In the course of the evening, Mr. ——, the Irish gentleman, gravely
introduced me to a Sir James ——, adding, with perfect gravity, “a
gentleman whose father humbugged the Pope—humbugged infallibility.” One
could not but be amused with such an introduction, urged in a way so
infinitely droll, and I ventured, at a proper moment, to ask an
explanation, which, unless I was also humbugged, was as follows.
Among the _détenus_ in 1804, was Sir William ——, the father of Sir James
——, the person in question. Taking advantage of the presence of the Pope
at Paris, he is said to have called on the good-hearted Pius, with great
concern of manner, to state his case. He had left his sons in England,
and through his absence they had fallen under the care of two
Presbyterian aunts; as a father he was naturally anxious to rescue them
from this perilous situation. “Now Pius,” continued my merry informant,
“quite naturally supposed that all this solicitude was in behalf of two
orthodox Catholic souls, and he got permission from Napoleon for the
return of so good a father, to his own country, never dreaming that the
conversion of the boys, if it ever took place, would only be from the
Protestant Episcopal Church of England, to that of Calvin; or a rescue
from one of the devil’s furnaces, to pop them into another.” I laughed
at this story, I suppose with a little incredulity, but my Irish friend
insisted on its truth, ending the conversation with a significant nod,
Catholic as he was, and saying—“humbugged infallibility!”
By this time it was eleven o’clock, and as I am obliged to keep
reasonable hours, it was time to go to _the_ party of the evening. Count
——, of the —— Legation, gave a great ball. My carriage entered the line
at the distance of near a quarter of a mile from the _hôtel_;
_gensdarmes_ being actively employed in keeping us all in our places. It
was half an hour before I was set down, and the _quadrilles_ were in
full motion when I entered. It was a brilliant affair, much the most so
I have ever yet witnessed in a private house. Some said there were
fifteen hundred people present. The number seems incredible, and yet,
when one comes to calculate, it may be so. As I got into my carriage to
go away, Charles informed me that the people at the gates affirm that
more than six hundred carriages had entered the court that evening. By
allowing an average of little more than two to each vehicle, we get the
number mentioned.
I do not know exactly how many rooms were opened on this occasion, but I
should think there were fully a dozen. Two or three were very large
_salons_, and the one in the centre, which was almost at fever heat, had
crimson hangings, by way of cooling one. I have never witnessed dancing
at all comparable to that of the quadrilles of this evening. Usually
there is either too much or too little of the dancing master, but on
this occasion every one seemed inspired with a love of the art. It was a
beautiful sight to see a hundred charming young women, of the first
families of Europe, for they were there of all nations, dressed with the
simple elegance that is so becoming to the young of the sex, and which
is never departed from here until after marriage, moving in perfect time
to delightful music, as if animated by a common soul. The men, too, did
better than usual, being less lugubrious and mournful than our sex is
apt to be in dancing. I do not know how it is in private, but in the
world, at Paris, every young woman seems to have a good mother; or, at
least, one capable of giving her both a good tone, and good taste.
At this party I met the ——, an intimate friend of the ambassador, and
one who also honours me with a portion of her friendship. In talking
over the appearance of things, she told me that some hundreds of
_applications for invitations_ to this ball had been made.
“Applications! I cannot conceive of such meanness. In what manner?”
“Directly; by note, by personal intercession—almost by tears. Be certain
of it, many hundreds have been refused.” In America we hear of refusals
to go to balls, but we have not yet reached the pass of sending refusals
to invite! “Do you see Mademoiselle ——, dancing in the set before you?”
She pointed to a beautiful French girl, whom I had often seen at her
house, but whose family was in a much lower station in society than
herself. “Certainly—pray how came _she_ here?” “I brought her. Her
mother was dying to come, too, and she begged me to get an invitation
for her and her daughter; but it would not do to bring the mother to
such a place, and I was obliged to say no more tickets could be issued.
I wished, however, to bring the daughter, she is so pretty, and we
compromised the affair in that way.” “And to this the mother assented!”
“Assented! How can you doubt it—what funny American notions you have
brought with you to France!”
I got some droll anecdotes from my companion, concerning the ingredients
of the company on this occasion, for she could be as sarcastic as she
was elegant. A young woman near us attracted attention by a loud and
vulgar manner of laughing. “Do you know that lady?” demanded my
neighbour. “I have seen her before, but scarcely know her name.” “She is
the daughter of your acquaintance, the _Marquise de ——_.” “Then she is,
or was, a _Mademoiselle de ——_.” “She is not, nor properly ever was, a
_Mademoiselle de ——_. In the revolution the _Marquis_ was imprisoned by
you wicked republicans, and the _Marquise_ fled to England, whence she
returned, after an absence of three years, bringing with her this young
lady, then an infant a few months old.” “And _Monsieur le Marquis_?” “He
never saw his daughter, having been beheaded in Paris, about a year
before her birth.” “_Quelle contre tems!_” “_Ne c’est-ce pas?_”
It is a melancholy admission, but it is no less true, that good breeding
is sometimes quite as active a virtue, as good principles. How many more
of the company present were born about a year after their fathers were
beheaded, I have no means of knowing; but had it been the case with all
of them, the company would have been of as elegant demeanor, and of much
more _retenue_ of deportment, than we are accustomed to see, I will not
say in _good_, but certainly in _general_ society, at home. One of the
consequences of good breeding is also a disinclination, positively a
distaste, to pry into the private affairs of others. The little specimen
to the contrary, just named, was rather an exception, owing to the
character of the individual, and to the indiscretion of the young lady
in laughing too loud, and then the affair of a birth so _very_
posthumous was rather too _patent_ to escape all criticism.
My friend was in a gossiping mood this evening, and as she was well
turned of fifty, I ventured to continue the conversation. As some of the
_liaisons_ which exist here must be novel to you, I shall mention one or
two more.
A _Madame de J——_ passed us, leaning on the arm of _M. de C——_. I knew
the former, who was a widow; had frequently visited her, and had been
surprised at the intimacy which existed between her and _M. de C——_, who
always appeared quite at home, in her house. I ventured to ask my
neighbour if the gentleman were the brother of the lady. “Her brother!
It is to be hoped not, as he is her husband.” “Why does she not bear his
name, if that be the case?” “Because her first husband is of a more
illustrious family than her second; and then there are some difficulties
on the score of fortune. No, no. These people are _bonâ fide_ married.
