There exists a perfect mania for letters throughout Europe, in this

“piping time of peace.” Statesmen, soldiers, peers, princes and kings,

hardly think themselves _illustrated_, until each has produced his book.

The world never before saw a tithe of the names of people of condition,

figuring in the catalogues of its writers. “Some thinks he writes Cinna;

he owns to Panurge,” applies to half the people one meets in society. I

was at dinner lately, given by the Marquis de ——, when the table was

filled with peers, generals, ex-ministers, ex-ambassadors, naturalists,

philosophers and statesmen of all degrees. Casting my eyes round the

circle, I was struck with the singular prevalence of the _cacœthes

scribendi_, among so many men of different educations, antecedents, and

pursuits. There was a soldier present who had written on taste, a

politician on the art of war, a _diplomate_ who had dabbled in poetry,

and a jurist who pretended to enlighten the world in ethics. It was the

drollest assemblage in the world, and suggested many queer associations,

for, I believe, the only man at table, who had not dealt in ink, was an

old Lieutenant-General, who sat by me, and who, when I alluded to the

circumstance, strongly felicitated himself that he had escaped the mania

of the age, as it was an _illustration_ of itself. Among the _convives_

were Cuvier, Villemain, Daru, and several others who are almost as well

known to science and letters.

Half the voluntary visits I receive, are preceded by a volume of some

sort or other, as a token of my new acquaintance being a regularly

initiated member of the fraternity of the quill. In two or three

instances, I have been surprised at subsequently discovering that the

regular profession of the writer is arms, or some other pursuit, in

which one would scarcely anticipate so strong a devotion to letters. In

short, such is the actual state of opinion in Europe, that one is hardly

satisfied with any amount, or any quality of glory, until it is

consummated by that of having written a book. Napoleon closed his career

with the quill, and his successor was hardly on his throne, before he

began to publish. The principal officers of the Empire, and _emigrés_

without number, have fairly set to work as so many disinterested

historians, and even a lady, who, by way of abbreviation, is called “The

Widow of the Grand Army,” is giving us regularly volumes, whose

eccentricities and periodicity, as the astronomers say, can be reduced

to known laws, by the use of figures.

In the middle ages golden spurs were the object of every man’s ambition.

Without them, neither wealth, nor birth, nor power was properly

esteemed; and, at the present time, passing from the lance to the pen,

from the casque and shield, to the inkpot and fool’s cap, we all seek a

passport from the order of Letters. Does this augur good or evil, for

the world? The public press of France is conducted with great spirit and

talents, on all sides. It has few points in common with our own, beyond

the mere fact of its general character. In America, a single literary

man, putting the best face on it, enters into a compact with some person

of practical knowledge, a printer, perhaps, and together they establish

a newspaper, the mechanical part of which is confided to the care of the

latter partner, and the intellectual to the former. In the country, half

the time, the editor is no other than the printer himself, the division

of labour not having yet reached even this important branch of industry.

But looking to the papers that are published in the towns, one man of

letters is a luxury about an American print. There are a few instances

in which there are two, or three; but, generally, the subordinates are

little more than scissor’s men. Now, it must be apparent, at a glance,

that no one individual can keep up the character of a daily print, of

any magnitude; the drain on his knowledge and other resources being too

great. This, I take it, is the simple reason why the press of America

ranks no higher than it does. The business is too much divided; too much

is required, and this, too, in a country where matters of grave import

are of rare occurrence, and in which the chief interests are centered in

the vulgar concerns of mere party politics, with little or no connection

with great measures, or great principles. You have only to fancy the

superior importance that attaches to the views of powerful monarchs, the

secret intrigues of courts, on whose results, perhaps, depend the

fortunes of Christendom, and the serious and radical principles that are

dependent on the great changes of systems that are silently working

their way, in this part of the world, and which involve material

alterations in the very structure of society, to get an idea of how much

more interest a European journal, _ceteris paribus_, must be, compared

to an American journal, by the nature of its facts alone. It is true

that we get a portion of these facts, as light finally arrives from the

remoter stars, but mutilated, and necessarily shorn of much of their

interest, by their want of importance to our own country. I had been in

Europe some time, before I could fully comprehend the reason why I was

ignorant of so many minor points of its political history, for, from

boyhood up, I had been an attentive reader of all that touched this part

of the world, as it appeared in our prints. By dint of inquiry, however,

I believe I have come at the fact. The winds are by no means as regular

as the daily prints; and it frequently happens, especially in the winter

and spring months, that five or six packets arrive nearly together,

bringing with them the condensed intelligence of as many weeks. Now,

newspaper finders notoriously seek the latest news, and in the hurry and

confusion of reading and selecting, and bringing out, to meet the wants

of the day, many of the connecting links are lost, readers get imperfect

notions of men and things, and, from a want of a complete understanding

of the matter, the mind gives up, without regret, the little and

unsatisfactory knowledge it had so casually obtained. I take it, this is

a principal cause of the many false notions that exist among us, on the

subject of Europe and its events.

In France, a paper is established by a regular subscription of capital;

a principal editor is selected, and he is commonly supported, in the

case of a leading journal, by four or five paid assistants. In addition

to this formidable corps, many of the most distinguished men of France

are known to contribute freely to the columns of the prints in the

interest of their cause.

The laws of France compel a journal that has admitted any statement

involving facts, concerning an individual, to publish his reply, that

the antidote may meet the poison. This is a regulation that we might

adopt with great advantage to truth and the character of the country.

There is not, at this moment, within my knowledge, a single critical

literary journal, of received authority, in all France. This is a

species of literature to which the French pay but little attention, just

now, although many of the leading daily prints contain articles on the

principal works, as they appear.

By the little that has come under my observation, I should say the

fraudulent and disgusting system of puffing and of abusing, as interest

or pique dictates, is even carried to a greater length in France, than

it is in either England or America. The following anecdote, which

relates to myself, may give you some notion of the _modus operandi_.

All the works I had written previously to coming to Europe, had been

taken from the English editions, and translated, appearing

simultaneously with their originals. Having an intention to cause a new

book to be printed in English, in Paris, for the sake of reading the

proofs, the necessity was felt of getting some control over the

translation, lest, profiting by the interval necessary to send the

sheets home to be reprinted, it might appear as the original book. I

knew that the sheets of previous books had been purchased in England,

and I accordingly sent a proposition to the publishers, that the next

bargain should be made with me. Under the impression that an author’s

price would be asked, they took the alarm, and made difficulties.

Finding me firm, and indisposed to yield to some threats of doing as

they pleased, the matter was suspended for a few days. Just at this

moment, I received, through the post, a single number of an obscure

newspaper, whose existence, until then, was quite unknown to me.

Surprised at such an attention, I was curious to know the contents. The

journal contained an article on my merits and demerits as a writer, the

latter being treated with a good deal of freedom. When one gets a paper,

in this manner, containing abuse of himself, he is pretty safe in

believing its opinions dishonest. But I had even better evidence than

common, in this particular case, for I happened to be extolled for the

manner in which I had treated the character of Franklin, a personage

whose name even had never appeared in anything I had written. This, of

course, settled the character of the critique, and the next time I saw

the individual who had acted as agent in the negotiation just mentioned,

I gave him the paper, and told him I was half disposed to raise my price

on account of the pitiful manœuvre it contained. We had already come to

terms, the publishers finding that the price was little more than

nominal, and the answer was a virtual conclusion that the article was

intended to affect my estimate of the value of the intended work in

France, and to bring me under subjection to the critics.[6]

Footnote 6:

The writer suffers this anecdote to stand as it was written nine years

since; but since his return home, he has discovered that we are in no

degree behind the French in the corruption and frauds that render the

pursuits of a writer one of the most humiliating and revolting in

which a man of any pride of character can engage, unless he resolutely

maintains his independence, a temerity that is certain to be resented

by all those, who, unequal to going alone in the paths of literature,

seek their ends by clinging to those who can, either as pirates or

robbers.

I apprehend that few books are brought before the public in France,

dependent only on their intrinsic merits, and the system of intrigue,

which predominates in every thing, is as active in this as in other

interests.

In France, a book that penetrates to the provinces, may be said to be

popular; and, as for a book coming _from_ the provinces, it is almost

unheard of. The despotism of the trade, on this point, is unyielding.

Paris appears to deem itself the arbiter in all matters of taste and

literature, and it is almost as unlikely that a new fashion should come

from Lyons, or Bordeaux, or Marseilles, as that a new work should be

received with favour, that was published in either of those towns. The

approbation of Paris is indispensable, and the publishers of the

capital, assisted by their paid corps of puffers and detractors, are

sufficiently powerful to prevent that potent public, to whom all affect

to defer, from judging for itself.

We have lately had a proof, here, of the unwillingness of the Parisians

to permit others to decide for them, in any thing relating to taste, in

a case that refers to us Americans. Madame Malibran arrived from America

a few months since. In Europe she was unknown, but the great name of her

father stood her in stead. Unluckily, it was whispered that she had met

with great success in America. America! and this, too, in conjunction

with music and the opera! The poor woman was compelled to appear under

the disadvantage of having brought an American reputation with her, and,

seriously, this single fact went nigh to destroy her fortunes. Those

wretches who, as Coleridge expresses it, are “animalculæ, who live by

feeding on the body of genius,” affected to be displeased, and the

public hesitated, at their suggestions, about accepting an artist from

the “colonies,” as they still have the audacity to call the great

Republic. I have no means of knowing what sacrifices were made to the

petty tyrants of the press, before this woman, who has the talents

necessary to raise her to the summit of her profession, was enabled to

gain the favour of a “_generous and discerning public_.”!

LETTER V.

TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.

