-heartedness, by the dread

of observation. I have seldom known a man of his years, whose manner was

so different in a _tête-à-tête_, and in the presence of a third person.

In Edinburgh the circle must be small, and he probably knows every one.

If strangers do go there, they do not go all at once, and, of course,

the old faces form the great majority; so that he finds himself always

on familiar ground. I can readily imagine that in _Auld Reekie_, and

among the proper set, warmed perhaps by a glass of mountain-dew, that

Sir Walter Scott, in his peculiar way, is one of the pleasantest

companions the world holds.

There was a certain _M. de_ —— at the _soirée_ of the _Princesse_ ——,

who has obtained some notoriety as the writer of novels. I had the

honour of being introduced to this person, and was much amused with one

of his questions. You are to understand that the vaguest possible

notions exist in France, on the subject of the United States. Empires,

states, continents and islands, are blended in inextricable confusion,

in the minds of a large majority of even the intelligent classes, and we

sometimes hear the oddest ideas imaginable. This ignorance, quite

pardonable in part, is not confined to France, by any means, but exists

even in England, a country that ought to know us better. It would seem

that _M. de_ ——, either because I was a shade or two whiter than

himself, or because he did not conceive it possible that an American

could write a book, (for in this quarter of the world, there is a strong

tendency to believe that every man whose name crosses the ocean from

America, is merely some European who has gone there,) or, from some

cause that to me is inexplicable, took it into his head that I was an

Englishman who had amused a leisure year or two in the Western

Hemisphere. After asking me a few questions concerning the country, he

very coolly continued—“_Et, combien de temps avez-vous passé, en

Amérique, Monsieur?_” Comprehending his mistake, for a little practice

here makes one quick in such matters, I answered—“_Monsieur, nous y

sommes, dépuis deux siécles._” I question if M. de —— has yet recovered

from his surprize!

The French, when their general cleverness is considered, are singularly

ignorant of the habits, institutions, and civilization of other

countries. This is in part owing to their being little addicted to

travelling. Their commercial enterprize is not great; for though we

occasionally see a Frenchman carrying with him into pursuits of this

nature, the comprehensive views, and one might almost say, the

philosophy, that distinguish the real intelligence of the country, such

instances are rare, the prevailing character of their commerce being

caution and close dealing. Like the people of all great nations, their

attention is drawn more to themselves than to others, and then the want

of a knowledge of foreign languages has greatly contributed to their

ignorance. This want of knowledge of foreign languages, in a nation that

has traversed Europe as conquerors, is owing to the fact that they have

either carried their own language with them, or met it everywhere. It is

a want, moreover, that belongs rather to the last generation, than to

the present; the returned emigrants having brought back with them a

taste for English, German, Italian and Spanish, which has communicated

itself to all, or nearly all, the educated people of the country.

English, in particular, is now very generally studied; and perhaps,

relatively, more French, under thirty years of age, are to be found in

Paris, who speak English, than Americans, of the same age, are to be

found in New York, who speak French.

I think the limited powers of the language, and the rigid laws to which

it has been subjected, contribute to render the French less acquainted

with foreign nations, than they would otherwise be. In all their

translations, there is an effort to render the word, however peculiar

may be its meaning, into the French tongue. Thus, “township,” and

“city,” met with in an American book, would probably be rendered by

“_canton_,” or “_commune_,” or “_ville_;” neither of which conveys an

accurate idea of the thing intended. In an English or American book, we

should introduce the French word at once, which would induce the reader

to inquire into the differences that exist between the minor territorial

divisions of his own country, and those of the country of which he is

reading. In this manner is the door opened for further information,

until both writers and readers come to find it easier and more agreeable

to borrow words from others, than to curtail their ideas by their

national vocabularies. The French, however, are beginning to feel their

poverty, in this respect, and some are already bold enough to resort to

the natural cure.

The habit of thinking of other nations through their own customs,

betrays the people of this country into many ridiculous mistakes. One

hears, here, the queerest questions imaginable, every day; all of which,

veiled by the good breeding and delicacy that characterize the nation,

betray an innocent sense of superiority, that may be smiled at, and

which creates no feeling of resentment. A _savan_ lately named to me the

coasting tonnage of France, evidently with the expectation of exciting

my admiration; and on my receiving the information coolly, he inquired,

with a little sarcasm of manner—“without doubt, you have some coasting

tonnage, also, in America?” “The coasting tonnage of the United States,

Monsieur, is greater than the entire tonnage of France.” The man looked

astonished, and I was covered with questions, as to the nature of the

trade that required so much shipping, among a population numerically so

small. It could not possibly be the consumption of a country—he did not

say it, but he evidently thought it—so insignificant and poor? I told

him, that, bread, wine, and every other article of the first necessity

excepted, the other consumption of America, especially in luxuries, did

not fall so much short of that of France as he imagined, owing to the

great abundance in which the middling and lower classes lived. Unlike

Europe, articles that were imported, were mere necessaries of life, in

America, such as tea, coffee, sugar, &c., &c., the lowest labourer

usually indulging in them. He left me evidently impressed with new

notions, for there is a desire to learn mingled with all their vanity.

But, I will relate a laughable blunder of a translator, by way of giving

you a familiar example of the manner in which the French fall into

error, concerning the condition of other nations, and to illustrate my

meaning. In one of the recent American novels that have been circulated

here, a character is made to betray confusion, by tracing lines on the

table, after dinner, with some wine that had been spilt, a sort of idle

occupation sufficiently common to allow the allusion to be understood by

every American. The sentence was faithfully rendered; but, not satisfied

with giving his original, the translator annexes a note, in which he

says, “one sees by this little trait, that the use of table-cloths, at

the time of the American Revolution, was unknown in America!” You will

understand the train of reasoning that led him to this conclusion. In

France the cover is laid, perhaps, on a coarse table of oak, or even of

pine, and the cloth is never drawn; the men leaving the table with the

women. In America, the table is of highly polished mahogany, the cloth

is removed, and the men sit, as in England. Now the French custom was

supposed to be the custom of mankind, and wine could not be traced on

the wood had there been a cloth; America was a young and semi-civilized

nation, and, _ergo_, in 1779, there could have been no table-cloths

known in America! When men even visit a people of whom they have been

accustomed to think in this way, they use their eyes through the medium

of the imagination. I lately met a French traveller who affirmed that

the use of carpets was hardly known among us.

LETTER II.

TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.

In my last, I gave you a few examples of the instances in which the

French have mistaken the relative civilization of their country and

America, and I shall now give you some in which we have fallen into the

same error, or the other side of the question.

There has lately been an exhibition of articles of French manufacture,

at Paris; one of, I believe, the triennial collections of this

character, that have been established here. The court of the Louvre was

filled with temporary booths, for the occasion, and vast ranges of the

unfinished apartments in that magnificent palace have been thrown open

for the same purpose. The court of the Louvre, of itself, is an area

rather more than four hundred feet square, and I should think fully a

quarter of a mile of rooms in the building itself are to be added to the

space occupied for this purpose.