_Tenez_—do you see that gentleman who is standing so assiduously near
the chair of _Madame de S——_? He who is all attention and smiles to the
lady?” “Certainly—his politeness is even affectionate.” “Well it ought
to be, for it is _M. de S——_, her husband.” “They are a happy couple,
then.” “_Hors de doute_—he meets her at _soirées_ and balls; is the pink
of politeness; puts on her shawl; sees her safe into her carriage, and—”
“Then they drive home together, as loving as Darby and Joan.” “And then
he jumps into his _cabriolet_, and drives to the lodgings of ——. _Bon
soir, monsieur ——_, you are making me fall into the vulgar crime of
scandal.”
Now, as much as all this may sound like invention, it is quite true,
that I repeat no more to you than was said to me, and no more than what
I believe to be exact. As respects the latter couple, I have been
elsewhere told that they literally never see each other, except in
public, where they constantly meet, as the best friends in the world.
I was lately in some English society, when Lady G—— bet a pair of gloves
with Lord R—— that he had not seen Lady R—— in a fortnight. The bet was
won by the gentleman, who proved satisfactorily that he had met his wife
at a dinner party, only ten days before.
After all I have told you, and all that you may have heard from others,
I am nevertheless inclined to believe, that the high society of Paris is
quite as exemplary as that of any other large European town. If we are
any better ourselves, is it not more owing to the absence of temptation,
than to any other cause? Put large garrisons into our towns, fill the
streets with idlers, who have nothing to do but to render themselves
agreeable, and with women with whom dress and pleasure are the principal
occupations, and then let us see what protestantism and liberty will
avail us, in this particular. The intelligent French say that their
society is improving in morals. I can believe this, of which I think
there is sufficient proof by comparing the present with the past, as the
latter has been described to us. By the past, I do not mean the period
of the revolution, when vulgarity assisted to render vice still more
odious—a happy union, perhaps, for those who were to follow—but the days
of the old _régime_. Chance has thrown me in the way of three or four
old dowagers of that period, women of high rank, and still in the first
circles, who, amid all their _finesse_ of breeding, and ease of manner,
have had a most desperate _rouée_ air about them. Their very laugh, at
times, has seemed replete with a bold levity, that was as disgusting as
it was unfeminine. I have never, in any other part of the world, seen
loose sentiments _affichés_, with more effrontery. These women are the
complete antipodes of the quiet, elegant _Princesse de ——_, who was at
Lady —— ——’s, this evening; though some of them write _Princesses_ on
their cards, too.
The influence of a court must be great on the morals of those who live
in its purlieus. Conversing with the Duc de ——, a man who has had
general currency in the best society of Europe, on this subject, he
said,—“England has long decried our manners. Previously to the
revolution, I admit they were bad; perhaps worse than her own; but I
know nothing in our history as bad as what I lately witnessed in
England. You knew I was there, quite recently. The king invited me to
dine at Windsor. I found every one in the drawing-room, but His Majesty
and Lady ——. She entered but a minute before him, like a queen. Her
reception was that of a queen; young, unmarried females kissed her hand.
Now, all this might happen in France, even now; but Louis XV., the most
dissolute of our monarchs, went no farther. At Windsor, I saw the
husband, sons, and daughters of the favourite, in the circle! _Le parc
des Cerfs_ was not as bad as this.”
“And yet, M. de ——, since we are conversing frankly, listen to what I
witnessed, but the other day, in France. You know the situation of
things at St. Ouen, and the rumours that are so rife. We had the _fête
Dieu_, during my residence there. You, who are a Catholic, need not be
told that your sect believe in the doctrine of the “real presence.”
There was a _reposior_ erected in the garden of the _château_, and God,
in person, was carried, with religious pomp, to rest in the bowers of
the ex-favourite. It is true, the husband was not present: he was only
in the provinces!”
“The influence of a throne makes sad parasites and hypocrites,” said M.
de ——, shrugging his shoulders.
“And the influence of the people, too, though in a different way. A
courtier is merely a well-dressed demagogue.”
“It follows, then, that man is just a poor devil.”
But I am gossiping away with you, when my Asmodean career is ended, and
it is time I went to bed. Good night.
LETTER VIII.
TO JACOB SUTHERLAND, ESQUIRE, NEW YORK.
The Chambers have been opened with the customary ceremonies and parade.
It is usual for the King, attended by a brilliant _cortège_, to go, on
these occasions, from the Tuileries to the Palais Bourbon, through lines
of troops, under a salute of guns. The French love _spectacles_, and
their monarch, if he would be popular, is compelled to make himself one,
at every plausible opportunity.
The garden of the Tuileries is a parallelogram, of, I should think,
fifty acres, of which one end is bounded by the palace. It has a high
vaulted terrace on the side next the river, as well as at the opposite
end, and one a little lower, next the _rue de Rivoli_. There is also a
very low broad terrace, immediately beneath the windows of the palace,
which separates the buildings from the _parterres_. You will understand
that the effect of this arrangement, is to shut out the world from the
persons in the garden, by means of the terraces, and, indeed, to enable
them, by taking refuge in the woods that fill quite half the area, to
bury themselves almost in a forest. The public has free access to this
place, from an early hour in the morning, to eight or nine at night,
according to the season. When it is required to clear them, a party of
troops marches, by beat of drum, from the _château_, through the great
_allée_, to the lower end of the garden. This is always taken as the
signal to disperse, and the world begins to go out, at the different
gates. It is understood that the place is frequently used as a
promenade, by the royal family, after this hour, especially in the fine
season; but, as it would be quite easy for any one, evilly disposed, to
conceal himself among the trees, statues and shrubs, the troops are
extended in very open order, and march slowly back to the palace, of
course driving every one before them. Each gate is locked, as the line
passes it.
The only parts of the garden, which appear, on the exterior, to be on a
level with the street, though such is actually the fact with the whole
of the interior, are the great gate opposite the palace, and a side gate
near its southern end; the latter being the way by which one passes out,
to cross the Pont Royal.
In attempting to pass in at this gate the other morning, for the first
time, at that hour, I found it closed. A party of ladies and gentlemen
were walking on the low terrace, beneath the palace windows, and a
hundred people might have been looking at them from without. A second
glance showed me, that among some children, were the heir presumptive,
and his sister Mademoiselle d’Artois. The exhibition could merely be an
attempt to feel the public pulse, for the country house of _la
Bagatelle_, to which the children go two or three times a week, is much
better suited to taking the air. I could not believe in the indifference
that was manifested, had I not seen it. The children are both engaging,
particularly the daughter, and yet, these innocent and perfectly
inoffensive beings were evidently regarded more with aversion, than with
affection.
The display of the opening of the session produced no more effect on the
public mind, than the appearance on the terrace of _les Enfants de
France_. The Parisians are the least loyal of Charles’s subjects, and
though the troops, and a portion of the crowd, cried _vive le roi_, it
was easy to see that the disaffected were more numerous than the
well-affected.