We have been the residents of a French village ever since the first of

June, and it is now drawing to the close of October. We had already

passed the greater part of a summer, an entire autumn, winter and

spring, within the walls of Paris, and then we thought we might indulge

our tastes a little, by retreating to the fields, to catch a glimpse of

country life. You will smile when I add that we are only a league from

the _Barrière de Clichy_. This is the reason I have not before spoken of

the removal, for we are in town three or four times every week, and

never miss an occasion, when there is any thing to be seen. I shall now

proceed, however, to let you into the secret of our actual situation.

I passed the month of May examining the environs of the capital in quest

of a house. As this was an agreeable occupation, we were in no hurry,

but having set up my _cabriolet_, we killed two birds with one stone, by

making ourselves familiarly acquainted with nearly every village, or

hamlet, within three leagues of Paris, a distance beyond which I did not

wish to go.

On the side of St. Cloud, which embraces Passy, Auteuil, and all the

places that encircle the _Bois de Boulogne_, the Hyde Park of Paris,

there are very many pleasant residences, but, from one cause or another,

no one suited us, exactly, and we finally took a house in the village of

St. Ouen, the Runnymeade of France. When Louis XVIII. came, in 1814, to

his capital, in the rear of the allies, he stopped for a few days at St

Ouen, a league from the barriers, where there was a small _château_ that

was the property of the crown. Here he was met by M. de Talleyrand and

others, and hence he issued the celebrated charter, that is to render

France, forevermore, a constitutional country.

The _château_ has since been razed, and a pavilion erected in its place,

which has been presented to the Comtesse de ——, a lady, who, reversing

the ordinary lot of courtiers, is said to cause majesty to live in the

sunshine of _her_ smiles. What an appropriate and encouraging monument

to rear on the birthplace of French liberty! At the opposite extremity

of the village, is another considerable house, that was once the

dwelling of M. Neckar, and is now the property and country residence of

M. Ternaux, or the _Baron_ Ternaux, if it were polite to style him thus,

the most celebrated manufacturer of France. I say polite, for the mere

_fanfaronade_ of nobility is little in vogue here. The wags tell a story

of some one, who was formally announced as “_Mons. le Marquis d’un

tel_,” turning short round on the servant, and exclaiming with

indignation, “_Marquis, toi-même!_” But this story savours of the

Bonapartists, for, as the Emperor created neither _marquis_ nor

_vicomtes_, there was a sort of affectation of assuming these titles at

the restoration, as proofs of belonging to the old _régime_.

St. Ouen is a cluster of small, mean, stone houses, stretched along the

right bank of the Seine, which, after making a circuit of near twenty

miles, winds round so close to the town, again, that they are actually

constructing a basin, near the village, for the use of the capital; it

being easier to wheel articles from this point to Paris, than to contend

with the current and to thread its shoals. In addition to the two houses

named, however, it has six or eight respectable abodes between the

street and the river, one of which is our own.

This place became a princely residence about the year 1300, since which

time it has been more or less frequented as such, down to the 4th June,

1814, the date of the memorable charter.[7] Madame de Pompadour

possessed the _château_ in 1745, so you see it has been “dust to dust”

with this place, as with all that is frail.

Footnote 7:

The _château_ of St. Ouen, rather less than two centuries since,

passed into the possession of the _Duc de Gesvre_. Dulaure gives the

following, a part of a letter from this nobleman, as a specimen of the

education of a _Duc_, in the seventeenth century. “_Monsieur, me

trouvant obligé de randre une bonne party de largan que mais enfant

ont pris de peuis qu’il sont au campane, monsieur, cela moblige a vous

suplier tres humblemant monsieur de me faire la grasse de commander

monsieur quant il vous plera que lon me pay la capitenery de Monsaux

monsieur vous asseurant que vous mobligeres fort sansiblement monsieur

comme ausy de me croire avec toute sorte de respec, etc._” This beats

Jack Cade, out and out. The great connêtable _Anne de Montmorency_

could not write his name, and, as his signature became necessary, his

secretary stood over his shoulder to tell him when he had made enough

_piés de mouche_ to answer the purpose.

The village of St. Ouen, small, dirty, crowded and unsavoury as it is,

has a _place_, like every other French village. When we drove into it,

to look at the house, I confess to having laughed outright, at the idea

of inhabiting such a hole. Two large _portecochères_, however, opened

from the square, and we were admitted, through the best-looking of the

two, into a spacious and an extremely neat court. On one side of the

gate was a lodge for a porter, and, on the other, a building to contain

gardener’s tools, plants, &c. The walls that separate it from the square

and the adjoining gardens, are twelve or fourteen feet high, and once

within them, the world is completely excluded. The width of the grounds

does not exceed a hundred and fifty feet; the length, the form being

that of a parallelogram, may be three hundred, or a little more; and yet

in these narrow limits, which are planted _à l’Anglaise_, so well is

every thing contrived, that we appear to have abundance of room. The

garden terminates in a terrace that overhangs the river, and, from this

point, the eye ranges over a wide extent of beautiful plain, that is

bounded by fine bold hills which are teeming with gray villages and

_bourgs_.

The house is of stone, and not without elegance. It may be ninety feet

in length, by some forty in width. The entrance is into a vestibule,

which has the offices on the right, and the great stair-case on the

left. The principal _salon_ is in front. This is a good room, near

thirty feet long, fifteen or sixteen high, and has three good windows,

that open on the garden. The billiard-room communicates on one side, and

the _salle à manger_ on the other; next the latter come the offices

again, and next the billiard-room is a very pretty little _boudoir_. Up

stairs, are suites of bed-rooms and dressing-rooms; every thing is neat,

and the house is in excellent order, and well furnished for a country

residence. Now, all this I get at a hundred dollars a month, for the

five summer months. There are also a carriage house, and stabling for

three horses. The gardener and porter are paid by the proprietor. The

village, however, is not in much request, and the rent is thought to be

low.

One of the great advantages that is enjoyed by a residence in Europe,

are the facilities of this nature. Furnished apartments, or furnished

houses, can be had in almost every town of any size; and, owning your

own linen and plate, nearly every other necessary is found you. It is

true, that one sometimes misses comforts to which he has been accustomed

in his own house; but, in France, many little things are found, it is

not usual to meet with elsewhere. Thus, no principal bed-room is

considered properly furnished in a good house, without a handsome

secretary, and a bureau. These two articles are as much matters of

course, as are the eternal two rooms and folding doors, in New York.

This, then, has been our _Tusculum_ since June. M. Ternaux enlivens the

scene, occasionally, by a dinner; and he has politely granted us

permission to walk in his grounds, which are extensive and well laid

out, for the old French style. We have a neighbour on our left, name

unknown, who gives suppers in his garden, and concerts that really are

worthy of the grand opera. Occasionally, we get a song, in a female

voice, that rivals the best of Madame Malibran’s. On our right lives a

staid widow, whose establishment is as tranquil as our own.

One of our great amusements is to watch the _living_ life on the

river,—there is no _still_ life in France. All the washerwomen of the

village assemble, three days in the week, beneath our terrace, and a

merrier set of _grisettes_ is not to be found in the neighbourhood of

Paris. They chat, and joke, and splash, and scream from morning to

night, lightening the toil by never-ceasing good humour. Occasionally an

enormous scow-like barge is hauled up against the current, by stout

horses, loaded to the waters edge, or one, without freight, comes

dropping down the stream, nearly filling the whole river as it floats

broad-side to. There are three or four islands opposite, and, now and

then, a small boat is seen paddling among them. We have even tried

_punting_ ourselves, but the amusement was soon exhausted.

Sunday is a great day with us, for then the shore is lined with

Parisians, as thoroughly cockney as if Bow-bells could be heard in the

_quartier Montmartre_! These good people visit us, in all sorts of ways;

some on donkies, some in _cabriolets_, some in _fiacres_, and, by far

the larger portion on foot. They are perfectly inoffensive and

unobtrusive, being, in this respect, just as unlike an American inroad

from a town, as can well be. These crowds pass vineyards on their way to

us, unprotected by any fences. This point in the French character,

however, about which so much has been said to our disadvantage, as well

as to that of the English, is subject to some explanation. The statues,

promenades, gardens, &c. &c. are, almost without exception, guarded by

sentinels; and then there are agents of the police, in common clothes,

scattered through the towns, in such numbers as to make depredations

hazardous. In the country each _commune_ has one, or more, _gardes

champêtre_, whose sole business it is to detect and arrest trespassers.

When to these are added the _gensdarmes à piè_ and _à cheval_, who are

constantly in motion, one sees that the risk of breaking the laws, is

attended with more hazard here, than with us. There is no doubt, on the

other hand, that the training and habits, produced by such a system of

watchfulness, enter so far into the character of the people, that they

cease to think of doing that which is so strenuously denied them.

Some of our visitors make their appearance in a very quaint style. I met

a party the other day, among whom the following family arrangement had

obtained. The man was mounted on a donkey, with his feet just clear of

the ground. The wife, a buxom brunette, was trudging afoot in the rear,

accompanied by the two younger children, a boy and girl, between twelve

and fourteen, led by a small dog, fastened to a string, like the guide

of a blind mendicant; while the eldest daughter was mounted on the

crupper, maintaining her equilibrium by a masculine disposition of her

lower limbs. She was a fine, rosy cheeked _grisette_, of about

seventeen; and, as they ambled along, just fast enough to keep the cur

on a slow trot, her cap flared in the wind, her black eyes flashed with

pleasure, and her dark ringlets streamed behind her, like so many silken

pennants. She had a ready laugh for every one she met, and a sort of

malicious pleasure in asking, by her countenance, if they did not wish

they too had a donkey? As the seat was none of the most commodious, she

had contrived to make a pair of stirrups of her petticoats. The gown was

pinned up about her waist, leaving her knees instead of her feet, as the

_points d’appui_. The well-turned legs, and the ancles, with such a

_chaussure_ as at once marks a _Parisienne_, were exposed to the

admiration of a _parterre_ of some hundreds of idle wayfarers. Truly, it

is no wonder that sculptors abound in this country, for capital models

are to be found, even in the highways. The donkey was the only one who

appeared displeased with this _monture_, and he only manifested

dissatisfaction by lifting his hinder extremities a little, as the man

occasionally touched his flanks with a nettle, that the ass would much

rather have been eating.