The first idea, with which I was impressed, on walking through the

booths and galleries, on this occasion, was the great disproportion

between the objects purely of taste and luxury, and the objects of use.

The former abounded, were very generally elegant and well imagined,

while the latter betrayed the condition of a nation whose civilization

has commenced with the summit, instead of the base of society.

In France, nearly every improvement in machinery is the result of

scientific research; is unobjectionable in principles, profound in the

adaptation of its parts to the end, and commonly beautiful in form. But

it ends here, rarely penetrating the mass, and producing positive

results. The _conservatoire des arts_, for instance, is full of

beautiful and ingenious ploughs, while France is tilled with heavy,

costly and cumbrous implements of this nature. One sees light mould

turning up, here, under a sort of agricultural _diligences_, drawn by

four, and even six heavy horses, which in America would be done quite as

well, and much sooner, by two. You know I am farmer enough to understand

what I say, on a point like this. In France, the cutlery, ironware,

glass, door-fastenings, hinges, locks, fire-irons, axes, hatchets,

carpenter’s tools, and, in short, almost every thing that is connected

with homely industry and homely comfort, is inferior to the same thing

in America. It is true, many of our articles are imported, but this

produces no change in the habits of the respective people; our

manufactories are merely in Birmingham, instead of being in

Philadelphia.

I have now been long enough in France to understand that seeing an

article in an exhibition like the one I am describing, is no proof that

it enters at all into the comforts and civilization of the nation,

although it may be an object as homely as a harrow or a spade. The

scientific part of the country has little influence, in this way, on the

operative. The chasm between knowledge and ignorance is so vast in

France, that it requires a long time for the simplest idea to find its

way across it.

Exhibitions are every where bad guides to the average civilization of a

country, as it is usual to expose only the objects that have been

wrought with the greatest care. In a popular sense, they are proofs of

what _can_ be done, rather than of what _is_ done. The cloths that I saw

in the booths, for instance, are not to be met with in the shops; the

specimens of fire-arms, glass, cutlery, &c. &c., too, are all much

superior to any thing one finds on sale. But this is the case every

where, from the boarding-school to the military parade, men invariably

putting the best foot foremost, when they are to be especially

inspected. This is not the difference I mean. Familiar, as every

American, at all accustomed to the usages of genteel life in his own

country, must be, with the better manufactures of Great Britain, I think

he would be struck by the inferiority of even the best specimens of the

commoner articles that were here laid before the public. But when it

came to the articles of elegance and luxury, as connected with forms,

taste and execution, though not always in ingenuity and extent of

comfort, I should think that no Englishman, let his rank in life be what

it would, could pass through this wilderness of elegancies, without

wonder.

Even the manufactures in which we, or rather the English (for I now

refer more to use than to production) ordinarily excel, such as carpets,

rugs, porcelain, plate, and all the higher articles of personal comfort,

_as exceptions_, surpass those of which we have any notion. I say, _as

exceptions_, not in the sense by which we distinguish the extraordinary

efforts of the ordinary manufacturer, in order to make a figure at an

exhibition, but certain objects produced in certain exclusive

establishments, that are chiefly the property of the crown, as they have

been the offspring of regal taste and magnificence.

Of this latter character is the _Sêvres_ china. There are manufactures

of this name, of a quality that brings them within the reach of moderate

fortunes, it is true, but one obtains no idea of the length to which

luxury and taste have been pushed in this branch of art, without

examining the objects made especially for the king, who is in the habit

of distributing them as presents among the crowned heads and his

personal favourites. After the ware has been made, with the greatest

care, and of the best materials, artists of celebrity are employed to

paint it. You can easily imagine the value of these articles, when you

remember that each plate has a design of its own, beautifully executed

in colours, and presenting a landscape or an historical subject, that is

fit to be framed and suspended in a gallery. One or two of the artists

employed in this manner have great reputations, and it is no uncommon

thing to see miniatures, in gilded frames, which, on examination, prove

to be on porcelain. Of course the painting has been subject to the

action of heat, in the baking. As respects the miniatures, there is not

much to be said in their favour. They are well drawn and well enough

coloured, but the process and the material together, give them a glossy,

unnatural appearance, which must prevent them from ever being considered

as more than so many _tours de force_ in the arts. But on vases, dinner

setts, and all ornamental furniture of this nature, in which we look for

the peculiarities of the material, they produce a magnificence of

effect, that I cannot describe. Vases of the value of ten or fifteen

thousand francs, or even of more money, are not uncommon, and at the

exhibition there was a little table, the price of which I believe was

two thousand dollars, that was a perfect treasure in its way.

Busts, and even statues, I believe, have been attempted in this branch

of art. This, of course, is enlisting the statuary as well as the

painter in its service. I remember to have seen, when at _Sêvres_, many

busts of the late _Duc de Berri_, in the process of drying, previously

to being put into the oven. Our _cicerone_, on that occasion, made us

laugh, by the routine with which he went through his catalogue of

wonders. He had pointed out to us the unbaked busts, in a particular

room, and, on entering another apartment, where the baked busts were

standing, he exclaimed—“_Ah! voilà son Altesse Royal tout cuit._” This

is just the amount of the criticism I should hazard on this branch of

the _Sêvres_ art, or on that which exceeds its legitimate limits—“Behold

his Royal Highness, ready cooked.”

The value of some of the single plates must be very considerable, and

the king, frequently, in presenting a solitary vase, or ornament of the

_Sêvres_ porcelain, presents thousands.

The tapestry is another of the costly works, that it has suited the

policy of France to keep up, while her ploughs, and axes, and carts, and

other ordinary implements are still so primitive and awkward. The

exhibition contained many specimens from the _Gobelins_, that greatly

surpassed my expectations. They were chiefly historical subjects, with

the figures larger than life, and might very well have passed, with a

novice, at a little distance, for oil paintings. The dimensions of the

apartment are taken, and the subject is designed, of course, on a scale

suited to the room. The effect of this species of ornament is very noble

and imposing, and the tapestries have the additional merit of warmth and

comfort. Hangings in cloth are very common in Paris, but the tapestry of

the _Gobelins_ is chiefly confined to the royal palaces. Our neighbour

the _duc de_ ——, has some of it, however, in his hotel, a present from

the king, but the colours are much faded, and the work is otherwise the

worse for time. I have heard him say, that one piece he has, even in its

dilapidated state, is valued at seven thousand francs. Occasionally a

little of this tapestry is found, in this manner, in the great hotels;

but, as a rule, its use is strictly royal.

The paper for hangings, is another article in which the French excel. We

get very pretty specimens of their skill in this manufacture in America,

but, with occasional exceptions, nothing that is strictly magnificent

finds its way into our markets. I was much struck with some of these

hangings that were made to imitate velvet. The cloth appeared to be

actually incorporated with the paper, and by no ingenuity of which I was

master, could I detect the means. The style of paper is common enough,

every where, but this exhibition had qualities far surpassing any thing

of the sort I had ever before seen. Curiosity has since led me to the

paper-maker, in order to penetrate the secrets of his art, and there,

like the affair of Columbus and the egg, I found the whole thing as

simple as heart could wish. You will probably smile, when you learn the

process by which paper is converted into velvet, which is briefly this.