I have attended some of the sittings since the opening, and shall now
say a word on the subject of the French parliamentary proceedings. The
hall is an amphitheatre, like our own; the disposition of the seats and
speaker’s chair being much the same as at Washington. The members sit on
benches, however, that rise one behind the other, and through which they
ascend and descend, by aisles. These aisles separate the different
shades of opinion, for those who think alike sit together. Thus the
_gauche_ or left is occupied by the extreme liberals; the _centre
gauche_, by those who are a shade nearer the Bourbons. The _centre
droit_, or right centre, by the true Bourbonists, and so on, to the
farthest point of the semicircle. Some of the members affect even to
manifest the minuter shades of their opinions, by their relative
positions in their own sections, and I believe it is usual for each one
to occupy his proper place.
You probably know that the French members speak from a stand,
immediately beneath the chair of the president, called a tribune. Absurd
as this may seem, I believe it to be a very useful regulation, the
vivacity of the national character rendering some such check on
loquacity quite necessary. Without it, a dozen would often be on their
feet at once; as it is, even, this sometimes happens. No disorder that
ever occurs in our legislative bodies, will give you any just notion of
that which frequently occurs here. The president rings a bell as a
summons to keep order, and as a last resource he puts on his hat, a
signal that the sitting is suspended.
The speaking of both chambers is generally bad. Two-thirds of the
members read their speeches, which gives the sitting a dull, monotonous
character, and as you may suppose, the greater part of their lectures
are very little attended to. The most parliamentary speaker is M. Royer
Collard, who is, just now, so popular that he has been returned for
seven different places at the recent election.
M. Constant is an exceedingly animated speaker, resembling in this
particular Mr. M‘Duffie. M. Constant, however, has a different motion
from the last gentleman, his movement being a constant oscillation over
the edge of the tribune, about as fast, and almost as regular, as that
of the pendulum of a large clock. It resembles that of a sawyer in the
Mississippi. General La Fayette speaks with the steadiness and calm,
that you would expect from his character, and is always listened to with
respect. Many professional men speak well, and exercise considerable
influence in the house, for here, as elsewhere, the habit of public and
extemporaneous speaking gives an immediate ascendancy in deliberative
bodies.
Some of the scenes one witnesses in the Chamber of Deputies are amusing
by their exceeding vivacity. The habit of crying _écoutez_ prevails, as
in the English parliament, though the different intonations of that cry
are not well understood. I have seen members run at the tribune, like
children playing puss in a corner; and, on one occasion, I saw five
different persons on its steps, in waiting for the descent of the member
in possession. When a great question is to be solemnly argued, the
members inscribe their names for the discussion, and are called on to
speak in the order in which they stand on the list.
The French never sit in committee of the whole, but they have adopted in
its place an expedient, that gives power more control over the
proceedings of the two houses. At the commencement of the session, the
members draw for their numbers in the _bureaux_, as they are called. Of
these _bureaux_, there are ten or twelve, and, as a matter of course,
they include all the members. As soon as the numbers are drawn, the
members assemble in their respective rooms, and choose their officers; a
president and secretary. These elections are always supposed to be
indicative of the political tendency of each _bureau_; those which have
a majority of liberals, choosing officers of their own opinions, and
_vice versâ_. These _bureaux_ are remodelled, periodically, by drawing
anew; the term of duration being a month or six weeks. I believe the
chamber retains the power to refer questions, or not, to these
_bureaux_; their institution being no more than a matter of internal
regulation, and not of constitutional law. It is, however, usual to send
all important laws to them, where they are discussed and voted on: the
approbation of a majority of the _bureaux_ being, in such cases,
necessary for their reception in the chambers.
The great evil of the present system is the _initiative_ of the king. By
this reservation in the charter, the crown possesses more than a veto,
all laws actually emanating from the sovereign. The tendency of such a
regulation is either to convert the chambers into the old _lits de
justice_, or to overthrow the throne, an event which will certainly
accompany any serious change here. As might have been, and as _would_
have been anticipated, by any one familiar with the action of
legislative bodies, in our time, this right is already so vigorously
assailed, as to give rise to constant contentions between the great
powers of the state. All parties are agreed that no law can be
presented, that does not come originally from the throne; but the
liberals are for putting so wide a construction on the right to amend,
as already to threaten to pervert the regulation. This has driven some
of the Bourbonists to maintain that the chambers have no right, at all,
to amend a royal proposition. Any one may foresee, that this is a state
of things which cannot peaceably endure for any great length of time.
The ministry are compelled to pack the chambers, and in order to effect
their objects, they resort to all the expedients of power that offer. As
those who drew up the charter had neither the fore-thought, nor the
experience, to anticipate all the embarrassments of a parliamentary
government, they unwittingly committed themselves, and illegal acts are
constantly resorted to, in order that the system may be upheld. The
charter was bestowed _ad captandum_, and is a contradictory _mélange_ of
inexpedient concessions and wily reservations. The conscription
undermined the popularity of Napoleon, and Louis XVIII., in his charter
says, “The conscription is abolished; the _recruiting_ for the army and
navy shall be settled by a law.” Now the conscription _is not_
abolished; but, if pushed on this point, a French jurist would perhaps
tell you it is _now_ established by law. The feudal exclusiveness, on
the subject of taxation, is done away with, all men being equally liable
to taxation. The nett pay of the army is about two sous a day; _this_ is
settled by law, passed by the representatives of those who pay two
hundred francs a year, in direct taxation. The conscription, in
appearance, is general and fair enough; but he who has money can always
hire a substitute, at a price quite within his power. It is only the
poor man, who is never in possession of one or two thousand francs, that
is obliged to serve seven years at two sous a day, nett.
France has gained, beyond estimate, by the changes from the old to the
present system, but it is in a manner to render further violent changes
necessary. I say _violent_, for political changes are everywhere
unavoidable, since questions of polity are, after all, no other than
questions of facts, and these are interests that will regulate
themselves, directly or indirectly. The great desideratum of a
government, after settling its principles in conformity with controlling
facts, is to secure to itself the means of progressive change, without
the apprehension of convulsion. Such is not the case with France, and
further revolutions are inevitable. The mongrel government which exists,
neither can stand, nor does it deserve to stand. It contains the seeds
of its own destruction. Here, you will be told, that the King is a
Jesuit, that he desires to return to the ancient _régime_, and that the
opposition wishes merely to keep him within the limits of the charter.
My own observations lead to a very different conclusion. The difficulty
is in the charter itself, which leaves the government neither free, nor
despotic; in short, without any distinctive character.
This defect is so much felt, that, in carrying out the details of the
system, much that properly belongs to it has been studiously omitted.