Not long since I passed half an hour on the terrace, an amused witness

of the perils of a voyage across the Seine, in a punt. The adventurers

were a _bourgeois_, his wife, sister, and child. Honest Pierre, the

waterman, had conditioned to take the whole party to the island

opposite, and to return them safe to the main, for the modicum of five

_sous_. The old fox invariably charged me a _franc_, for the same

service. There was much demurring and many doubts about encountering the

risks; and, more than once, the women would have receded, had not the

man treated the matter as a trifle. He affirmed _parole d’honneur_ that

his father had crossed the Maine a dozen times, and no harm had come of

it! This encouraged them, and with many pretty screams, _mes fois_, and

_oh, dieus_, they finally embarked. The punt was a narrow scow, that a

ton weight would not have disturbed, the river was so low and sluggish

that it might have been forded two-thirds of the distance, and the width

was not three hundred feet. Pierre protested that the danger was

certainly not worth mentioning, and away he went, as philosophical in

appearance as his punt. The voyage was made in safety, and the bows of

the boat had actually touched the shore on its return, before any of the

passengers ventured to smile. The excursion, like most travelling, was

likely to be most productive of happiness by the recollections. But the

women were no sooner landed, than that rash adventurer, the husband,

brother, and father, seized an oar, and began to ply it with all his

force. He merely wished to tell his _confreres_ of the _rue Montmartre_

how a punt might be rowed. Pierre had gallantly landed to assist the

ladies, and the boat, relieved of its weight, slowly yielded to the

impulse of the oar, and inclined its bows from the land. “_Oh! Edouard!

mon mari! mon frere!—que fais tu?_” exclaimed the ladies. “_Ce n’est

rien_,” returned the man, puffing and giving another lusty sweep, by

which he succeeded in forcing the punt fully twenty feet from the shore.

“_Edouard! cher Edouard!_” “_Laisse-moi m’amuser. Je m’amuse—je

m’amuse_,” cried the husband, in a tone of indignant remonstrance. But

_Edouard_, a tight, sleek little _epìcier_, of about five and thirty,

had never heard that an oar on each side was necessary in a boat, and

the harder he pulled, the less likely was he to regain the shore. Of

this he began to be convinced, as he whirled more into the centre of the

current; and his efforts now really became frantic, for his imagination

probably painted the horrors of a distant voyage, in an unknown bark, to

an unknown land, and all without food or compass. The women screamed,

and the louder they cried, the more strenuously he persevered in saying,

“_Laisse-moi m’amuser—je m’amuse, je m’amuse._” By this time the

perspiration poured from the face of _Edouard_, and I called to the

imperturbable Pierre, who stood in silent admiration of his punt while

playing such antics, and desired him to tell the man to put his oar on

the bottom, and to push the boat ashore. “_Oui, Monsieur_,” said the

rogue, with a leer, for he remembered the francs, and we soon had our

adventurer safe on _terra firma_ again. Then began the tender

expostulations, the affectionate reproaches, and the kind injunctions

for the truant to remember that he was a husband and a father.

_Edouard_, secretly cursing the punt and all rivers in his heart, made

light of the matter, however, protesting to the last, that he had only

been enjoying himself.

We have had a _fête_, too; for every village in the vicinity of Paris

has its _fête_. The square was filled with whirligigs and flying-horses,

and all the ingenious contrivances of the French to make and to spend a

_sous_ pleasantly. There was service in the parish church, at which our

neighbours sang, in a style fit for St. Peter’s; and the villagers

danced _quadrilles_ on the green, with an air that would be thought fine

in many a country drawing-room.

I enjoy all this greatly; for, to own the truth, the crowds and mannered

sameness of Paris began to weary me. Our friends occasionally come from

town to see us, and we make good use of the _cabriolet_. As we are near

neighbours to _St. Denis_, we have paid several visits to the tombs of

the French kings, and returned, each time, less pleased with most of the

unmeaning obsequies that are observed in their vaults. There was a

ceremony, not long since, at which the royal family, and many of the

great officers of the court assisted, and among others, M. de

Talleyrand. The latter was in the body of the church, when a man rushed

upon him, and actually struck him, or shoved him, to the earth, using,

at the same time, language that left no doubt of the nature of the

assault. There are strange rumours connected with the affair. The

assailant was a _Marquis de_ ——, and it is reported that his wrongs,

real or imaginary, are connected with a plot to rob one of the dethroned

family of her jewels, or of some crown jewels, I cannot say which, at

the epoch of the restoration. The journals said a good deal about it, at

the time, but events occur so fast, here, that a quarrel of this sort

produces little sensation. I pretend to no knowledge of the merits of

this affair, and only give a general outline of what was current in the

public prints, at the time.

We have also visited Enghien, and Montmorency. The latter, as you know

already, stands on the side of a low mountain, in plain view of Paris.

It is a town of some size, with very uneven streets, some of them being

actually sharp acclivities, and a gothic church that is seen from afar,

and that is well worth viewing near by. These quaint edifices afford us

deep delight, by their antiquity, architecture, size, and pious

histories. What matters it to us how much or how little superstition may

blend with the rites, when we know and feel that we are standing in a

nave that has echoed with orisons to God, for a thousand years! This of

Montmorency is not quite so old, however, having been rebuilt only three

centuries since.

Dulaure, a severe judge of aristocracy, denounces the pretension of the

_Montmorencies_ to be the _Premiers Barons Chretiens_, affirming that

they were neither the first barons, nor the first Christians, by a great

many. He says, that the extravagant title has most probably been a

war-cry, in the time of the crusaders. According to his account of the

family, it originated, about the year 1008, in a certain Burchard, who,

proving a bad neighbour to the Abbey of St. Denis, the vassals of which

he was in the habit of robbing, besides, now and then, despoiling a

monk, the king caused his fortress in the _isle St. Denis_ to be razed;

after which, by a treaty, he was put in possession of the mountain hard

by, with permission to erect another hold near a fountain, at a place

called in the charters, _Montmorenciacum_. Hence the name, and the

family. This writer thinks that the first castle must have been built of

wood!

We took a road that led us up to a bluff on the mountain, behind the

town, where we obtained a new and very peculiar view of Paris and its

environs. I have said that the French towns have no straggling suburbs.

A few wine-houses (to save the _ortroi_) are built near the gates,

compactly, as in the town itself, and there the buildings cease as

suddenly as if pared down by a knife. The fields touch the walls, in

many places, and between St. Ouen and the _guinguettes_ and wine-houses,

at the _barrière de Clichy_, a distance of quite two miles, there is but

a solitary building. A wide plain separates Paris, on this side, from

the mountains, and of course our view extended across it. The number of

villages was absolutely astounding. Although I did not attempt counting

them, I should think not fewer than a hundred were in sight, all gray,

picturesque, and clustering round the high nave and church tower, like

chickens gathering beneath the wing. The day was clouded, and the

hamlets rose from their beds of verdure, sombre but distinct, with their

faces of wall, now in subdued light, and now quite shaded, resembling

the glorious _darks_ of Rembrandt’s pictures.

LETTER VI.

TO CAPT. M. PERRY, U. S. N.

I am often in the saddle, since our removal to St. Ouen. I first

commenced the business of exploring in the cabriolet, with my wife for a

companion, during which time, several very pretty drives, of whose

existence one journeying along the great roads would form no idea, were

discovered. At last, as these became exhausted, I mounted, and pricked

into the fields. The result has been a better knowledge of the details

of ordinary rural life, in this country, than a stranger would get by a

residence, after the ordinary fashion, of years.

I found the vast plain intersected by roads as intricate as the veins of

the human body. The comparison is not unapt, by the way, and may be even

carried out much further; for the _grandes routes_ can be compared to

the arteries, the _chemins vicinaux_, or cross-roads, to the veins, and

the innumerable paths that intersect the fields, in all directions, to

the more minute blood vessels, circulation being the object common to

all.

I mount my horse and gallop into the fields at random, merely taking

care not to quit the paths. By the latter, one can go in almost any

direction; and, as they are very winding, there is a certain pleasure in

following their sinuosities, doubtful whither they tend. Much of the

plain is in vegetables, for the use of Paris, though there is

occasionally a vineyard, or a field of grain. The weather has become

settled and autumnal, and is equally without the chilling moisture of

the winter or the fickleness of the spring. The kind-hearted peasants

see me pass among them without distrust, and my salutations are answered

with cheerfulness and civility. Even at this trifling distance from the

capital, I miss the _brusque_ ferocity that is so apt to characterize

the deportment of its lower classes, who are truly the people that

Voltaire has described as “_ou singes, ou tigres_.” Nothing, I think,

strikes an American more than the marked difference between the town and

country of France. With us, the towns are less town-like, and the

country less country-like, than is usually the case. Our towns are

provincial from the want of tone that can only be acquired by time,

while it is a fault with our country to wish to imitate the towns. I now

allude to habits only, for the nature at home, owing to the great

abundance of wood, is more strikingly rural than in any other country I

know. The inhabitant of Paris can quit his own door in the centre of the

place, and after walking an hour, he finds himself truly in the country,

both as to the air of external objects, and as to the manners of the

people. The influence of the capital doubtless has some little effect on

the latter, but not enough to raise them above the ordinary rusticity,

for the French peasants are as rustic in their appearance and habits, as

the upper classes are refined.