Wooden moulds are used to stamp the designs, each colour being put on,

by laying a separate mould on its proper place, one mould being used

after another, though only one is used on any particular occasion. Thus,

all the black is put on now, the green to-morrow, and the yellow next

day. As to the velvets, they are produced as follows. Wool is chopped

fine, and dyed the desired hue. I am not certain that cotton, or even

other materials may not be used. This chopped and coloured wool is

thrown into a tub; the mould is covered with some glutinous substance,

and when applied it leaves on the paper the adhesive property, as types

leave the ink. The paper passes immediately over the tub, and a boy

throws on the wool. A light blow or two, of a rattan, tosses it about,

and finally throws all back again into the tub that has not touched the

glue. The _printed_ part, of course, is covered with blue, or purple, or

scarlet wool, and is converted, by a touch of the wand, into velvet! The

process of covering a yard lasts about ten seconds, and I should think

considerably more than a hundred yards of paper could be _velvetized_ in

an hour. We laughed at the discovery, and came away satisfied that

Solomon could have known nothing about manufacturing paper-hangings, or

he would not have said there was nothing “new under the sun.”

But the manufacture of France that struck me as being strictly in the

best taste, in which perfection and magnificence are attained without

recourse to conceits, or doing violence to any of the proprieties are

the products of the _Savonnerie_, and the exquisitely designed and

executed works of Beauvais. These include chair bottoms and backs,

hangings for rooms, and, I believe, carpets. At all events, if the

carpets do not come from these places, they are quite worthy to have

that extraction. Flowers, _arabesques_, and other similar designs,

exquisitely coloured and drawn, chiefly limit the efforts of the former;

and the carpets were in single pieces, and made to fit the room. Nothing

that you have ever seen, or probably have imagined, at all equals the

magnificence of some of these princely carpets. Indeed, I know nothing

that runs a closer parallel to the general civilization between France

and England, and I might almost add of America, than the history of

their respective carpets. In France, a vast majority of the people

hardly know what a carpet is. They use mud floors, or, rising a little

above the very lowest classes, coarse stone and rude tiles are

substituted. The middling classes, out of the large towns, have little

else besides painted tiles. The wooden _parquet_ is met with, in all the

better houses, and is well made and well kept. There is a finish and

beauty about them, that is not misplaced even in a palace. Among all

these classes, until quite lately, carpets were unknown, or at least

they were confined to the very highest class of society. The great

influx of English has introduced them into the public hotels, and common

lodging houses, but I have visited among many French of rank and

fortune, in the dead of winter, and found no carpets. A few of a very

coarse quality, made of rags, adroitly tortured into laboured designs,

are seen, it is true, even in indifferent houses; but the rule is, as I

have told you. In short, carpets, in this country, until quite lately,

have been deemed articles of high luxury; and, like nearly every thing

else that is magnificent and luxurious, at the point where they have

been taken up, they infinitely exceed any thing of the sort in England.

The classical designs, perfect drawings, and brilliant colours, defeat

every effort to surpass them,—I had almost said, all competition.

In all America, except in the new regions, with here and there, a

dwelling on the frontier, there is scarcely a house to be found without

carpets, the owners of which are at all above the labouring classes.

Even in many of the latter they are to be found. We are carpetted,

frequently, from the kitchen to the garret; the richness and rarity of

the manufacture increasing as we ascend in the scale of wealth and

fashion, until we reach the uttermost limits of our habits—a point where

beauty and neatness verge upon elegance and magnificence. At this point,

however, we stop, and the turn of the French commences. Now this is the

history of the comparative civilization of the two countries, in a

multitude of other matters; perhaps it would be better to say it is the

general comparative history of the two countries. The English differ

from us, only, in carrying their scale both higher and lower than

ourselves: in being sometimes magnificent, and sometimes impoverished;

but rarely, indeed, do they equal the French, in the light, classical,

and elegant taste that so eminently distinguishes these people. There is

something ponderous and purse-proud about the magnificence of England,

that is scarcely ever visible here; though taste is evidently and

rapidly on the increase in England, on the one hand, as comfort is here,

on the other. The French have even partially adopted the two words

“_fashionable_,” and “_comfortable_.”

One of the most curious things connected with the arts in France, is

that of transferring old pictures from wood to canvass. A large

proportion of the paintings of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries

were done on wood or copper, and many of the former are, or have been,

in danger of being lost, from decay. In order to meet the evil, a

process has been invented by which the painting is transferred to

canvas, where it remains, to all appearance, as good as ever. I have

taken some pains to ascertain in what manner this nice operation is

performed. I have seen pictures in various stages of the process, though

I have never watched any one through it all; and, in one instance, I saw

a small Wouvermans, stripped to the shirt, if it may be so expressed,

or, in other words, _when it was nothing but paint_. From what I have

seen and been told, I understand the mode of effecting this delicate and

almost incredible operation, to be as follows:—

A glue is rubbed over the face of the picture, which is then laid on a

piece of canvas that is properly stretched and secured, to receive it.

Weights are now laid on the back of the picture; and it is left for a

day or two, in order that the glue may harden. The weights are then

removed, and the operator commences removing the wood, first with a

plane, and, when he approaches the paint, with sharp delicate chissels.

The paint is kept in its place by the canvas to which it is glued, and

which is itself secured to the table; and, although the entire body of

the colours, hardened as it is by time, is usually not thicker than a

thin wafer, the wood is commonly taken entirely from it. Should a thin

fragment be left, however, or a crack made in the paint, it is

considered of no great moment. The Wouvermans alluded to, was pure

paint, however, and I was shown the pieces of wood, much worm-eaten,

that had been removed. When the wood is away, glue is applied to the

_back of the paint_, and to the canvas on which it is intended the

picture shall remain. The latter is then laid on the paint. New weights

are placed above it, and they are left two or three days longer, for

this new glue to harden. When it is thought the adhesion between the

second canvas and the paint is sufficient, the weights are removed, the

picture is turned, and warm water is used in loosening the first canvas

from the face of the picture, until it can be stripped off. More or less

of the varnish of the picture usually comes off, with the glue,

rendering the separation easier. The painting is then cleaned,

retouched, and should it be necessary, varnished and framed; after which

it commonly looks as well, and is really as sound and as good as ever,

so far, at least, as the consistency is concerned.

Among other wonders in the exhibition, was the coronation coach of

Charles X. This carriage is truly magnificent. It is quite large, as

indeed are all the royal carriages, perhaps as large as an American

stage-coach; the glass, pure and spotless as air, goes all round the

upper compartments, so as to admit of a view of the whole interior; the

pannels are beautifully painted in design; the top has gilded and

well-formed angels blowing trumpets, and the crown of France surmounts

the centre. The wheels, and train, and pole, are red, striped with gold.

All the leather is red morocco, gilt, as is the harness. Plumes of

ostrich feathers ornament the angles, and, altogether, it is a most

glittering and gorgeous vehicle. The paintings, the gildings, and all

the details are well executed, except the running gear, which struck me

as clumsy and imperfect. The cost is said to have been about sixty

thousand dollars.