The King can do no wrong, here, as in England, but the ministers are
responsible. By way of making a parade of this responsibility, every
official act of the king is countersigned by the minister of the proper
department, and, by the theory of the government, that particular
minister is responsible for that particular act. Now, by the charter,
the peers are the judges of political crimes. By the charter, also, it
is stipulated that no one can be proceeded against except in cases
expressly provided for by law, and in the _forms_ prescribed by the law.
You will remember that, all the previous constitutions being declared
illegal, Louis XVIII. dates his reign from the supposed death of Louis
XVII., and that there are no fundamental precedents that may be drawn in
to aid the constructions, but that the charter must be interpreted by
its own provisions. It follows, then, as a consequence, that no minister
can be legally punished until a law is enacted to dictate the
punishment, explain the offences, and point out the forms of procedure.
Now, no such law has ever been proposed, and although the chambers may
_recommend_ laws to the king, they must await his pleasure in order even
to discuss them openly, and enlist the public feeling in their behalf.
The responsibility of the ministers was proposed _ad captandum_, like
the abolition of the conscription, but neither has been found convenient
in practice.[13]
Footnote 13:
When the ministers of Charles X. were tried, it was without law, and
they would probably have escaped punishment altogether, on this plea,
had not the condition of the public mind required a concession.
The electors of France are said to be between eighty and one hundred
thousand. The qualifications of a deputy being much higher than those of
an elector, it is computed that the four hundred and fifty members must
be elected from among some four or five thousand available candidates.
It is not pretended that France does not contain more than this number
of individuals who pay a thousand francs a year in direct taxes, for
taxation is so great that this sum is soon made up; but a deputy must be
forty years old, a regulation which at once excludes fully one half the
men, of itself; and then it will be recollected that many are
superannuated, several hundreds are peers, others cannot quit their
employments, &c., &c. I have seen the number of available candidates
estimated as low, even, as three thousand.
The elections in France are conducted in a mode peculiar to the nation.
The electors of the highest class have two votes, or for representatives
of two descriptions. This plan was an after-thought of the king, for the
original charter contains no such regulation, but the munificent father
of the national liberties saw fit, subsequently, to qualify his gift.
Had Louis XVIII. lived a little longer, he would most probably have been
dethroned before this; the hopes and expectations which usually
accompany a new reign, having, most probably, deferred the crisis for a
few years. The electors form themselves into colleges, into which no one
who is not privileged to vote is admitted. This is a good regulation,
and might be copied to advantage at home. A law prescribing certain
limits around each poll, and rendering it penal for any but those
authorized to vote at that particular poll, to cross it, would greatly
purify our elections. The government, here, appoints the presiding
officer of each electoral college, and the selection is always carefully
made of one in the interests of the ministry, though in what manner such
a functionary can influence the result, is more than I can tell you. It
is, however, thought to be favourable to an individual’s own election to
get this nomination. The vote is by ballot, though the charter secures
no such privilege. Indeed that instrument is little more than a
declaration of rights, fortified by a few general constituent laws.
The same latitude exists here, in the constructions of the charter, as
exists at home, in the constructions of the constitution. The French
have, however, one great advantage over us, in daring to think for
themselves; for, though there is a party of _doctrinaires_, who wish to
imitate England, too, it is neither a numerous nor a strong party. These
_doctrinaires_, as the name implies, are men who wish to defer to
theories, rather than facts; a class, that is to be found all over the
world. For obvious reasons, the English system has admirers throughout
Europe, as well as in America, since nothing can be more agreeable, for
those who are in a situation to look forward to such an advantage, than
to see themselves elevated into, as La Fayette expresses, so many
“little legitimacies.” The peerage, with its exclusive and hereditary
benefits, is the aim of all the nobility of Europe, and wishes of this
sort make easy converts to any philosophy that may favour the desire.
One meets, here, with droll evidences of the truth of what I have just
told you. I have made the acquaintance of a Russian of very illustrious
family, and he has always been loud and constant in his eulogiums of
America and her liberty. Alluding to the subject, the other day, he
amused me by _naïvely_ observing, “Ah, you are a happy people—you are
_free_—and so are the _English_. Now, in Russia, all rank depends on the
commission one bears in the army, or on the will of the Emperor. I am a
Prince; my father was a Prince; my grandfather, too; but it is of no
avail. I get no privileges by my birth; whereas, in England, where I
have been, it is _so_ different—and I dare say it is different in
America, too?” I told him it was, indeed, “very different in America.”
He sighed, and seemed to envy me.
The party of the _doctrinaires_ is the one that menaces the most serious
evil to France. It is inherently the party of aristocracy; and, in a
country as far advanced as France, it is the combinations of the few,
that, after all, are most to be apprehended. The worst of it is, that,
in countries where abuses have so long existed, the people get to be so
disqualified for entertaining free institutions, that even the
disinterested and well-meaning are often induced to side with the
rapacious and selfish, to prevent the evils of reaction.
In a country so much inclined to speculate, to philosophize, and to
reason on every thing, it is not surprising that a fundamental law, as
vaguely expressed as the charter, should leave ample room for
discussion. We find that our own long experience in these written
instruments, does not protect us from violent differences of opinion,
some of which are quite as extravagant as any that exist here, though
possibly less apt to lead to as grave consequences.[14]
Footnote 14:
The discussion which grew out of the law to protect American industry,
affords a singular instance of the manner in which clever men can
persuade themselves and others, into any notion, however extravagant.
The uncouth doctrine of nullification turned on the construction that
might be put on the intimacy of the relations created by the Union,
and on the nature of the sovereignties of the states.
Because the constitution commences with a declaration, that it is
formed and adopted by “we the people of the United States,”
overlooking, not only all the facts of the case, but misconceiving the
very meaning of the words they quote, one party virtually contended,
that the instrument was formed by a consolidated nation. On this point
their argument, certainly sustained in part by unanswerable truth,
mainly depends.
The word “people” has notoriously several significations. It means a
“population;” it means the “vulgar;” it means any particular portion
of a population, as “rich people,” “poor people,” “mercantile people,”
&c. &c. In a political sense, it has always been understood to mean
that portion of the population of a country, which is possessed of
_political rights_. On this sense, then, it means a _constituency_ in
a representative government, and so it has always been understood in
England, and is understood to-day in France. When a question is
referred to the “people” at an election in England, it is not referred
to a tithe of the population, but to a particular portion of it. In
South Carolina and Louisiana, in the popular sense of Mr. Webster,
there is no “people” to refer to, a majority of the men of both states
possessing no civil rights, and scarcely having a civil existence.
Besides “people,” in its broad signification, includes men, women and
children, and no one will contend, that the two latter had any thing
to do with the formation of our constitution. It follows, then, that
the term has been used in a limited sense, and we must look to
incidental facts to discover its meaning.