One of my rides is through the plain that lies between St. Ouen and

Montmartre, ascending the latter by its rear to the windmills, that

night and day, are whirling their ragged arms over the capital of

France. Thence I descend into the town, by the carriage road. A view

from this height is like a glimpse into the pages of history, for every

foot of land that it commands, and more than half the artificial

accessories, are pregnant of the past. Looking down into the fissures

between the houses, men appear the mites they are, and one gets to have

a philosophical indifference to human vanities, by obtaining these

bird’s-eye views of them in the mass. It was a happy thought that first

suggested the summits of mountains for religious contemplation; nor do I

think the Father of Evil discovered his usual sagacity when he resorted

to such a place for the purposes of selfish temptation; perhaps,

however, it would be better to say, he betrayed the grovelling

propensities of his own nature. The cathedral of Notre Dame should have

been reared on this noble and isolated height, that the airs of heaven

might whisper through its fane, breathing the chaunts in honour of God.

Dismounting, manfully, I have lately undertaken a far more serious

enterprise—that of making the entire circuit of Paris, on foot. My

companion was our old friend Capt. ——. We met, by appointment, at eleven

o’clock, just without the _barrière de Clichy_, and, ordering the

carriage to come for us at five, off we started, taking the direction of

the eastern side of the town. You probably know that what are commonly

called the _boulevards_ of Paris, are no more than a circular line of

wide streets, through the very heart of the place, which obtain their

common appellation from the fact that they occupy the sites of the

ancient walls. Thus the street, within this circuit, is called by its

name, whatever it may happen to be, and, if continued without the

circuit, the term of _fauxbourg_ or suburb is added; as in the case of

the “_rue St. Honoré_,” and the “_rue fauxbourg St. Honoré_,” the latter

being strictly a continuation of the former, but lying without the site

of the ancient walls. As the town has increased, it has been found

necessary to enlarge its _enceinte_, and the walls are now encircled

with wide avenues that are called the outer _boulevards_. There are

avenues within and without the walls, and immediately beneath them; and,

in many places, both are planted. Our route was on the exterior.

We began the march in good spirits, and by twelve, we had handsomely

done our four miles and a half. Of course we passed the different

_barrières_, and the gate of _Père la Chaise_. The captain commenced

with great vigour, and for near two hours, as he expressed himself, he

had me a little on his lee quarter, not more, however, he thought, than

was due to his superior rank, for he had once been my senior, as a

midshipman. At the _barrière du trone_ we were compelled to diverge a

little from the wall, in order to get across the river by the _pont

d’Austerlitz_. By this time, I had ranged up abeam of the commodore, and

I proposed that we should follow the river, up as far as the wall again,

in order to do our work honestly. But to this he objected that he had no

wish to puzzle himself with spherical trigonometry, that plane sailing

was his humour at the moment, and that he had, moreover, just discovered

that one of his boots pinched his foot. Accordingly we proceeded

straight from the bridge, not meeting the wall again until we were

beyond the _abattoir_. These _abattoirs_ are slaughter-houses, that

Napoleon caused to be built, near the walls, in some places within, and

in others without them, according to the different localities. There are

five or six of them, that of _Montmartre_ being the most considerable.

They are kept in excellent order, and the regulations respecting them

appear to be generally good. The butchers sell their meats, in shops,

all over the town, a general custom in Europe, and one that has more

advantages than disadvantages, as it enables the inhabitant to order a

meal at any moment. This independence in the mode of living

distinguishes all the large towns of this part of the world from our

own; for I greatly question if there be any civilized people among whom

the individual is as much obliged to consult the habits and tastes of

_all_, in gratifying his own, as in free and independent America. A part

of this uncomfortable feature in our domestic economy, is no doubt the

result of circumstances unavoidably connected with the condition of a

young country, but a great deal is to be ascribed to the practice of

referring every thing to the public, and not a little to those religious

sects who extended their supervision to all the affairs of life, that

had a chief concern in settling the country, and who have entailed so

much that is inconvenient and ungraceful (I might almost say, in some

instances, _disgraceful_) on the nation, blended with so much that forms

its purest sources of pride. Men are always an inconsistent medley of

good and bad.

The captain and myself had visited the _abattoir_ of _Montmartre_ only a

few days previously to this excursion, and we had both been much

gratified with its order and neatness. But an unfortunate pile of hocks,

hoofs, tallow, and nameless fragments of carcasses, had caught my

companion’s eye. I found him musing over this _omnium gatherum_, which

he protested was worse than a bread pudding at Saratoga. By some process

of reasoning, that was rather material than philosophical, he came to

the conclusion that the substratum of all the extraordinary compounds he

had met with at the _restaurants_ was derived from this pile, and he

swore, as terribly as any of “our army in Flanders,” that not another

mouthful would he touch, while he remained in Paris, if the dish put his

knowledge of natural history at fault. He had all along suspected he had

been eating cats and vermin, but his imagination had never pictured to

him such a store of abominations for the _casserole_, as were to be seen

in this pile. In vain I asked him if he did not find the dishes good.

Cats might be good for any thing he knew, but he was too old to change

his habits. On the present occasion, he made the situation of the

_abattoir d’Ivry_ an excuse for not turning up the river, by the wall. I

do not think, however, we gained any thing in the distance, the _détour_

to cross the bridge more than equaling the ground we missed.

We came under the wall again, at the _barrière de Ville Juif_, and

followed it, keeping on the side next the town, until we fairly reached

the river, once more, beyond _Vaugirard_. Here we were compelled to walk

some distance to cross the _Pont de Jéne_, and again to make a

considerable circuit through Passy, on account of the gardens, in order

to do justice to our task. About this time, the commodore fairly fell

astern; and he discovered that the other boot was too large. I kept

talking to him over my shoulder, and cheering him on, and he felicitated

me on frogs agreeing so well with my constitution. At length, we came in

at the _barrière de Clichy_, just as the clocks struck three, or in four

hours, to a minute, from the time we had left the same spot. We had

neither stopped, eaten, nor drunk a mouthful. The distance is supposed

to be about eighteen miles, but I can hardly think it is so much, for we

went rather further than if we had closely followed the wall.

Our agility having greatly exceeded my calculations, we were obliged to

walk two miles further, in order to find the carriage. The time expended

in going this distance included, we were just four hours and a half on

our feet. The captain protested that his boots had disgraced him, and

forthwith commanded another pair; a subterfuge that did him no good.

One anecdote connected with the sojourn of this eccentric, but really

excellent-hearted and intelligent man,[8] at Paris, is too good not to

be told. He cannot speak a word of pure French, and of all Anglicizing

of the language, I have ever heard, his attempts at it are the most

droll. He calls the _Tuileries_, Tully_rees_, the _jardins des plantes_

the _garden dis plants_, the _guillotine_, _gullyteen_, and the

_garçons_ of the _cafés_, _gassons_. Cholerick, with whiskers like a

bear, and a voice of thunder, if any thing goes wrong, he swears away,

starboard and larboard, in French and English, in delightful discord.

Footnote 8:

He is since dead.

He sought me out, soon after his arrival, and carried me with him, as an

interpreter, in quest of lodgings. We found a very snug little apartment

of four rooms, that he took. The last occupant was a lady, who in

letting the rooms, conditioned that _Marie_, her servant, must be hired

with them, to look after the furniture, and to be in readiness to

receive her, at her return from the provinces. A few days after this

arrangement I called, and was surprised, on ringing the bell, to hear

the cry of an infant. After a moment’s delay the door was cautiously

opened, and the captain in his gruffest tone demanded, “_cur vully

voo_?” An exclamation of surprize, at seeing me, followed; but instead

of opening the door for my admission, he held it, for a moment, as if

undecided whether to be “at home” or not. At this critical instant an

infant cried again, and the thing became too ridiculous for further

gravity. We both laughed outright. I entered and found the captain with

a child three days old, tucked under his right arm, or that which had

been concealed by the door. The explanation was very simple, and

infinitely to his credit.

Marie, the _locum tenens_ of the lady who had let the apartment, and the

wife of a coachman who was in the country, was the mother of the infant.

After its birth, she presented herself to her new master; told her

story, adding, by means of an interpreter, that if he turned her away,

she had no place in which to lay her head. The kind-hearted fellow made

out to live abroad as well as he could, for a day or two; an easy thing

enough in Paris, by the way; and when I so unexpectedly entered, Marie

was actually cooking the captain’s breakfast in the kitchen, while he

was nursing the child in the _salon_!

The dialogues between the captain and Marie, were, to the last degree,

amusing. He was quite unconscious of the odd sounds he uttered in

speaking French, but thought he was getting on very well, being rather

minute and particular in his orders; and she felt his kindness to

herself and child so sensibly, that she always fancied she understood

his wishes. I was frequently compelled to interpret between them, first

asking him to explain himself in English, for I could make but little of

his French, myself. On one occasion, he invited me to breakfast, as we

were to pass the day exploring, in company. By way of inducement, he

told me that he had accidentally found some cocoa in the shell, and that

he had been teaching Marie how to cook it, “ship-fashion.” I would not

promise, as his hour was rather early, and the distance between us so

great; but before eleven I would certainly be with him. I breakfasted at

home, therefore, but was punctual to the latter engagement. “I hope you

have breakfasted?” cried the captain, rather fiercely, as I entered. I

satisfied him on this point, and then, after a minute of demure

reflection, he resumed, “you are lucky, for Marie boiled the cocoa, and,

after throwing away the liquor, she buttered and peppered the shells,

and served them for me to eat! I don’t see how she made such a mistake,

for I was very particular in my directions, and be d—d to her. I don’t

care so much about my own breakfast, neither, for that can be had at the

next _café_, but the poor creature has lost hers, which I told her to

cook out of the rest of the cocoa.” I had the curiosity to inquire how

he had made out to tell _Marie_ to do all this. “Why, I showed her the

cocoa, to be sure, and then told her to “_boily vousmême_.” There was no

laughing at this, and so I went with the captain to a _café_, after

which we proceeded in quest of the “_gullyteen_,” which he was

particularly anxious to see.