Many new rooms in the Louvre were thrown open on this occasion, in order

that the paintings on their ceilings might be viewed, and as I walked

through this gorgeous magnificence, I felt how small were our highest

pretensions to anything like elegance or splendour. The very extreme of

art, of this nature, may, of itself, be of no great direct benefit, it

is true, but it should be remembered, that the skill which produces

these extraordinary fruits, in its road to the higher points of

magnificence, produces all that embellishes life in the intermediate

gradations.

In America, in the eagerness of gain, and with the contracted habits

that a love of gain engenders, which by their own avidity, as is usual

with the grosser passions, too often defeat their own ends, we overlook

the vast importance of cultivating the fine arts, even in a pecuniary

sense, to say nothing of the increased means of enjoying the very money

that is so blindly pursued, which their possession entails. France is at

this moment laying all christendom under contribution, simply by means

of her taste. Italy, where the arts have flourished still longer, and

where they have still more effectually penetrated society, would drive

the English and French out of every market on earth, were the national

energy at all equal to the national tastes. These things do not as

exclusively belong to extreme luxury as they may at first seem. Science,

skill of the nicest investigation, and great research, are all enlisted

in their behalf; and, in time, implements of the most homely uses derive

perfection, as by-plays, from the investigations consequent on the

production of luxuries. It is true, that, by blending a certain amount

of information with practice, as in the case of the American labourer,

our wants find the means of furnishing their own supplies; but, apart

from the fact that the man who makes a chair is not obliged to sit in

it, and is therefore content to consult his profits merely, the impulses

of practice are much aided by the accumulated knowledge of study. The

influence that the arts of design have had on the French manufactures is

incalculable. They have brought in the aid of chemistry, and

mathematics, and a knowledge of antiquity; and we can trace the effects

in the bronzes, the porcelain, the hangings, the chintzes, the silks,

down to the very ribbands of the country. We shall in vain endeavour to

compete with the great European nations, unless we make stronger efforts

to cultivate the fine arts. Of what avails our beautiful glass, unless

we know how to cut it; or of what great advantage, in the strife of

industry, will be even the _skilful_ glass-cutter, should he not also be

the _tasteful_ glass-cutter. It is true that classical forms and

proportions are, as yet, of no great account among us, and the great

mass of the American people still cling to their own uninstructed

fancies, in preference to the outlines and proportions of the more

approved models, and to those hues which art has demonstrated to be

harmonious. This is the history of every society in its progress to

perfection; and, cut off as we are from the rest of the civilized world,

it is not to be expected that we are to make an extraordinary exception.

But, while we may be satisfied with our own skill and taste, the happy

lot of all ignorance, our customers will not have the same

self-complacency, to induce them to become purchasers. We find this

truth already. We beat all nations in the fabrication of common

unstamped cottons. Were trade as free as some political economists

pretend, we should drive all our competitors out of every market, as

respects this one article. But the moment we attempt to print, or to

meddle with that part of the business which requires taste, we find

ourselves inferior to the Europeans, whose forms we are compelled to

imitate, and of course to receive when no longer novel, and whose hues

defy our art.

The wisest thing the United States could do, would be to appropriate

thirty or forty millions to the formation of a marine, not to secure the

coast, as our hen-roost statesmen are always preaching, but to keep, in

our own hands, the control of our own fortunes, by rendering our enmity

or friendship of so much account to Europe, that no power shall ever

again dare trespass on our national rights:—and one of the next wisest

measures, I honestly believe, would be to appropriate, at once, a

million to the formation of a National Gallery, in which copies of the

antique, antiques themselves, pictures, bronzes, _arabesques_, and other

models of true taste, might be collected, before which the young

aspirants for fame might study, and with which become imbued, as the

preliminary step to an infusion of their merits into society. Without

including the vast influence of such a cultivation on the manners,

associations, intellects and habits of the people—an influence that can

scarcely be appreciated too highly—fifty years would see the first cost

returned fifty-fold, in the shape of the much beloved dollars. Will this

happen? Not till men of enlightened minds—_statesmen_, instead of

_political partizans_—are sent to Washington. It is the misfortune of

America to lie so remote from the rest of the civilized world, as to

feel little of the impulses of a noble competition, our rivalry commonly

limiting itself to the vulgar exhibitions of individual vanity; and this

the more to our disadvantage, as, denied access to the best models for

even this humble species of contention, with the antagonists we are

compelled to choose, victory is as bad as defeat.

One of the great impediments to a high class of improvement, in America,

is the disposition to resent every intimation that we can be any better

than we are at present. Few, perhaps no country, has ever endured so

much evil disposed and unmerited abuse as our own. It is not difficult

to trace the reasons, and every American should meet it with a just and

manly indignation. But, being deemed a nation of rogues; barbarous, and

manifesting the vices of an ancestry of convicts, is a very different

thing from standing at the head of civilization. This tendency to repel

every suggestion of inferiority is one of the surest signs of provincial

habits; it is exactly the feeling with which the resident of the village

resents what he calls the airs of the town, and that which the inland

trader brings with him among those whom he terms the “dandies” of the

sea-board. In short, it is the jealousy of inferiority, on the exciting

points, whatever may be the merits of its subject in other matters, and

furnishes, of itself, the best possible proof that there is room for

amendment. The French have a clever and pithy saying, that of—“_On peut

tout dire, à un grand peuple._” “One may tell all to a great nation.”

_Note._—Every one was telling me that I should find the country so

altered, after an absence of eight years, that I should not know it.

Altered, indeed, I found it; but not quite so evidently improved. It

struck me that there was a vast expansion of mediocrity, that was well

enough in itself, but which was so overwhelming as nearly to

overshadow every thing that once stood prominent, as more excellent.

This was, perhaps, no more than a natural consequence of the

elasticity and growth of a young vigorous community, which, in its

aggregate character, as in that of its individuals, must pass through

youth to arrive at manhood. Still it was painful, and doubly so, to

one coming from Europe. I saw the towns increased, more tawdry than

ever, but absolutely with less real taste than they had in my youth.

The art of painting alone appeared to me to have made any material

advances in the right direction, if one excepts increase in wealth,

and in the facilities to create wealth. The steam-boats were the only

objects that approached magnificence, but while they had increased in

show, they had less comfort and respectability. The taverns, as a

whole, had deteriorated, though the three first I happened to enter

might well compete with a very high class of European inns, viz.

Head’s, Barnum’s, and Gadsby’s.

LETTER III.

TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.

I cannot tell you whence the vulgar notions that we entertain of the

French, which, with many other pernicious prejudices have made a part of

our great inheritance from England, have been originally obtained.

Certainly I have seen no thing, nor any person, after a long residence

in the country, to serve as models to the flippant _marquis_, the

overdressed courtiers, or the _petites maitresses_ of the English

dramatists. Even a French _perruquier_ is quite as homely and plain a

personage as an English or an American barber. But these Athenians

grossly caricature themselves as well as their neighbours. Although

Paris is pretty well garnished with English of all degrees, from the

Duke down, it has never yet been my luck to encounter an English dandy.