The convention was chosen not by any common constituency, but by the
constituencies of the several states, which, at that time, embraced
every gradation between a democratical and an aristocratical polity.
Thirteen states existed in 1787, and yet the constitution was to go
into effect when it was adopted by any nine of them. It will not be
pretended that this decision would be binding on the other four, and
yet it is possible that these four dissenting states should contain
more than half of all the population of the confederation. It would be
very easy to put a proposition, in which it might be demonstrated
arithmetically, that the constitution could have been adopted against
a considerable majority of whole numbers. In the face of such a fact,
it is folly to suppose the term “people” is used in any other than a
conventional sense. It is well known, in addition to the mode of its
adoption, that every provision of the constitution can be altered,
with a single exception, by three-fourths of the states. Perhaps more
than half of the entire population, (excluding the Territories and the
District,) is in six of the largest states, at this moment. But
whether this be so or not, such a combination could easily be made, as
would demonstrate that less than a third of the population of the
country, can at any time alter the constitution.
It is probable that the term “we the people,” was used in a sort of
contra-distinction to the old implied right of the sovereignty of the
king, just as we idly substituted the words “God save the people,” at
the end of a proclamation, for “God save the king.” It was a form.
But, if it is desirable to affix to them any more precise
signification, it will not do to generalize, according to the argument
of one party; but we are to take the words, in their limited and
appropriate meaning, and with their accompanying facts. They can only
allude to the constituencies, and these constituencies existed only
_through_ the states, and were as varied as their several systems. If
the meaning of the term “we the people” was misconceived, it follows
that the argument which was drawn from the error was worthless. The
constitution of the United States was not formed by the _people_ of
the United States, but by such a portion of them as it suited the
several states to invest with political powers, and under such
combinations as gave the decision to any thing but a majority of the
nation. In other words, the constitution was certainly formed by the
_states_ as _political bodies_, and without any necessary connection
with any general or uniform system of polity.
Any theory based on the separate sovereignties of the states, has, on
the other hand, a frail support. The question was not _who_ formed the
constitution, but _what_ was formed. All the great powers of
sovereignty, such as foreign relations, the right to treat, make war
and peace, to control commerce, to coin money, &c. &c. are expressly
ceded. But these are not, after all, the greatest blows that are given
to the doctrine of reserved sovereignty. A power to _alter_ the
constitution, as has just been remarked, has been granted, by which
even the _dissenting states_ have become bound. The only right
reserved, is that of the equal representation in the senate, and it
would follow, perhaps, as a legitimate consequence, the preservation
of the confederated polity; but South Carolina could, under the theory
of the constitution, be stripped of her right to control nearly every
social interest; every man, woman and child in the state dissenting.
It is scarcely worth while to construct a sublimated theory, on the
sovereignty of a community so situated by the legitimate theory of the
government, under which it actually exists!
No means can be devised, that will always protect the weak from the
aggressions of the strong, under the forms of law; and nature has
pointed out the remedy, when the preponderance of good is against
submission; but one cannot suppress his expression of astonishment, at
finding any respectable portion of a reasoning community, losing sight
of this simple and self evident truth, to uphold a doctrine as weak as
that of nullification, viewed as a legal remedy.
If the American statesmen, (_quasi_ and real,) would imitate, the good
curate and the bachelor of Don Quixote, by burning all the political
heresies, with which their libraries, not to say their brains, are now
crammed, and set seriously about studying the terms, and the nature of
the national compact, without reference to the notions of men who had
no connection with the country, the public would be the gainers, and
occasionally one of them might stand a chance of descending to
posterity in some other light than that of the mere leader of a
faction.
LETTER IX.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.
I have said nothing to you of La Grange, though I have now been there no
less than three times. Shortly after our arrival in Paris, Gen. La
Fayette had the kindness to send us an invitation, but we were deterred
from going, for some time, by the indisposition of one of the family. In
the autumn of 1826 I went, however, alone; in the spring I went again,
carrying Mrs. —— with me; and I have now just returned from a third
visit, in which I went with my wife, accompanied by one or two more of
the family.
It is about twenty-seven miles from Paris to Rosay, a small town that is
a league from the castle. This is not a post-route, the great road
ending at Rosay, and we were obliged to go the whole distance with the
same horses. Paris is left by the _Boulevard de la Bastile_, the
_Barrière du Trone_, and the _château_ and woods of Vincennes. The
second time I went into _Brie_, it was with the general himself, and in
his own carriage. He showed me a small pavilion, that is still standing
in a garden near the old site of the Bastile, and which he told me once
belonged to the hotel that _Beaumarchais_ inhabited, when in his glory,
and in which pavilion this witty writer was accustomed to work. The roof
was topped by a vane, to show which way the wind blew, and in pure
_fanfaronade_, or to manifest his contempt for principles, the author of
Figaro had caused a large copper _pen_ to do the duty of a weather-cock,
and there it stands to this day, a curious memorial equally of his wit
and of his audacity.
At the _Barrière du Trone_ the general pointed out to me the spot where
two of his female connexions suffered under the _guillotine_, during the
reign of terror. On one occasion, in passing, we entered the castle of
Vincennes, which is a sort of citadel for Paris, and which has served
for a state prison since the destruction of the Bastile. Almost all of
these strong old places were formerly the residences of the kings, or of
great nobles, the times requiring that they should live constantly
protected by ditches and walls.
Vincennes, like the tower of London, is a collection of old buildings,
enclosed within a wall, and surrounded by a ditch. The latter, however,
is dry. The most curious of the structures, and the one which gives the
place its picturesque appearance, in the distance, is a cluster of
exceedingly slender, tall, round towers, in which the prisoners are
usually confined, and which is the _donjon_ of the hold. This building,
which contains many vaulted rooms piled on each other, was formerly the
royal abode, and it has even now a ditch of its own, though it stands
within the outer walls of the place. There are many other high towers on
the walls, and until the reign of Napoleon there were still more, but he
caused them to be razed to the level of the walls, which of themselves
are sufficiently high.
The chapel is a fine building, being Gothic. It was constructed in the
time of Charles V. There are also two or three vast _corps de
bâtiments_, which are almost palaces in extent and design, though they
are now used only as quarters for officers, &c. &c. The _donjon_ dates
from the same reign. The first room in this building is called the
_salle de la question_, a name which sufficiently denotes its infernal
use. That of the upper story is the room in which the kings of France
formerly held their councils. The walls are sixteen feet thick, and the
rooms are thirty feet high. As there are five stories, this _donjon_
cannot be less than a hundred and forty or fifty feet in elevation. The
view from the summit is very extensive, though it is said that, in the
time of Napoleon, a screen was built around the battlement, to prevent
the prisoners, when they took the air, from enjoying it. As this
conqueror was cruel from policy alone, it is probable this was merely a
precaution against signals; for it is quite apparent, if he desired to
torment his captives, France has places better adapted to the object
than even the _donjon_ of Vincennes. I am not his apologist, however;
for, while I shall not go quite as far as the Englishman who maintained,
in a laboured treatise, that Napoleon was the beast of the Revelations,
I believe he was any thing but a god.