My rides often extend to the heights behind Malmaison and St. Cloud,

where there is a fine country, and where some of the best views, in the

vicinity of Paris, are to be obtained. As the court is at St. Cloud, I

often meet different members of the royal family, dashing to or from

town, or perhaps passing from one of their abodes to another. The style

is pretty uniform, for I do not remember to have ever met the king, but

once, with less than eight horses. The exception, was quite early one

morning, when he was going into the country with very little _éclat_,

accompanied by the Dauphine. Even on this occasion, he was in a carriage

and six, followed by another with four, and attended by a dozen mounted

men. These royal progresses are truly magnificent; and they serve

greatly to enliven the road, as we live so near the country palace. The

king has been quite lately to a camp, formed at St. Omer, and I happened

to meet a portion of his equipages on their return. The carriages I saw

were very neatly built post-chaises, well leathered, and contained what

are here called the “officers of the mouth,” alias “cooks and

purveyors.” They were all drawn by four horses. This was a great

occasion—furniture being actually sent from the palace of Compèigne for

the king’s lodgings, and the court is said to have employed seventy

different vehicles to transport it. I saw about a dozen.

Returning the other night from a dinner party, given on the banks of the

Seine, a few miles above us, I saw flaring lights gleaming along the

highway, which, at first, caused nearly as much conjecture as some of

the adventures of Don Quixote. My horse proving a little restive, I

pulled up, placing the _cabriolet_ on one side of the road, for the

first impression was that the cattle employed at some funeral procession

had taken flight, and were running away. It proved to be the Dauphine

dashing towards St. Cloud. This was the first time I had ever met any of

the royal equipages at night, and the passage was much the most

picturesque of any I had hitherto seen. Footmen, holding flaming

flambeaux, rode in pairs, in front, by the side of the carriage, and in

its rear; the _piqueur_ scouring along the road in advance, like a

rocket. By the way, a lady of the court told me lately, that Louis

XVIIIth had lost some of his French by the emigration, for he did not

know how to pronounce this word _piqueur_.

On witnessing all this magnificence, the mind is carried back a few

generations, in the inquiry after the progress of luxury, and the usages

of our fathers. Coaches were first used in England in the reign of

Elizabeth. It is clear enough, by the pictures in the Louvre, that in

the time of Louis XIVth the royal carriages were huge, clumsy vehicles,

with at least three seats. _Mademoiselle de Montpensier_, in her

Memoirs, tells us how often she took her place at the window, in order

to admire the graceful attitudes of _M. de Lauzun_, who rode near it.

There is still in existence, in the _Bibliothèque du Roi_, a letter of

Henry IVth to Sully, in which the king explains to the grand master, the

reason why he could not come to the arsenal that day: the excuse being

that the queen _was using the carriage_! To-day his descendant seldom

moves at a pace slower than ten miles the hour, is drawn by eight

horses, and is usually accompanied by one or more empty vehicles, of

equal magnificence, to receive him, in the event of an accident.

Notwithstanding all this regal splendour, the turn-outs of Paris, as a

whole, are by no means remarkable. The genteelest, and the fashionable,

carriage is the chariot. I like the proportions of the French carriages

better than those of the English, or our own: the first being too heavy,

and the last too light. The French vehicles appear to me to be, in this

respect, a happy medium. But the finish is by no means equal to that of

the English carriages, nor at all better than that of ours. There are,

relatively, a large proportion of shabby-genteel equipages at Paris.

Even the vehicles that are seen standing in the court of the

_Tuileries_, on a reception day, are not at all superior to the better

sort of American carriages, though the liveries are much more showy.

Few people here, own the carriages and horses they use. Even the

strangers, who are obliged to have travelling vehicles, rarely use them

in town, the road and the streets requiring very different sorts of

equipages. There are certain job-dealers who furnish all that is

required, for a stipulated sum. You select the carriage and horses, on

trial, and contract at so much a month, or at so much a year. The

coachman usually comes with the equipage, as does the footman sometimes,

though both are paid by the person taking the coach. They will wear your

livery, if you choose, and, you can have your arms put on the carriage,

if desirable. I pay five hundred francs a month for a carriage and

horses, and forty francs for a coachman. I believe this is the usual

price. I have a right to have a pair of horses, always at my command,

finding nothing but the stable, and even this would be unnecessary in

Paris. If we go away from our own stable, I pay five francs a day,

extra. There is a very great convenience to strangers, in particular, in

this system, for one can set up, and lay down a carriage, without

unnecessary trouble or expense, as it may be wanted. In every thing of

this nature, we have no town that has the least the character, or the

conveniences, of a capital.

The French have little to boast of in the way of horse flesh. Most of

the fine coach and cabriolet cattle of Paris come from Mecklenburg,

though some are imported from England. It is not common to meet with a

very fine animal of the native breed. In America, land is so plenty and

so cheap, that we keep a much larger proportion of brute force than is

kept here. It is not uncommon with us to meet with those who live by

day’s work, using either oxen or horses. The consequence is, that many

beasts are raised with little care, and with scarcely any attention to

the breeds. We find many bad horses, therefore, in America, but still we

find many good ones. In spite of bad grooming, little training, and hard

work, I greatly question if even England possesses a larger proportion

of good horses, comparing the population of the two countries, than

America. Our animals are quicker footed, and at trotting, I suspect, we

could beat the world; Christendom, certainly. The great avenue between

the garden of the _Tuileries_ and the _Bois de Boulogne_, with the

_allées_ of the latter, are the places to meet the fast goers of the

French capital, and I am strongly of opinion that there is no such

exhibition of speed, in either, as one meets on the Third Avenue of New

York. As for the _Avenue de Neuilly_, our sulky riders would vanish like

the wind from any thing I have seen on it, although one meets there,

occasionally, fine animals from all parts of Europe.

The cattle of the _diligences_, of the post houses, and even of the

cavalry of France, are solid, hardy and good feeders, but they are

almost entirely without speed or action. The two former are very much

the same, and it is a hard matter to get more than eight miles out of

them, without breaking into a gallop, or more than ten, if put under the

whip. Now, a short time previously to leaving home, I went eleven

measured miles, in a public coach, in two minutes less than an hour, the

whip untouched. I sat on the box, by the side of the driver, and know

that this was done under a pull that actually disabled one of his arms,

and that neither of the four animals broke its trot. It is not often our

roads will admit of this, but, had we the roads of England, I make

little doubt we should altogether outdo her in speed. As for the horses

used here, in the public conveyances, and for the post routes, they are

commonly compact, clumsy beasts, with less force than their shape would

give reason to suppose. Their manes are long and shaggy, the fetlocks

are rarely trimmed, the shoes are seldom corked, and, when there is a

little coquetry, the tail is braided. In this trim, with a coarse

harness, that is hardly ever cleaned, traces of common rope, and half

the time no blinkers or reins, away they scamper, with their heads in

all directions, like the classical representation of a team in an

ancient car, through thick and thin, working with all their might to do

two posts within an hour; one, being the legal measure. These animals

appear to possess a strange _bonhomie_, being obedient, willing, and

tractable, although, in the way of harness and reins, they are pretty

much their own masters.

My excursions in the environs have made me acquainted with a great

variety of modes of communication between the capital and its adjacent

villages. Although Paris is pared down so accurately, and is almost

without suburbs, the population, within a circuit of ten miles in each

direction, is almost equal to that of Paris itself. St. Denis has

several thousands, St. Germain the same, and Versailles is still a town

of considerable importance. All these places, with villages out of

number, keep up daily intercourse with the city, and in addition to the

hundreds of vegetable carts that constantly pass to and fro, there are

many conveyances that are exclusively devoted to passengers. The

cheapest and lowest is called a _coucou_, for no reason that I can see,

unless it be that a man looks very like a fool to have a seat in one of

them. They are large _cabriolets_, with two and even three seats. The

wheels are enormous, and there is commonly a small horse harnessed by

the side of a larger, in the thills, to drag perhaps eight or nine

people. One is amazed to see the living carrion that is driven about a

place like Paris, in these uncouth vehicles. The river is so exceedingly

crooked, that it is little used by travellers above Rouen.

The internal transportation of France, where the lines of the rivers are

not followed, is carried on, almost exclusively, in enormous carts,

drawn by six and even eight heavy horses, harnessed in a line. The

burthen is often as large as a load of hay, not quite so high, perhaps,

but generally longer, care being had to preserve the balance in such a

manner as to leave no great weight on the shaft-horse. These teams are

managed with great dexterity, and I have often stopped and witnessed,

with admiration, the entrance of one of them into a yard, as it passed

from a crowded street probably not more than thirty feet wide. But the

evolutions of the _diligence_, guided as it chiefly is by the whip, and

moving on a trot, are really nice affairs. I came from _La Grange_, some

time since, in one, and I thought that we should dash every thing to

pieces in the streets, and yet nothing was injured. At the close of the

journey, our team of five horses, two on the pole and three on the lead,

wheeled, without breaking its trot, into a street that was barely wide

enough to receive the huge vehicle, and this too without human

direction, the driver being much too drunk to be of any service. These

_diligences_ are uncouth objects to the eye; but, for the inside

passengers, they are much more comfortable, so far as my experience

extends, than either the American stage, or the English coach.