Now and then one meets with a “_dresser_,” a man who thinks more of his

appearance than becomes his manhood, or than comports with good

breeding; and occasionally a woman is seen who is a mere appendage to

her attire, but, I am persuaded, that, as a rule, neither of these

vulgar classes exists, among people of any condition, in either country.

It is impossible for me to say what changes the revolution, and the

wars, and the new notions, may have produced in France, but there is no

sufficient reason for believing that the present cropped and fringeless,

be-whiskered, and _laceless_ generation of France, differs more from

their be-wigged, belaced and powdered predecessors, than the men and

women of any other country differ from their particular ancestors. Boys

wore cock’d hats, and breeches, and swords, in America, previously to

the revolution; and our immediate fathers flourished in scarlet coats,

powder, ruffled fingers, and embroidered waistcoats.

The manners of the continent of Europe are more finished than those of

England, and, while quiet and simplicity are the governing rules of good

breeding every where, even in unsophisticated America, this quiet and

simplicity is more gracious and more graceful in France than in the

neighbouring island. As yet, I see no other difference, in mere

deportment, though there is abundance when one goes into the examination

of character.

I have met with a good many people of the old court at Paris, and,

though now and then there is a certain _roué_ atmosphere about them,

both men and women, as if too much time had been passed at Coblentz,

they have generally, in other respects, been models of elegant demeanor.

Usually they are simple, dignified, and yet extremely gracious—gracious

without the appearance of affability, a quality that is almost always

indicative of a consciousness of superiority. The predominant fault of

manner here is too strong a hand in applying flattery, but this is as

much the fault of the head as of breeding. The French are fond of

hearing pleasant things. They say themselves that “a Frenchman goes into

society to make himself agreeable, and an Englishman to make himself

disagreeable,” and the _dire_ is not altogether without foundation in

truth. I never met a Frenchman, in society here, who appeared to wish to

enhance his importance by what are called “airs,” though a coxcomb in

feeling is an animal not altogether unknown to the natural history of

Paris, nor is the zoological science of M. Cuvier indispensable to his

discovery.

I shall probably surprise you with one of my opinions. I think the

population of Paris, physically speaking, finer than that of London.

Fine men and fine women are, by no means, as frequent, after allowing

for the difference in whole numbers, in the French, as in the English

capital, but, neither are there as many miserable, pallid and squalid

objects. The French are a smaller race than the English, much smaller

than the race of English gentlemen, so many of whom congregate at

London; but the population of Paris has a sturdy, healthful look, that I

do not think is by any means as general in London. In making this

comparison, allowance must be made for the better dress of the English,

and for their fogs, whose effect is to bleach the skin and to give a

colour that has no necessary connexion with the springs of life,

although the female portion of the population of Paris has probably as

much colour as that of London. It might possibly be safer to say that

the female population of Paris is finer than that of London, though I

think on the whole the males may be included, also. I do not mean by

this, that there is relatively as much female beauty in Paris as in

London, for in this respect the latter has immeasurably the advantage,

but, looks apart, that the _physique_ of the French of Paris is superior

to that of the English of London. The population of Paris is a

favourable specimen of that of the kingdom, while that of London,

Westminster excepted, is not at all above the level of the entire

country, if, indeed, it be as good.[4]

Footnote 4:

This opinion remains the same in the writer, who, between the years

1806 and 1833, has been six times in London, and between the years

1826 and 1833, five times in Paris. In 1833, he left Paris for London,

sailing for home from the latter place. A few days after his arrival

he went to Washington, where, _during the session of Congress_, dress

and air not considered, he thought he had never met so large a

proportion of fine men, in any part of the world. He was particularly

struck with their size, as was an American friend who was with him,

and who had also passed many years abroad, having left Liverpool the

same day the writer sailed from Portsmouth.

The very general notion, which exists in America, that the French are a

slightly-built, airy people, and that their women, in particular, are

thin and without _embonpoint_, is a most extraordinary one, for there is

not a particle of foundation for it. The women of Paris are about as

tall as the women of America, and could a fair sample of the two nations

be placed in the scales, I have no doubt it would be found that the

French women would outweigh the Americans in the proportion of six to

five. Instead of being meagre, they are compactly built, with good

busts, inclining to be full, and well limbed, as any one may see, who

will take the trouble to walk the streets after a hard shower; for, as

Falstaff told Prince Henry, “You are straight enough in the shoulders:

you care not who sees your back.” Indeed, I know no females to whom the

opinion which we entertain of the French women may better apply than to

our own, and yet I know none who are so generally well-looking.

The French are not a handsome nation. Personal beauty in either sex is

rare: there is a want of simplicity, of repose, of dignity, and even of

harmonious expression, what they themselves call _finesse_, in their

countenances, and yet the liveliness of the eyes and the joyous

character of their looks, render them agreeable. You are not to

understand from this that great personal beauty does not exist in

France, however, for there are so many exceptions to the rule, that they

have occasionally made me hesitate about believing it a rule at all. The

French quite often possess a feature in great perfection, that is very

rare in England, where personal beauty is so common in both sexes. It is

in the mouth, and particularly in the smile. Want of _finesse_ about the

mouth is a general European deficiency (the Italians have more of it

than any other people I know), and it is as prevalent an advantage in

America. But the races of Saxon root fail in the chin, which wants

nobleness and volume. Here, it is quite common to see profiles that

would seem in their proper places on a Roman coin.

Although female beauty is not common in France, when it is found, it is

usually of a very high order. The sweet, cherub-like, guileless

expression, that belongs to the English female face, and through it, to

the American, is hardly ever, perhaps never, met with here. The French

countenance seldom conveys the idea of extreme, infantile, innocence.

Even in the children there is a _manner_, which, while it does not

absolutely convey an impression of an absence of the virtues, I think

leaves less conviction of its belonging to the soul of the being, than

the peculiar look I mean. One always sees _woman_; modest, amiable,

_spirituel_, feminine and attractive, if you will, in a French girl;

while one sometimes sees an _angel_ in a young English or American face.

I have no allusion now to religious education, or to religious feelings,

which are quite as general in the sex, particularly the young of good

families, under their characteristic distinctions, here, as anywhere

else. In this particular, the great difference is, that in America it is

religion, and in France it is infidelity, that is metaphysical.

There is a coquetish prettiness that is quite common in France, in which

air and manner are mingled with a certain sauciness of expression, that

is not easily described, but which, while it blends well enough with the

style of the face, is rather pleasing than captivating. It marks the

peculiar beauty of the _grisette_, who, with her little cap, hands stuck

in the pockets of her apron, mincing walk, coquetish eye, and

well-balanced head, is a creature perfectly _sui generis_. Such a girl

is more like an actress imitating the character, than one is apt to

imagine the character itself. I have met with imitators of these roguish

beauties in a higher station, such as the wives and daughters of the

industrious classes, as it is the fashion to call them here, and even

among the banking community, but never among women of condition, whose

deportment in France, whatever may be their morals, is usually marked by

gentility of air, and a perfectly good tone of manner, always excepting

that small taint of _rouéism_ to which I have already alluded, and which

certainly must have come from the camp and emigration.