Vincennes was a favourite residence of St. Louis, and there is a
tradition that he used to take his seat under a particular oak, in the
adjoining forest, where all who pleased were permitted to come before
him, and receive justice from himself. Henry V. of England died in the
_donjon of Vincennes_, and I believe his successor, Henry VI. was born
in the same building. One gets a better notion of the state of things,
in the ages of feudality, by passing an hour in examining such a hold,
than in a week’s reading. After going through this habitation, and
studying its barbarous magnificence, I feel much more disposed to
believe that Shakspeare has not outraged probability in his dialogue
between Henry and Catharine, than if I had never seen it, bad as that
celebrated love scene is.
Shortly after quitting Vincennes, the road crosses the Marne, and
stretches away across a broad bottom. There is little of interest
between Paris and Rosay. The principal house is that of Gros Bois, which
once belonged to Moreau, I believe, but is now the property of the
Prince de Wagram, the young son of Berthier. The grounds are extensive,
and the house is large, though I think neither in very good taste, at
least so far as one could judge in passing.
There are two or three ruins on this road, of some historical interest,
but not of much beauty. There is usually a nakedness, unrelieved by
trees or other picturesque accessories, about the French ruins, which
robs them of half their beauty, and dirty, squalid, hamlets and
villages, half the time, come in to render the picture still less
interesting.
At Rosay another route is taken, and La Grange is approached by the
rear, after turning a small bit of wood. It is possible to see the tops
of the towers, for an instant, on the great road before reaching the
town.
It is not certainly known in what age the _château_ was built, but, from
its form, and a few facts connected with its origin, whose dates _are_
ascertained, it is thought to be about five hundred years old. It never
was more than a second-rate building of its class, though it was clearly
intended for a baronial hold. Originally, the name was _La Grange en
Brie_, but by passing into a new family it got the appellation of La
Grange Bléneau, by which it is known at present. You are sufficiently
familiar with French to understand that _grange_ means barn or granary,
and that a liberal translation would make it Bleneau-farm.
In 1399, a marriage took place between the son of the lord of La Grange
en Brie, with a daughter of a branch of the very ancient and great
family of _Courtenay_, which had extensive possessions, at that time, in
Brie. It was this marriage which gave the new name to the castle, the
estate in consequence passing into the line of _Courtenay-Bléneau_. In
1595 the property, by another marriage with an heiress, passed into the
well-known family _d’Aubussons, Comtes de la Feuillade_. The first
proprietor of this name was the grandfather of the _Marèschal de la
Feuillade_, the courtier who caused the _Place de la Victoire_ to be
constructed at Paris, and he appropriated the revenues of the estate,
which, in 1686, were valued at nine thousand francs, to the support and
completion of his work of flattery. The property at that time was,
however, much more extensive than it is at present. The son of this
courtier dying without issue in 1725, the estate was purchased by M.
Dupré, one of the judges of France.
With this magistrate commences, I believe, the connexion of the
ancestors of the La Fayettes with the property. The only daughter
married M. d’Aguesseau; and her daughter again, married the duc de
Noailles-d’Ayen, carrying with her, as a marriage portion, the lands of
Fontenay, La Grange, &c. &c., or in other words, the ancient possessions
of M. de la Feuillade. The Marquis de La Fayette married one of the
Mesdemoiselles de Noailles, while he was still a youth, and when the
estate, after a short sequestration, was restored to the family, General
La Fayette received the _château_ of La Grange, with some six or eight
hundred acres of land around it, as his wife’s portion.[15]
Footnote 15:
Mr. Adams, in his Eulogy on La Fayette, has called the duc de
Noailles, the first peer of France. The fact is of no great moment,
but accuracy is always better than error. I believe the duc de
Noailles was the youngest of the old _ducs_ _et pairs_ of France. The
duc d’Uzés, I have always understood was the oldest.
Although the house is not very spacious for a _château_ of the region in
which it stands, it is a considerable edifice, and one of the most
picturesque I have seen in this country. The buildings stand on three
sides of an irregular square. The fourth side must have been either a
high wall, or a range of low offices formerly, to complete the court and
the defences, but every vestige of them has long since been removed. The
ditch, too, which originally encircled the whole castle, has been filled
in, on two sides, though still remaining on the two others, and greatly
contributing to the beauty of the place, as the water is living, and is
made to serve the purposes of a fish-pond. We had carp from it, for
breakfast, the day after our arrival.
La Grange is constructed of hewn stone, of a good greyish colour, and in
parts of it there are some respectable pretensions to architecture. I
think it probable that one of its fronts has been rebuilt, the style
being so much better than the rest of the structure. There are five
towers, all of which are round, and have the plain, high, pyrimidal
roof, so common in France. They are without cornices, battlements of any
sort, or, indeed, any relief to the circular masonry. One, however, has
a roof of a square form, though the exterior of the tower itself is, at
least, in part, round. All the roofs are of slate.
The approach to the castle is circuitous, until quite near it, when the
road enters a little thicket of evergreens, crosses a bridge, and passes
beneath an arch to the court, which is paved. The bridge is now
permanent, though there was once a draw, and the grooves of a
port-cullis are still visible beneath the arch. The shortest side of the
square is next the bridge, the building offering here but little more
than the two towers, and the room above the gate-way. One of these
towers forms the end of this front of the castle, and the other is of
course, at an angle. On the exterior, they are both buried in ivy, as
well as the building which connects them. This ivy was planted by
Charles Fox, who, in company with General Fitzpatrick visited La Grange,
after the peace of Amiens. The windows, which are small and irregular on
this side, open beautifully through the thick foliage, and as this is
the part of the structure that is occupied by the children of the
family, their blooming faces thrust through the leafy apertures have a
singularly pleasing effect. The other three towers stand, one near the
centre of the principal _corps de bâtiment_, one at the other angle, and
the third at the end of the wing opposite that of the gate. The towers
vary in size, and are all more or less buried in the walls, though still
so distinct as greatly to relieve the latter, and every where to rise
above them. On the open side of the court there is no ditch, but the
ground, which is altogether park-like, and beautifully arranged, falls
away, dotted with trees and copses, towards a distant thicket.