The necessity of passing the _barrière_ two or three times a day, has

also made me acquainted with the great amount of drunkenness that

prevails in Paris. Wine can be had _outside_ of the walls, for about

half the price which is paid for it within the town, as it escapes the

_ortroi_, or city duty. The people resort to these places for

indulgence, and there is quite as much low blackguardism and guzzling

here, as is to be met with in any seaport I know.

Provisions of all sorts, too, are cheaper without the gates, for the

same reason; and the lower classes resort to them to celebrate their

weddings, and on other eating and drinking occasions. “_Ici on fait

festins et noces_,”[9] is a common sign, no barrier being without more

or less of these houses. The _guinguettes_ are low gardens, answering to

the English tea-gardens of the humblest class, with a difference in the

drinkables and other fare. The base of Montmartre is crowded with them.

Footnote 9:

Weddings and merry-makings are kept here.

One sometimes meets with an unpleasant adventure among these exhilirated

gentry; for, though, I think, a low Frenchman is usually better natured

when a little _grisé_ than when perfectly sober, this is not always the

case. Quite lately I had an affair that might have terminated seriously,

but for our good luck. It is usual to have two sets of reins to the

_cabriolets_, the horses being very spirited, and the danger from

accidents in streets so narrow and crowded, being great. I had dined in

town, and was coming out about nine o’clock. The horse was walking up

the ascent to the _barrière de Clichy_, when I observed, by the shadow

cast from a bright moon, that there was a man seated on the _cabriolet_,

behind. Charles was driving, and I ordered him to tell the man to get

off. Finding words of no effect, Charles gave him a slight tap with his

whip. The fellow instantly sprang forward, seized the horse by the

reins, and attempted to drag him to one side of the road. Failing in

this, he fled up the street. Charles now called out that he had cut the

reins. I seized the other pair and brought the horse up, and, as soon as

he was under command, we pursued our assailant at a gallop. He was soon

out of breath, and we captured him. As I felt very indignant at the

supposed outrage, which might have cost, not us only, but others, their

lives, I gave him in charge to two _gensd’armes_ at the gate, with my

address, promising to call at the police office in the morning.

Accordingly, next day I presented myself, and was surprised to find that

the man had been liberated. I had discovered, in the interval, that the

leather had _broken_, and had not been _cut_, which materially altered

the _animus_ of the offence, and I had come with an intention to ask for

the release of the culprit, believing it merely a sally of temper, which

a night’s imprisonment sufficiently punished; but, the man being

_charged_ with cutting the rein, I thought the magistrate had greatly

forgotten himself, in discharging him before I appeared. Indeed I made

no scruple in telling him so. We had some warm words, and parted. I make

no doubt I was mistaken for an Englishman, and that the old national

antipathy was at work against me.

I was a good deal surprised at the termination of this, my first essay

in French criminal justice. So many eulogiums have been passed on the

police, that I was not prepared to find this indifference to an offence

like that of wantonly cutting the reins of a spirited cabriolet horse,

in the streets of Paris; for such was the charge on which the man stood

committed. I mentioned the affair to a friend, and he said that the

police was good only for political offences, and that the government

rather leaned to the side of the rabble, in order to find support with

them, in the event of any serious movement. This, you will remember, was

the opinion of a Frenchman, and not mine; for I only relate the facts

(one conjecture excepted,) and to do justice to all parties, it is

proper to add that my friend is warmly opposed to the present _régime_.

I have uniformly found the _gensd’armes_ civil, and even obliging; and I

have seen them show great forbearance on various occasions. As to the

marvellous stories we have heard of the police of Paris, I suspect they

have been gotten up for effect, such things being constantly practised

here. One needs be behind the curtain, in a great many things, to get a

just idea of the true state of the world. A laughable instance has just

occurred, within my knowledge, of a story that has been got up for

effect. The town was quite horrified, lately, with an account, in the

journals, of a careless nurse permitting a child to fall into the

_fossé_ of the great bears, in the _jardins des plantes_, and of the

bears eating up the dear little thing, to the smallest fragment, before

succour could be obtained. Happening to be at the garden soon after, in

the company of one connected with the establishment, I inquired into the

circumstances, and was told that the nurses were very careless with the

children, and that the story was published in order that the bears

_should not eat up any child hereafter_, rather than because they ha_d

eaten up_ a child _heretofore_.

LETTER VII.

TO MRS. POMEROY, COOPERSTOWN.

I have said very little, in my previous letters, on the subject of our

personal intercourse with the society of Paris. It is not always easy

for one to be particular in these matters, and maintain the reserve that

is due to others. Violating the confidence he may have received through

his hospitality, is but an indifferent return from the guest to the

host. Still there are men, if I may so express it, so public in their

very essence, certainly in their lives, that propriety is less concerned

with a repetition of their sentiments, and with delineations of their

characters, than in ordinary cases; for the practice of the world has

put them so much on their guard against the representations of

travellers, that there is more danger of rendering a false account, by

becoming their dupes, than of betraying them in their unguarded moments.

I have scarcely ever been admitted to the presence of a real notoriety,

that I did not find the man, or woman—sex making little difference—an

actor; and this, too, much beyond the every day and perhaps justifiable

little practices of conventional life. Inherent simplicity of character,

is one of the rarest, as, tempered by the tone imparted by refinement,

it is the loveliest of all our traits, though it is quite common to meet

with those who affect it, with an address that is very apt to deceive

the ordinary, and most especially the flattered, observer.

Opportunity, rather than talents, is the great requisite for circulating

gossip; a very moderate degree of ability, sufficing for the observation

which shall render private anecdotes, more especially when they relate

to persons of celebrity, of interest to the general reader. But there is

another objection to being merely the medium of information of this low

quality, that I should think would have great influence with every one

who has the common self-respect of a gentleman. _There is a tacit

admission of inferiority_ in the occupation, that ought to prove too

humiliating to a man accustomed to those associations, which imply

equality. It is permitted to touch upon the habits and appearance of a

truly great man; but to dwell upon the peculiarities of a duke, merely

because he is a duke, is as much as to say he is your superior; a

concession I do not feel disposed to make in favour of any _mere duke_

in Christendom.

I shall not, however, be wholly silent on the general impressions left

by the little I have seen of the society of Paris; and, occasionally,

when it is characteristic, an anecdote may be introduced, for such

things sometimes give distinctness, as well as piquancy, to a

description.

During our first winter in Paris, our circle, never very large, was

principally confined to foreign families, intermingled with a few

French; but since our return to town, from St. Ouen, we have seen more

of the people of the country. I should greatly mislead you, however,

were I to leave the impression that our currency in the French capital

has been at all general, for it certainly has not. Neither my health,

leisure, fortune, nor opportunities, have permitted this. I believe few,

perhaps no Americans, have very general access to the best society of

any large European town; at all events, I have met with no one who, I

have had any reason to think was much better off than myself in this

respect; and, I repeat, my own familiarity with the circles of the

capital, is nothing to boast of. It is in Paris, as it is every where

else, as respects those who are easy of access. In all large towns there

is to be found a troublesome and pushing set, who, requiring notoriety,

obtrude themselves on strangers, sometimes with sounding names, and

always with offensive pretensions of some sort or other; but the truly

respectable and estimable class, in every country, except in cases that

cannot properly be included in the rule, are to be sought. Now, one must

feel that he has peculiar claims, or be better furnished with letters

than happened to be my case, to get a ready admission into this set, or,

having obtained it, to feel that his position enabled him to maintain

the intercourse, with the ease and freedom that could alone render it

agreeable. To be shown about as a lion, when circumstances offer the

means; to be stuck up at a dinner table, as a piece of luxury, like

strawberries in February, or peaches in April, can hardly be called

association: the terms being much on a par with that which forms the

_liaison_, between him who gives the entertainment, and the hired plate

with which his table is garnished. With this explanation, then, you are

welcome to an outline of the little I know on the subject.

One of the errors respecting the French, which has been imported into

America, through England, is the impression that they are not

hospitable. Since my residence here, I have often been at a loss to

imagine how such a notion could have arisen, for I am acquainted with no

town, in which it has struck me there is more true hospitality, than in

Paris. Not only are dinners, balls, and all the minor entertainments

frequent, but there is scarcely a man, or a woman, of any note in

society, who does not cause his or her doors to be opened, once a

fortnight at least, and, in half the cases, once a week. At these

_soirées_ invitations are sometimes given, it is true, but then they are

general, and for the whole season; and it is not unusual, even, to

consider them free to all who are on visiting terms with the family. The

utmost simplicity and good taste prevail at these places, the

refreshments being light and appropriate, and the forms exacting no more

than what belongs to good breeding. You will, at once, conceive the

great advantages that a stranger possesses in having access to such

social resources. One, with a tolerable visiting list, may choose his

circle for any particular evening, and, if by chance, the company should

not happen to be to his mind, he has still before him the alternative of

several other houses, which are certain to be open. It is not easy to

say what can be more truly hospitable than this.

The _petits soupers_, once so celebrated, are entirely superseded by the

new distribution of time, which is probably the most rational that can

be devised for a town life. The dinner is at six, an hour that is too

early to interfere with the engagements of the evening, it being usually

over at eight, and too late to render food again necessary that night;

an arrangement that greatly facilitates the evening intercourse,

releasing it at once from all trouble and parade.

It has often been said, in favour of French society, that once within

the doors of a _salon_ all are equal. This is not literally so, it being

impossible that such a state of things can exist; nor is it desirable

that it should; since it is confounding all sentiment and feeling,

overlooking the claims of age, services, merit of every sort, and

setting at naught the whole construction of society. It is not

absolutely true, that even rank is entirely forgotten in French society,

though I think it sufficiently so to prevent any deference to it from

being offensive. The social pretensions of a French peer are exceedingly

well regulated, nor do I remember to have seen an instance in which a

very young man has been particularly noticed on account of his having

claims of this sort. Distinguished men are so very numerous in Paris,

that they excite no great feeling, and the even course of society is

little disturbed on their account.