The highest style of the French beauty is the classical. I cannot recall

a more lovely picture, a finer union of the grand and the feminine, than

the _Duchesse de ——_, in full dress, at a carnival ball, where she shone

peerless among hundreds of the _élite_ of Europe. I see her now, with

her small, well-seated head; her large dark, brilliant eye riveted on

the mazes of a _Polognnaise_, danced in character; her hair, black as

the raven’s wing, clustering over a brow of ivory; her graceful form

slightly inclining forward in delighted and graceful attention; her

features just Grecian enough to be a model of delicate beauty, just

Roman enough to be noble; her colour heightened to that of youth, by the

heat of the room, and her costume, in which all the art of Paris was

blended with a critical knowledge of the just and the becoming. And yet

this woman was a grandmother!

The men of France have the same physical and the same conventional

peculiarities as the women. They are short, but sturdy. Including all

France, for there is a material difference in this respect between the

north and the south, I should think the average stature of the French

_men_, (not women) to be quite an inch and a half below the average

stature of America, and possibly two inches. At home, I did not find

myself greatly above the medium height, and in a crowd I was always

compelled to stand on tip-toe to look over the heads of those around me;

whereas, here, I am evidently _un grand_, and can see across the _Champs

Elysées_, without any difficulty. You may remember that I stand, as near

as may be, to five feet ten; it follows that five feet ten is rather a

tall man in France. You are not to suppose, however, that there are not

occasionally men of great stature in this country. One of the largest

men I have ever seen, appears daily in the garden of the _Tuileries_,

and I am told he is a Frenchman of one of the north-eastern provinces.

That part of the kingdom is German, rather than French, however, and the

population still retain most of the peculiarities of their origin.

The army has a look of service and activity, rather than of force. I

should think it more formidable by its manœuvres than its charges.

Indeed, the tactics of Napoleon, who used the legs of his troops more

than their muskets, aiming at concentrating masses on important points,

goes to show that he depended on alertness instead of _bottom_. This is

just the quality that would be most likely to prevail against your

methodical, slow-thinking, and slow-moving German, and I make no

question, the short, sturdy, nimble legs of the little warriors of this

country have gained many a field.

A general officer, himself a six-footer, told me, lately, that they had

found the tall men of very little use in the field, from their inability

to endure the fatigues of a campaign. When armies shall march on rail

roads, and manœuvre by steam, the grenadiers will come in play again;

but, as it is, the French are admirably adapted by their _physique_, to

run the career that history has given them. The Romans resembled them in

this respect, Cicero admitting that many people excelled them in size,

strength, beauty, and even learning, though he claimed a superiority for

his countrymen, on the score of love of country and a reverence for the

gods. The French are certainly patriotic enough, though their reverence

for the gods may possibly be questioned.

The regiments of the guards, the heavy cavalry, and the artillery are

all filled with men chosen with some care. These troops would, I think,

form about an average American army, on the score of size. The

battalions of the line receive the rest. As much attention is bestowed

in adapting the duty to the physique, and entire corps are composed of

men of as nearly as possible the same physical force, some of the

regiments certainly make but an indifferent figure, as to dimensions,

while others appear particularly well. Still, if not overworked, I

should think these short men would do good service. I think I have seen

one or two regiments, in which the average height has not exceeded five

feet three inches. The chances of not being hit in such a corps are

worth something, for the proportion, compared to the chances in a corps

of six-footers, is as sixty-three to seventy-two, or is one-eighth in

favour of the Lilliputians. I believe the rule for retreating is when

one-third of the men are _hors de combat_. Now, supposing a regiment of

three thousand grenadiers would be obliged to retire with a loss of one

thousand men, the little fellows, under the same fire, should have, at

the same time, two thousand one hundred and thirty-seven sound men left,

and of course, unless bullied out of it, they ought to gain the day.

LETTER IV.

TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.

It appears to be the melancholy lot of humanity, that every institution

which ingenuity can devise shall be perverted to an end different from

the legitimate. If we plan a democracy, the craven wretch who, in a

despotism, would be the parasite of a monarch, heads us off, and gets

the best of it under the pretence of extreme love for the people; if we

flatter ourselves that by throwing power into the hands of the rich and

noble, it is put beyond the temptation to abuse it, we soon discover

that rich is a term of convention, no one thinking he has enough until

he has all, and that nobility of station has no absolute connexion with

nobleness of spirit or of conduct; if we confide all to one, indolence,

favouritism, and indeed the impossibility of supervision throws us again

into the hands of the demagogue, in his new, or rather true character,

of a courtier. So it is with life; in politics, religion, arms, arts and

letters, yea, even the republic of letters, as it is called, is the prey

of schemers and parasites, and things _in fact_, are very different from

things _as they seem to be_.

“In the seventeen years that I have been a married man,” said Captain ——

of the British navy, “I have passed but seventeen months with my wife

and family.” “But, now there is peace, you will pass a few years quietly

in America, to look after your affairs,” said I, by way of awkward

condolence. “No, indeed; I shall return to England as soon as possible,

to make up for lost time. I have been kept so much at sea, that they

have forgotten me at home, and duty to my children requires that I

should be on the spot.” In the simplicity of my heart, I thought this

strange, and yet nothing could be more true. Captain —— was a scion of

the English aristocracy, and looked to his sword for his fortune.

Storms, fagging, cruising, all were of small avail compared to interest

at the admiralty, and so it is with all things else, whether in Europe

or America. The man who really gains the victory, is lucky, indeed, if

he obtain the meed of his skill and valour. You may be curious to know

of what all this is _à propos_? To be frank with you, I have visited the

French Academy; _ces quarante qui ont l’esprit comme quatre_, and, have

come away fully impressed with the vanity of human things!

The occasion was the reception of two or three new members, when,

according to a settled usage, the successful candidates pronounced

eulogies on their predecessors. You may be curious to know what

impression the assembled genius of France produced on a stranger from

the western world. I can only answer, none. The academy of the sciences

can scarcely ever be less than distinguished in such a nation, but when

I came to look about me, and to inquire after the purely literary men, I

was forcibly struck with the feebleness of the catalogue of names. Not

one in five was at all known to me, and very few even of those who were,

could properly be classed among the celebrated writers of the day. As

France has many very clever men who were not on the list, I was desirous

of knowing the reason, and then learned that intrigue, court-favour, and

“_log-rolling_,” to use a quaint American term, made members of the

academy as well as members of the cabinet. A moment’s reflection might

have told me it could not well be otherwise. It would be so in America,

if we were burthened with an academy; it _is_ so as respects collegiate

honours; and what reason is there for supposing it should not be so in a

country so notoriously addicted to intrigue as France?

One ought not to be the dupe of these things. There are a few great

names, distinguished by common consent, whose claims it is necessary to

respect. These men form the front of every honorary institution; if

there are to be knights and nobles, and academicians, they must be of

the number; not that such distinctions are necessary to them, but that

they are necessary to the distinctions; after which the _oi polloi_ are

enrolled as they can find interest. Something very like an admission of

this is contained in an inscription on the statue of _Moliere_, which

stands in the vestibule of the hall of the Academy, which frankly says,

though “we are not necessary to your glory, you are necessary to ours.”