Besides the _rez de chaussée_, which is but little above the ground,
there are two good stories all round the building, and even more in the
towers. The dining-room and offices are below, and there is also a small
oratory, or chapel, though I believe none of the family live there. The
entrance to the principal apartments is opposite the gate, and there is
also here, an exterior door which communicates directly with the lawn,
the ditch running behind the other wing, and in front of the gate only.
The great stair-case is quite good, being spacious, easy of ascent, and
of marble, with a handsome iron railing. It was put there by the mother
of Madame La Fayette, I believe, and the general told me, it was nearly
the only thing of value, that he found among the fixtures, on taking
possession. It had escaped injury.
I should think the length of the house on the side of the square which
contains the stair-case, might be ninety feet, including the tower at
the end, and the tower at the angle; and perhaps the side which contains
the offices, may be even a little longer; though this will also include
the same tower in the same angle, as well as the one at the opposite
corner; while the side in which is the gate-way can scarcely exceed
sixty feet. If my estimates, which are merely made by the eye, are
correct, including the towers, this would give an outside wall of two
hundred and fifty feet, in circuit. Like most French buildings, the
depth is comparatively much less. I question if the outer drawing-room
is more than eighteen feet wide, though it is near thirty long. This
room has windows on the court and on the lawn, and is the first
apartment one enters after ascending the stairs. It communicates with
the inner drawing-room, which is in the end tower of this side of the
_château_, is quite round, of course, and may be twenty feet in
diameter.
The General’s apartments are on the second floor. They consist of his
bed-room, a large cabinet, and the library. The latter is in the tower
at the angle, on the side of the stair-case. It is circular, and from
its windows overlooks the moat, which is beautifully shaded by willows
and other trees. It contains a respectable collection of books, besides
divers curiosities.
The only bed-rooms I have occupied are, one in the tower, immediately
beneath the library, and the other in the side tower, or the only one
which does not stand at an angle, or at an end of the building. I
believe, however, that the entire edifice, with the exception of the
oratory, the offices, the dining-room, which is a large apartment on the
_rez de chaussée_, the two drawing-rooms, two or three cabinets, and the
library, and perhaps a family-room or two, such as a school-room,
painting-room, &c., is subdivided into sleeping apartments, with the
necessary cabinets and dressing-rooms. Including the family, I have
known thirty people to be lodged in the houses besides servants, and I
should think it might even lodge more. Indeed its hospitality seems to
know no limits, for every new comer appears to be just as welcome as all
the others.
The cabinet of La Fayette communicates with the library, and I passed
much of the time during our visit, alone with him, in these two rooms. I
may say that this was the commencement of a confidence with which he has
since continued to treat me, and of a more intimate knowledge of the
amiable features and simple integrity of his character, that has greatly
added to my respect. No one can be pleasanter in private, and he is full
of historical anecdotes, that he tells with great simplicity, and
frequently with great humour. The cabinet contains many portraits, and,
among others, one of Mad. de Stael, and one of his own father. The
former I am assured is exceedingly like; it is not the resemblance of a
very fascinating woman. In the latter I find more resemblance to some of
the grand children than to the son, although there is something about
the shape of the head that is not unlike that of La Fayette’s.
Gen. La Fayette never knew his father, who was killed, when he was quite
an infant, at the battle of Minden. I believe the general was an only
child, for I have never heard him speak of any brother or sister, nor
indeed of any relative at all, as I can remember, on his own side,
though he often alludes to the connexions he made by his marriage. I
asked him how his father happened to be styled the _Comte_ de La
Fayette, and he to be called the _Marquis_. He could not tell me: his
grandfather was the _Marquis_ de La Fayette, his father the _Comte_, and
he again was termed the _Marquis_. “I know very little about it,” said
he, “beyond this. I found myself a little _Marquis_, as I grew to know
any thing, and boys trouble themselves very little about such matters;
and then I soon got tired of the name, after I went to America. I cannot
explain all the foolish distinctions of the feudal times, but I very
well remember that when I was quite a boy, I had the honour to go
through the ceremony of appointing the _curé_ of a very considerable
town in _Auvergne_, of which I was the _Seigneur_. My conscience has
been quite easy about the nomination, however, as my guardians must
answer for the sin, if there be any.”
I was at a small dinner given by the _Comte de Ségur_, just before we
went to La Grange, and at which Gen. La Fayette and M. Alexander de
Lameth were also guests. The three had served in America, all of them
having been colonels while little more than boys. In the course of the
conversation, M. de Lameth jokingly observed that the Americans paid the
greater deference to Gen. La Fayette because he was a _Marquis_. For a
long time there had been but one Marquis in England, (Lord Rockingham)
and the colonists appreciating all other Marquises by this standard, had
at once thought they would do no less than make the _Marquis_ de La
Fayette a general. “As for myself, though I was the senior colonel, and
(as I understood him to say) his superior in personal rank, I passed for
nobody, because I was only a _chevalier_.” This sally was laughed at, at
the time, though there is something very unsettled in the use of those
arbitrary personal distinctions on which the French formerly laid so
much stress. I shall not attempt to explain them. I contented myself by
whispering to M. de Lameth, that we certainly knew very little of such
matters in America, but I questioned if we were ever so ignorant as to
suppose there was only _one Marquis_ in France. On the contrary, we are
a little too apt to fancy every Frenchman a _Marquis_.
There was formerly a regular parish church attached to the _château_,
which is still standing. It is very small, and is within a short
distance of the gate-way. The congregation was composed solely of the
inhabitants of the _château_, and the people of the farm. The church
contains epitaphs and inscriptions in memory of three of the
_d’Aubussons_, whose hearts were buried here, viz. Leon, Comte de la
Feuillade, a lieutenant-general; Gabriel, Marquis de Montargis; and Paul
d’Aubusson, a knight of Malta; all of whom were killed young, in battle.
The general has about three hundred and fifty acres in cultivation, and
more than two in wood, pasture and meadow. The place is in very
excellent condition, and seems to be well attended to. I have galloped
all over it, on a little filly belonging to one of the young gentlemen,
and have found beauty and utility as nicely blended, as is often to be
met with, even in England, the true country of _fermes ornées_, though
the name is imported.
The third day of our visit, we all drove three or four leagues across
the country, to see an old ruin of a royal castle called Vivier. This
name implies a pond, and sure enough we found the remains of the
buildings in the midst of two or three pools of water. This has been a
considerable house, the ruins being still quite extensive and rather
pretty. It was originally the property of a great noble, but the kings
of France were in possession of it, as early as the year 1300. Charles
V. had a great affection for Vivier, and very materially increased its
establishment. His son, Charles VI., who was at times deranged, was
often confined here, and it was after his reign, and by means of the
long wars that ravaged France, that the place came to be finally
abandoned as a royal abode. Indeed it is not easy to see why a king
should ever have chosen this spot at all for his residence, unless it
might be for the purpose of hunting, for even now it is in a retired,
tame, and far from pleasant part of the country.