Although all within the doors of a French _salon_ are not perfectly

equal, none are made unpleasantly to feel the indifference. I dare say

there are circles in Paris, in which the mere possession of money may be

a source of evident distinction, but it must be in a very inferior set.

The French, while they are singularly alive to the advantages of money,

and extremely liable to yield to its influence in all important matters,

rarely permit any manifestations of its power to escape them in their

ordinary intercourse. As a people, they appear to me to be ready to

yield every thing to money, but its external homage. On these points,

they are the very converse of the Americans, who are hard to be bought,

while they consider money the very base of all distinction. The origin

of these peculiarities may be found in the respective conditions of the

two countries.

In America, fortunes are easily and rapidly acquired; pressure reduces

few to want; he who serves is, if any thing, more in demand than he who

is to be served; and the want of temptation produces exemption from the

liability to corruption. Men will, and do, daily, _corrupt themselves_,

in the rapacious pursuit of gain, but comparatively few are in the

market, to be bought and sold by others. Notwithstanding this, money

being every man’s goal, there is a secret, profound, and general

deference for it; while money will do less, than in almost any other

country in Christendom. Here, few young men look forward to gaining

distinction by making money; they search for it, as a means; whereas,

with us, it is the end. We have little need of arms in America, and the

profession is in less request than that of law or merchandize. Of the

arts and letters, the country possesses none, or next to none; and there

is no true sympathy with either. The only career that is felt, as likely

to lead, and which can lead, to distinction independently of money, is

that of politics, and, as a whole, this is so much occupied by sheer

adventurers, with little or no pretension to the name of statesmen, that

it is scarcely reputable to belong to it. Although money has no

influence in politics, or as little as well may be, even the successful

politician is but a secondary man, in ordinary society, in comparison

with the _milionaire_. Now, all this is very much reversed in Paris.

Money does much, while it seems to do but little. The writer of a

successful comedy would be a much more important personage, in the

_côteries_ of Paris, than M. Rothschild; and the inventor of a new

bonnet would enjoy much more _éclat_ than the inventor of a clever

speculation. I question if there be a community on earth, in which

gambling risks in the funds, for instance, are more general than in

this, and yet the subject appears to be entirely lost sight of out of

the _Bourse_.

The little social notoriety that is attached to military distinction,

here, has greatly surprised me. It really seems as if France has had so

much military renown, as to be satiated with it. One is elbowed

constantly by generals, who have gained this or that victory, and yet no

one seems to care anything about them. I do not mean that the nation is

indifferent to military glory, but society appears to care little or

nothing about it. I have seen a good deal of fuss made with the writer

of a few clever verses, but I have never seen any made with a hero.

Perhaps it was because the verses were new, and the victories old.

The perfect good taste and indifference which the French manifest

concerning the private affairs, and concerning the mode of living, of

one who is admitted to the _salons_, has justly extorted admiration,

even from the English, the people of all others who most submit to a

contrary feeling. A hackney coach is not always admitted into a

court-yard, but both men and women make their visits in them, without

any apparent hesitation. No one seems ashamed of confessing poverty. I

do not say that women of quality often use _fiacres_ to make their

visits, but men do, and I have seen women in them, openly, whom I have

met in some of the best houses in Paris. It is better to go in a private

carriage, or in a _remise_, if one can, but few hesitate, when their

means are limited, about using the former. In order to appreciate this

self-denial, or simplicity, or good sense, it is necessary to remember

that a Paris _fiacre_ is not to be confounded with any other vehicle on

earth. I witnessed, a short time since, a ludicrous instance of the

different degrees of feeling that exist on this point, among different

people. A—— and myself went to the house of an English woman, of our

acquaintance, who is not very choice in her French. A Mrs. ——, the wife

of a colonel in the English army, sat next A——, as a French lady begged

that her carriage might be ordered. Our hostess told her servant to

order the _fiacre_ of Madame ——. Now, Madame —— kept her chariot, to my

certain knowledge, but she disregarded the mistake. A—— soon after

desired that our carriage might come next. The good woman of the house,

who loved to be busy, again called for the _fiacre_ of Madame ——. I saw

the foot of A—— in motion, but catching my eye, she smiled, and the

thing passed off. The _voiture de Madame_ ——, or our own carriage, was

announced, just as Mrs. —— was trying to make a servant understand she

wished for hers.—“_Le fiacre de Madame_ ——,” again put in the bustling

hostess. This was too much for a colonel’s lady, and, with a very pretty

air of distress, she took care to explain in a way that all might hear

her, that it was a _remise_.

I dare say, vulgar prejudices influence vulgar minds, here, as

elsewhere, and yet I must say, that I never knew any one hesitate about

giving an address, on account of the humility of the lodgings. It is to

be presumed that the manner in which families that are historical, and

of long-established rank, were broken down by the revolution, has had an

influence in effecting this healthful state of feeling.

The great tact and careful training of the women, serve to add very much

to the grace of French society. They effectually prevent all

embarrassments from the question of precedency, by their own decisions.

Indeed, it appears to be admitted, that when there is any doubt on these

points, the mistress of the house shall settle it in her own way. I

found myself lately, at a small dinner, the only stranger, and the

especially invited guest, standing near _Madame la Marquise_ at the

moment the service was announced. A bishop made one of the trio. I could

not precede a man of his years and profession, and he was too polite to

precede a stranger. It was a nice point. Had it been a question between

a duke and myself, as a stranger, and under the circumstances of the

invitation, I should have had the _pas_, but even the lady hesitated

about discrediting a father of the church. She delayed but an instant,

and, smiling, she begged us to follow her to the table, avoiding the

decision altogether. In America, such a thing could not have happened,

for no woman, by a fiction of society, is supposed to know how to walk

in company without support; but, here, a woman will not spoil her

curtesy, on entering a room, by leaning on an arm, if she can well help

it. The practice of tucking up a brace of females, (liver and gizzard,

as the English coarsely, but not inaptly, term it,) under one’s arms, in

order to enter a small room that is crowded in a way to render the

movements of even one person difficult, does not prevail here, it being

rightly judged that a proper _tenue_, a good walk, and a graceful

movement, are all impaired by it. This habit also singularly contributes

to the comfort of your sex, by rendering them more independent of ours.

No one thinks, except in very particular cases, of going to the door to

see a lady into her carriage, a custom too provincial to prevail in a

capital, anywhere. Still, there is an amusing assiduity among the men,

on certain points of etiquette, that has sometimes made me laugh;

though, in truth, every concession to politeness being a tribute to

benevolence, is respectable, unless spoiled in the manner. As we are

gossiping about trifles, I will mention a usage or two, that to you will

at least be novel.

I was honoured with a letter from _le Chevalier Alexandre de

Lameth_,[10] accompanied by an offering of a book, and I took an early

opportunity to pay my respects to him. I found this gentleman, who once

played so conspicuous a part in the politics of France, and who is now a

liberal deputy, at breakfast, in a small cabinet, at the end of a suite

of four rooms. He received me politely, conversed a good deal of

America, in which country he had served as a colonel, under Rochambeau,

and I took my leave. That M. de Lameth should rise, and even see me into

the next room, was what every one would expect, and there I again took

my leave of him. But he followed me to each door, in succession, and

when, with a little gentle violence, I succeeded in shutting him in the

ante-chamber, he seemed to yield to my entreaties not to give himself

any further trouble. I was on the landing, on my way down, when, hearing

the door of M. de Lameth’s apartment open, I turned and saw its master

standing before it, to give and receive the last bow. Although this

extreme attention to the feelings of others, and delicacy of demeanor,

rather marks the Frenchman of the old school, perhaps, it is by no means

uncommon here. General la Fayette, while he permits me to see him with

very little ceremony, scarcely ever suffers me to leave him, without

going with me as far as two or three doors. This, in my case, he does

more from habit than any thing else, for he frequently does not even

rise when I enter; and, sometimes, when I laughingly venture to say so

much ceremony is scarcely necessary between us, he will take me at my

word, and go back to his writing, with perfect simplicity.

Footnote 10:

Since dead.

The reception between the women, I see plainly, is graduated with an

unpretending but nice regard to their respective claims. They rise, even

to men, a much more becoming and graceful habit than that of America,

except in evening circles, or in receiving intimates. I never saw a

French woman offer her hand to a male visitor, unless a relative, though

it is quite common for females to kiss each other, when the _réunion_ is

not an affair of ceremony. The practice of kissing among men, still

exists, though it is not very common at Paris. It appears to be

gradually going out with the ear-rings. I have never had an offer from a

Frenchman, of my own age, to kiss me, but it has frequently occurred,

with my seniors. General la Fayette practises it still, with all his

intimates.

I was seated, the other evening, in quiet conversation, with _Madame la

Princesse de_ ——. Several people had come and gone in the course of an

hour, and all had been received in the usual manner. At length the

_huissier_, walking fast through the antechambers, announced the wife of

an ambassador. The _Princesse_, at the moment, was seated on a _divan_,

with her feet raised so as not to touch the floor. I was startled with

the suddenness and vehemence of her movements. She sprang to her feet,

and rather ran than walked across the vast _salon_ to the door, where

she was met by her visitor, who, observing the _empressement_ of her

hostess, through the vista of rooms, had rushed forward as fast as

decorum would at all allow, in order to anticipate her at the door. It

was my impression, at first, that they were bosom friends, about to be

restored to each other, after a long absence, and that the impetuosity

of their feelings had gotten the better of their ordinary self-command.