He was excluded from the forty, by intrigue, on account of his

profession being that of a player. Shakspeare, himself, would have fared

no better. Now, fancy a country in which there was a club of select

authors, that should refuse to enrol the name of William Shakspeare on

their list!

The sitting was well attended, and I dare say the addressed were not

amiss, though there is something exceedingly tiresome in one of these

eulogies, that is perpetrated by _malice prepense_. The audience

applauded very much, after the fashion of those impromptus which are

made _à loisir_, and I could not but fancy that a good portion of the

assembly began to think the academy was what the cockneys call a _rum_

place, before they heard the last of it. We had a poem by _Comte Daru_,

to which I confess I did not listen, notwithstanding my personal respect

for the distinguished writer, simply because I was most heartily wearied

before he began, and because I can never make any thing of French

poetry, in the academy or out of it.

It would be unjust to speak lightly of any part of the French academy,

without a passing remark in honour of those sections of it, to which

honour is due. In these sections may be included, I think, that of the

arts, as well as that of the sciences. The number of respectable artists

that exist in this country is perfectly astonishing. The _connaisseurs_,

I believe, dispute the merits of the school, and ignorant as I am, in

such matters, I can myself see that there is a prevalent disposition,

both in statuary and painting, to sacrifice simplicity to details, and

that the theatrical is sometimes mistaken for the grand; but, after

admitting both these faults, and some defects in colouring, there still

remains a sufficient accumulation of merit, to create wonder in one,

like myself, who has not had previous opportunities of ascertaining the

affluence of a great nation in this respect.

As regards the scientific attainments of the French, it is unnecessary

to say anything, though I believe you will admit that they ought at

least to have the effect of counteracting some of the prejudices about

dancing-masters, _petits maîtres_, and _perruquiers_, that have

descended to us, through English novels and plays. Such a man as La

Place, alone, is sufficient to redeem an entire people from these

imputations. The very sight of one of his demonstrations will give

common men, like ourselves, headaches, and you will remember that having

successfully got through one of the toughest of them, he felicitated

himself that there was but one other man living who could comprehend it,

now it was made.

What a noble gift would it have been to his fellow creatures, had some

competent follower of La Place bestowed on them a comprehensive but

popular compend of the leading astronomical facts, to be used as one of

the most ordinary school books. Apart from the general usefulness of

this peculiar species of knowledge, and the chances that, by thus

popularizing the study, sparks might be struck from the spirit of some

dormant Newton, I know no inquiry that has so strong a tendency to raise

the mind from the gross and vulgar pursuits of the world, to a

contemplation of the power and designs of God. It has often happened to

me, when, filled with wonder and respect for the daring and art of man,

I have been wandering through the gorgeous halls of some palace, or

other public edifice, that an orrery or a diagram of the planetary

system has met my eye, and recalled me, in a moment, from the

consideration of art, and its intrinsic feebleness, to that of the

sublimity of nature. At such times, this globe has appeared so

insignificant, in comparison with the mighty system of which it forms so

secondary a part, that I have felt a truly philosophical indifference,

not to give it a better term, for all it contained. Admiration of human

powers, as connected with the objects around me, has been lost in

admiration of the mysterious spirit which could penetrate the remote and

sublime secrets of the science; and, on no other occasions, have I felt

so profound a conviction of my own isolated insignificance, or so lively

a perception of the stupendous majesty of the Deity.

Passing by the common and conceded facts of the dimensions of the

planets, and the extent of their orbits, what thoughts are awakened by

the suggestion that the fixed stars are the centres of other solar

systems, and that the eccentric comets are links to connect them all, in

one great and harmonious design! The astronomers tell us, that some of

these comets have no visible nucleuses, that the fixed stars are seen

through their apparent densest parts, and that they can be nothing but

luminous gases; while, on the other hand, others do betray dark compact

bodies of more solid matter. Fixed stars unaccountably disappear, as if

suddenly struck out of their places. Now, we know that ærolites are

formed in the atmosphere, by a natural process, and descend in masses of

pure iron. Why may not the matter of one globe, dispersed into its

elements by the fusion of its consummation, reassemble, in the shape of

comets, gaseous at first, and slowly increasing and condensing in the

form of solid matter, varying in their course as they acquire the

property of attraction, until they finally settle into new and regular

planetary orbits, by the power of their own masses, thus establishing a

regular reproduction of worlds to meet the waste of eternity? Were the

earth dissolved into gases, by fusion, what would become of its

satellite, the moon? Might not the principles of our planet, thus

volatilized, yield to its nearer attraction, assemble around that orb,

which, losing its governing influence, should be left to wander in

infinite space, subject to a new but eccentric law of gravity, until

finally reduced again within the limits of some new system? How know we

that such is not the origin of comets?

Many astronomers have believed that the solar system, in company with

thousands of other systems, revolves around a common centre, in orbits

so vast as to defy computation, and a religious sentiment might well

suggest that this centre of the universe is the throne of the Most High.

Here we may fancy the Deity seated in power, and controlling, by his

will, the movements of worlds, directing each to the completion of his

own mysterious and benevolent designs.

It certainly might be dangerous to push our speculations too far, but

there can be no risk in familiarizing men to consider the omnipotence of

God, and to feel their own comparative insignificance. What ideas of

vastness are obtained by a knowledge of the fact that there exist stars

in the firmament, which ordinary telescopes show us only as single

bodies, but which, on examination by using reflectors of a higher power,

are found to be clusters of orbs—clusters of worlds—or clusters of suns!

These, again, are found to be _binary_ stars, or two stars revolving

round each other, while they are thought, at the same time, to revolve

around their central sun, and accompanied by this again, probably, to

revolve around the great common centre of all!

But, in the words of the quaint old song, I must cry “Holla! my fancy,

whither dost thou go?” Before taking leave of the stars altogether,

however, I will add that the French, and I believe all Europe, with the

exception of England, follow the natural order of time, in counting the

seasons. Thus the spring commences with the vernal equinox, and the

autumn with the autumnal. This division of the year leaves nearly the

whole of March as a winter month, June as a spring month, and September

as belonging to the summer. No general division of the seasons can suit

all latitudes; but the equinoxes certainly suggest the only two great

events of the year, that equally affect the entire sphere. Had the old

method of computing time continued, the seasons would gradually have

made the circle of the months, until their order was reversed, as they

are now known to be in the northern and southern hemispheres.

Quitting the Academy, which, with its schools of the classical and the

romantic, has tempted me to a higher flight than I could have believed

possible, let us descend to the theatres of Paris. Talma was still

playing last year, when we arrived, and as in the case of repentance, I

put off a visit to the _Théâtre Français_, with a full determination to

go, because it might be made at any time. In the mean while, he fell ill

and died, and it never was my good fortune to see that great actor.

Mademoiselle Mars I have seen, and, certainly, in her line of

characters, I have never beheld her equal. Indeed, it is scarcely

possible to conceive of a purer, more severe, more faultless, and yet

more poetical representation of common nature, than that which

characterizes her art. Her acting has all the finish of high breeding,

with just as much feeling as is necessary to keep alive the illusion. As

for rant, there is not as much about her whole system, as would serve a

common English, or American actress, for a single “length.”

To be frank with you, so great is the superiority of the French actors,

in _vaudevilles_, the light opera, and genteel comedy, that I fear I

have lost my taste for the English stage. Of tragedy I say nothing, for

I cannot enter into the poetry of the country at all, but, in all below

it, these people, to my taste, are immeasurably our superiors; and by

_ours_, you know I include the English stage. The different lines here,

are divided among the different theatres, so that if you wish to laugh,

you can go to the _Variétés_; to weep, to the _Théâtre Français_; or, to

gape, to the _Odeon_. At the _Porte St. Martin_, one finds vigorous

touches of national character, and at the _Gymnase_, the fashionable

place of resort, just at this moment, national traits polished by

convention. Besides these, there are many other theatres, not one of

which, in its way, can be called less than tolerable.

One can say but little in favour of the morals of too many of the pieces

represented here. In this particular there is a strange obliquity of

reason, arising out of habitual exaggeration of feeling, that really

seems to disqualify most of the women, even, from perceiving what is

monstrous, provided it be sentimental and touching. I was particularly

advised, to go to the _Théâtre Madame_ to see a certain piece, by a

_côterie_ of very amiable women, whom I met the following night at a

house where we all regularly resorted, once a week. On entering, they

eagerly inquired if “I had not been charmed, fascinated; if any thing

could be better played, or more touching?” Better played it could not

easily be, but I had been so shocked with the moral of the piece, that I

could scarcely admire the acting. “The moral! This was the first time

they had heard it questioned.” I was obliged to explain. A certain

person had been left the protector of a friend’s daughter, then an

infant. He had the child educated as his sister, and she grew to be a

woman, ignorant of her real origin. In the mean time, she has offers of

marriage, all of which she unaccountably refuses. In fine, she was

secretly cherishing a passion for her guardian _and supposed brother_;

an explanation is had, they marry, and the piece closes. I objected to

the probability of a well educated young woman’s falling in love with a

man old enough to be selected as her guardian, when she was an infant,

and against whom there existed the trifling objection of his being her

own brother. “But, he was _not_ her brother—not even a relative.” “True;

but she _believed_ him to be her brother.” “And nature—do you count

nature as nothing—a _secret sentiment_ told her he was not her brother.”

“And use, and education, and an _open sentiment_, and all the world,

told her he was. Such woman was guilty of a revolting indelicacy and a

heinous crime, and no exaggerated representation of love, a passion of

great purity in itself, can ever do away with the shocking realities of

such a case.”

I found no one to agree with me. He was _not_ her brother, and though

his tongue, and all around her, told her he was, her heart, that

infallible guide, told her the truth. What more could any reasonable man

ask?

It was _à propos_ of this play, and of my objection to this particular

feature of it, that an exceedingly clever French woman laughingly told

me she understood there was no such thing as love in America. That a

people, of manners as artificial as the French, should suppose that

others, under the influence of the cold formal exterior which the

puritans have entailed on so large a portion of the republic, were

without strong feeling, is not altogether as irrational as may at first

appear. Art, in ordinary deportment, is both cause and effect. That

which we habitually affect to be, gets, in the end, to be so

incorporated with our natural propensities, as to form a part of the

real man. We all know that by discipline we can get the mastery of our

strongest passions, and, on the other hand, by yielding to them and

encouraging them, that they soon get the mastery over us. Thus do a

highly artificial people, fond of, and always seeking, high excitement,

come, in time, to feel it, artificially, as it were, by natural

impulses.

I have mentioned the anecdote of the play, because I think it

characteristic of a tone of feeling that is quite prevalent among a

large class of the French, though I am far from saying there is not a

class who would, at once, see the grave sacrifice of principle that is

involved, in building up the sentiments of a fiction on such a

foundation of animal instinct. I find, on recollection, however, that

Miss Lee, in one of her Canterbury Tales, has made the love of her plot

hinge on a very similar incident. Surely, she must have been under the

influence of some of the German monstrosities that were so much in

vogue, about the time she wrote, for even Juvenal would scarcely have

imagined any thing worse, as the subject of his satire.

You will get a better idea of the sentimentalism that more or less

influences the tastes of this country, however, if I tell you that the

ladies of the _côterie_, in which the remarks on the amorous sister were

made, once gravely discussed, in my presence, the question whether

Madame de Stael was right or wrong, in causing _Corinne_ to go through

certain sentimental _experiences_, as our canters call it at home, on a

clouded day, instead of choosing one on which the sun was bright; or,

_vice versâ_; for I really forget whether it was on the “windy side” of

sensibility, or not, that the daughter of Neckar was supposed to have

erred.

The first feeling is that of surprise at finding a people so artificial

in their ordinary deportment, so chaste and free from exaggeration in

their scenic representations of life. But reflection will show us that

all finish has the effect of bringing us within the compass of severe

laws, and that the high taste which results from cultivation repudiates

all excess of mere manner. The simple fact is, that an educated

Frenchman is a great actor all the while, and that when he goes on the

stage, he has much less to do, to be perfect, than an Englishman who has

drilled himself into coldness, or an American who looks upon strong

expressions of feeling as affectation. When the two latter commence the

business of playing assumed parts, they consider it as a new occupation,

and go at it so much in earnest, that every body sees they are

acting.[5]

Footnote 5:

Mr. Mathews and Mr. Power were the nearest to the neat acting of

France of any male English performers the writer ever saw. The first

sometimes permitted himself to be led astray, by the caricatures he

was required to represent, and by the tastes of his audience; but the

latter, so far as the writer has seen him, appears determined to be

chaste, come what, come will.

You will remember, I say nothing in favour of the French tragic

representations. When a great and an intellectual nation, like France,

unites to applaud images and sentiments, that are communicated through

their own peculiar forms of speech, it becomes a stranger to distrust

his own knowledge, rather than their taste. I dare say that were I more

accustomed to the language, I might enjoy Corneille and Racine, and even

Voltaire, for I can now greatly enjoy Molière; but, to be honest in the

matter, all reciters of heroic French poetry appear to me to depend on a

pompous declamation, to compensate for the poverty of the idioms, and

the want of nobleness in the expressions. I never heard any one, poet or

actor, he who read his own verses, or he who repeated those of others,

who did not appear to mouth, and all their tragic playing has had the

air of being on stilts. Napoleon has said from the sublime to the

ridiculous it is but a step. This is much truer in France than in most

other countries, for the sublime is commonly so sublimated, that it will

admit of no great increase. Racine, in a most touching scene, makes one

of his heroic characters offer to wipe off the tears of a heroine lest

they should discolour her _rouge_! I had a classmate at college, who was

so very ultra courtly in his language, that he never forgot to say Mr.

Julius Cæsar, and Mr. Homer.