There are the ruins of a fine chapel and of two towers of considerable
interest, beside extensive fragments of more vulgar buildings. One of
these towers, being very high and very slender, is a striking object;
but, from its form and position, it was one of those narrow wells that
were attached to larger towers, and which contained nothing but the
stairs. They are commonly to be seen in the ruins of edifices built in
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, in France; and, what is worthy
of remark, in several instances, notwithstanding their slender forms, I
have met with them standing, although their principals have nearly
disappeared. I can only account for it, by supposing that their use and
delicacy of form have required more than ordinary care in the
construction.
The ruins of Vivier, belong to M. Parquin, a distinguished lawyer of
Paris. This gentleman has a small country house near by, and General La
Fayette took us all to see him. We found him at home, and met, quite as
a matter of course, with a polite reception. M. Parquin gave us much
curious information about the ruin, and took us to see some of the
subterraneous passages that he has caused to be opened.
It is thought that some of these artificial caverns were prisons, and
that others were intended merely as places for depositing stores. The
one we entered was of beautiful masonry, vaulted with the nicest art,
and seemed to communicate with the ruins, although the outlet was in the
open field and some distance from the walls. It might have been intended
for the double purpose of a storehouse and an outlet; for it is rare to
meet with a palace, or a castle, that has not, more or less, of these
private means of entrance and retreat. The Tuileries is said to abound
with them, and I have been shown the line of an under-ground passage,
between that palace and one of the public hotels, which must be fully a
quarter of a mile in length.
Du Laure gives an extract from a report of the state of the _château_ of
Vivier, made about the year 1700, with a view to know whether its
condition were such as to entitle the place to preserve certain of its
privileges. In this document, the castle is described as standing in the
centre of a marsh, surrounded by forest, and as so remote from all
civilization, as to be nearly forgotten. This, it will be remembered, is
the account of a royal abode, that stands within thirty miles of Paris!
In the very heart of the French capital, are the remains of an extensive
palace of one of the Roman Emperors, and yet it may be questioned if one
in a thousand, of those who live within a mile of the spot, have the
least idea of the origin of the buildings. I have inquired about it, in
its immediate neighbourhood, and it was with considerable difficulty, I
could discover any one who even knew that there was such a ruin at all,
in the street. The great number of similar objects, and the habit of
seeing them daily, has some such effect on one, as the movement of a
crowd in a public thoroughfare, where images pass so incessantly before
the eye, as to leave no impression of their peculiarities. Were a
solitary bison to scamper through the _rue St. Honoré_, the worthy
Parisians would transmit an account of his exploits to their children’s
children, while the way-farer on the prairies takes little heed of the
flight of a herd. As we went to La Grange, we stopped at a tavern,
opposite to which was the iron gate of a small _château_. I asked the
girl who was preparing our _gouter_, to whom the house belonged. “I am
sorry I cannot tell you, sir,” she answered; and then seeing suspicion
in my face, she promptly added—“for do you see, sir, I have only been
here _six weeks_.” Figure to yourself an American girl, set down
opposite an iron gate, in the country, and how long do you imagine she
would be ignorant of the owner’s name? If the blood of those pious
inquisitors, the puritans, were in her veins, she would know more, not
only of the gate, but of its owner; his wife, his children, his means,
his hopes, wishes, intentions and thoughts, than he ever knew himself,
or would be likely to know. But if this prominent love of meddling,
which in its very nature must of necessity lead to what is worse than
contented ignorance, gossipping error, and a wrong estimate of our
fellow creatures, it has, at least, the advantage of keeping a people
from falling asleep over their every day facts. There is no question
that the vulgar and low bred propensity of conjecturing, meddling,
combining, with their unavoidable companion, _inventing_, exists to a
vice, among a portion of our people; but, on the other hand, it is
extremely inconvenient when one is travelling, and wishes to know the
points of the compass, as has happened to myself, if he should ask a
full grown woman whereabouts the sun rises in that neighbourhood, he is
repulsed with the answer, that—“Monsieur ought to know that better than
a poor garden-woman like me!”
We returned to Paris, after a pleasant visit of three days at La Grange,
during which we had delightful weather, and altogether a most agreeable
time. The habits of the family are very regular and simple, but the
intercourse has the freedom and independence of a country house. We were
all in the circular drawing-room, a little before ten, breakfast being
served between ten and eleven. The table was French, the morning repast
consisting of light dishes of meat, _compôtes_, fruits, and sometimes
_soupe au lait_; one of the simplest and best things for such a meal,
that can be imagined. As a compliment to us Americans, we had fish fried
and broiled, but I rather think this was an innovation. Wine, to drink
with water, as a matter of course, was on the table. The whole ended
with a cup of _café au lait_. The morning then passed as each one saw
fit. The young men went shooting, the ladies drove out, or read, or had
a little music, while the general and myself were either walking about
the farm, or were conversing in the library. We dined at six, as at
Paris, and tea was made in the drawing-room about nine.
I was glad to hear from General La Fayette, that the reports of
Americans making demands on his purse, like so many other silly rumours
that are circulated, merely because some one has fancied such a thing
might be so, are untrue. On the contrary, he assures me that
applications of this nature are very seldom made, and most of those that
have been made have proved to come from Englishmen, who have thought
they might swindle him in this form. I have had at least a dozen such
applications myself, but I take it nothing is easier, in general, than
to distinguish between an American, and a native of Great Britain. It
was agreed between us, that in future, all applications of this nature,
should be sent to me for investigation.[16]
Footnote 16:
Under this arrangement, two or three years later, an applicant was
sent for examination, under very peculiar circumstances. The man
represented himself to be a shopkeeper of Baltimore, who had come to
England with his wife and child, to purchase goods. He had been robbed
of all he had, according to his account of the matter, about a
thousand pounds in sovereigns, and was reduced to want, in a strange
country. After trying all other means, in vain, he bethought him of
coming to Paris, to apply to General La Fayette, for succour. He had
just money enough to do this, having left his wife in Liverpool. He
appeared with an English passport, looked like an Englishman, and had
even caught some of the low English idioms, such as, “I am agreeable,”
for “it is agreeable to me,” or, “I agree to do so,” &c. &c. The
writer was exceedingly puzzled to decide as to this man’s nationality.
At length, in describing his journey to Paris, he said, “they took my
passport from me, when we got _to the lines_.” This settled the
matter, as no one but an American would call a _frontier_, the
_lines_. He proved, in the end, to be an American, and a great rogue.
LETTER X.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.