No such thing; it was merely a strife of courtesy, for the meeting was

followed by an extreme attention to all the forms of society, profound

curtseys, and the elaborated demeanor which marks ceremony rather than

friendship.

Much has been said about the latitude of speech among the women of

France, and comparisons have been made between them and our own females,

to the disadvantage of the former. If the American usages are to be

taken as the standard of delicacy in such matters, I know of no other

people who come up to it. As to our mere feelings, habit can render any

thing proper, or any thing improper, and it is not an easy matter to say

where the line, in conformity with good sense and good taste, should be

actually drawn. I confess a leaning to the American school, but how far

I am influenced by education, it would not be easy for me to say myself.

Foreigners affirm that we are squeamish, and that we wound delicacy

oftener by the awkward attempts to protect it, than if we had more

simplicity. There may be some truth in this, for though cherishing the

notions of my youth, I never belonged to the ultra school at home,

which, I believe you will agree with me, rather proves low breeding than

good breeding. One sees instances of this truth, not only every day, but

every hour of the day. Yesterday, in crossing the Tuileries, I was

witness of a ludicrous scene that sufficiently illustrates what I mean.

The statues of the garden have little or no drapery. A countryman, and

two women of the same class, in passing one, were struck with this

circumstance, and their bursts of laughter, running and hiding their

faces, and loud giggling, left no one in ignorance of the cause of their

extreme bashfulness. Thousands of both sexes pass daily beneath the same

statue, without a thought of its nudity, and it is looked upon as a

noble piece of sculpture.

In dismissing this subject, which is every way delicate, I shall merely

say that usage tolerates a license of speech, of which you probably have

no idea, but, that I think one hears very rarely, from a French woman of

condition, little that would not be uttered, by an American female,

under similar circumstances. So far as my experience goes, there is a

marked difference, in this particular, between the women of a middle

station and those of a higher rank; by rank, however, I mean hereditary

rank, for the revolution has made a _pèle mèle_ in the _salons_ of

Paris.

Although the _petits soupers_ have disappeared, the dinners are very

sufficient substitutes. They are given at a better hour, and the service

of a French entertainment, so quiet, so entirely free from effort, or

chatter about food, is admirably adapted to rendering them agreeable. I

am clearly of opinion no one ought to give any entertainment that has

not the means of making it pass off as a matter-of-course thing, and

without effort. I have certainly seen a few fussy dinners here, but they

are surprisingly rare. At home, we have plenty of people who know that a

party that has a laboured air is inherently vulgar, but how few are

there that know how to treat a brilliant entertainment as a mere matter

of course! Paris is full of those desirable houses in which the thing is

understood.

The forms of the table vary a little, according to the set one is in. In

truly French houses, until quite lately I believe, it was not the custom

to change the knife, the duty of which, by the way, is not great, the

cookery requiring little more than the fork. In families that mingle

more with strangers, both are changed, as with us. A great dinner is

served very much as at home, so far as the mere courses are concerned,

though I have seen the melons follow the soup. This I believe to be in

good taste, though it is not common, and it struck me, at first, as

being as much out of season as the old New England custom of eating the

pudding before the meat. But the French give small dinners, (small in

name, though certainly very great in execution,) in which the dishes are

served singly, or nearly so, the entertainment resembling those given by

the Turks, and being liable to the same objection; for when there is but

a single dish before one, and it is not known whether there is to be any

more, it is an awkward thing to decline eating. Such dinners are

generally of the best quality, but I think they should never be given

except where there is sufficient intimacy to embolden the guest to say

_jam satis_.

The old devotion to the sex is not so exclusively the Occupation of a

French _salon_, as it was, probably, half a century since. I have been

in several, where the men were grouped in a corner, talking politics,

while the women amused each other, as best they could, in cold, formal

lines, looking like so many figures placed there to show off the latest

modes of the _toilette_. I do not say this is absolutely common, but it

is less rare than you might be apt to suppose.

I can tell you little of the habit of reading manuscripts, in society.

Such things are certainly done, for I have been invited to be present on

one or two occasions, but having a horror of such exhibitions, I make it

a point to be indisposed, the choice lying between the megrims before,

or after them. Once, and once only, I have heard a poet recite his

verses in a well filled drawing-room, and, though I have every reason to

think him clever, my ear was so little accustomed to the language, that,

in the mouthing of French recitation, I lost nearly all of it.

I have had an odd pleasure in driving from one house to another, on

particular evenings, in order to produce as strong contrasts as my

limited visiting list will procure. Having a fair opportunity a few

nights since, in consequence of two or three invitations coming in, for

the evening on which several houses where I occasionally called were

opened, I determined to make a night of it, in order to note the effect.

As A—— did not know several of the people, I went alone, and you may

possibly be amused with an account of my adventures: they shall be told.

In the first place I had to dress, in order to go to dinner at a house

that I had never entered, and with a family of which I had never seen a

soul. These are incidents which frequently come over a stranger, and, at

first, were not a little awkward, but use hardens us to much greater

misfortunes. At six, then, I stepped punctually into my _coupé_ and gave

Charles the necessary number and street. I ought to tell you that the

invitation had come a few days before, and, in a fit of curiosity, I had

accepted it, and sent a card, without having the least idea who my host

and hostess were, beyond their names. There was something _piquant_ in

this ignorance, and I had almost made up my mind to go in the same

mysterious manner, leaving all to events, when happening, in an idle

moment, to ask a lady of my acquaintance, and for whom I have a great

respect, if she knew a _Madame de ——_, to my surprise, her answer

was—“Most certainly—she is my cousin, and you are to dine there

to-morrow.” I said no more, though this satisfied me that my hosts were

people of some standing. While driving to their hotel, it struck me,

under all the circumstances, it might be well to know more of them, and

I stopped at the gate of a female friend, who knows every body, and who,

I was certain, would receive me even at that unseasonable hour. I was

admitted, explained my errand, and inquired if she knew a _M. de ——_.

“_Quelle question!_” she exclaimed—“_M. de —— est Chancelier de la

France!_” Absurd, and even awkward, as it might have proved, but for

this lucky thought, I should have gone and dined with the French Lord

High Chancellor, without having the smallest suspicion of who he was!

The hotel was a fine one, though the apartment was merely good, and the

reception, service and general style of the house were so simple that

neither would have awakened the least suspicion of the importance of my

hosts. The party was small and the dinner modest. I found the

_chancelier_ a grave dignified man, a little curious on the subject of

America, and his wife, apparently a woman of great good sense, and, I

should think, of a good deal of attainment. Every thing went off in the

quietest manner possible, and I was sorry when it was time to go.

From this dinner, I drove to the hotel of the _Marquis de Marbois_, to

pay a visit of digestion. M. de Marbois retires so early, on account of

his great age, that one is obliged to be punctual, or he will find the

gate locked at nine. The company had got back into the drawing-room, and

as the last week’s guests were mostly there, as well as those who had

just left the table, there might have been thirty people present, all of

whom were men but two. One of the ladies was Madame de Souza, known in

French literature as the writer of several clever novels of society. In

the drawing-room, were grouped, in clusters, the Grand Referendary, M.

Cuvier, M. Daru, M. Villemain, M. de Plaisance, Mr. Brown, and many

others of note. There seemed to be something in the wind, as the

conversation was in low confidential whispers, attended by divers

ominous shrugs. This could only be politics, and watching an

opportunity, I questioned an acquaintance. The fact was really so. The

appointed hour had come, and the ministry of M. de Villèle was in the

agony. The elections had not been favourable, and it was expedient to

make an attempt to reach the _old_ end, by what is called a _new_

combination. It is necessary to understand the general influence of

political intrigues on certain _côteries_ of Paris, to appreciate the

effect of this intelligence, on a drawing-room filled, like this, with

men who had been actors in the principal events of France, for forty

years. The name of M. Cuvier was even mentioned as one of the new

ministers. Comte Roy was also named, as likely to be the new premier. I

was told that this gentleman was one of the greatest landed proprietors

of France, his estates being valued at four millions of dollars. The

fact is curious, as showing, not on vulgar rumour, but from a

respectable source, what is deemed a first rate landed property in this

country. It is certainly no merit, nor do I believe it is any very great

advantage; but, I think we might materially beat this, even in America.

The company soon separated, and I retired.

From the _Place de la Madeleine_, I drove to a house near the

_Carrousel_, where I had been invited to step in, in the course of the

evening. All the buildings that remain within the intended

parallelogram, which will some day make this spot one of the finest

squares in the world, have been bought by the government, or nearly so,

with the intent to have them pulled down, at a proper time; and the

court bestows lodgings, _ad interim_, among them, on its favourites.

Madame de —— was one of these favoured persons, and she occupies a small

apartment in the third story of one of these houses. The rooms were neat

and well arranged, but small. Probably the largest does not exceed

fifteen feet square. The approach to a Paris lodging is usually either

very good, or very bad. In the new buildings may be found some of the

mediocrity of the new order of things; but in all those which were

erected previously to the revolution, there is nothing but extremes in

this, as in most other things. Great luxury and elegance, or great

meanness and discomfort. The house of Madame de —— happens to be of the

latter class, and although all the disagreeables have disappeared from

her own rooms, one is compelled to climb up to them, through a dark well

of a stair-case, by flights of steps not much better than those we use

in our stables. You have no notion of such staircases as those I had

just descended in the hotels of the _Chancelier_ and the _Premier

President_;[11] nor have we any just idea, as connected with respectable

dwellings, of these I had now to clamber up. M. de —— is a man of

talents and great respectability, and his wife is exceedingly clever,

but they are not rich. He is a professor, and she is an artist. After

having passed so much of my youth, on topgallant-yards, and in

becketting royals, you are not to suppose, however, I had any great

difficulty in getting up these stairs, narrow, steep, and winding as

they were.

Footnote 11: