that there had been a fight in the capital. One of the countless
underplots had got so near the surface, that it threw up smoke. It is
said, that about fifty were killed and wounded, chiefly on the part of
the populace.
The insecurity of the Bourbons is little understood in America. It is
little understood even by those Americans, who pass a few months in the
country, and in virtue of frequenting the _cafés_, and visiting the
theatres, fancy they know the people. Louis XVIII. was more than once on
the point of flying, again, between the year 1815 and his death; for
since the removal of the allied troops, there is really no force for a
monarch to depend on, more especially in and around the capital, the
army being quite as likely to take sides against them, as for them.
The government has determined on exhibiting vigour, and there was a
great show of troops the night succeeding the combat. Curious to see the
effect of all this, two or three of us got into a carriage and drove
through the streets, about nine o’clock. We found some two or three
thousand men on the _boulevards_, and the _rue St. Denis_, in
particular, which had been the scene of the late disorder, was watched
with jealous caution. In all, there might have been four or five
thousand men under arms. They were merely in readiness, leaving a free
passage for carriages, though in some of the narrow streets, we found
the bayonets pretty near our faces.
An American being supposed _ex officio_, as it were, to be a well-wisher
to the popular cause, there is, perhaps, a slight disposition to look at
us with distrust. The opinion of our _travellers’_ generally favouring
liberty is, in my judgment, singularly erroneous, the feelings of a
majority being, on the whole, just the other way, for, at least, the
first year or two of their European experience; though, I think, it is
to be noticed, by the end of that time, that they begin to lose sight of
the personal interests which, at home, have made them any thing but
philosophers on such subjects, and to see and appreciate the immense
advantages of freedom over exclusion, although the predominance of the
former may not always favour their own particular views. Such, at least,
has been the result of my own observations, and so far from considering
a fresh arrival from home, as being likely to be an accession to our
little circle of liberal principles, I have generally deemed all such
individuals as being more likely to join the side of the aristocrats, or
the exclusionists in politics. This is not the moment to enter into an
examination of the causes that have led to so singular a contradiction
between opinions and facts, though I think the circumstance is not to be
denied, for it is now my intention to give you an account of the manner
in which matters are managed here, rather than enter into long
investigations of the state of society at home.
Not long after my arrival in France, a visit was announced, from a
person who was entirely unknown to me, but who called himself a
_littérateur_. The first interview passed off, as such interviews
usually do, and circumstances not requiring any return on my part, it
was soon forgotten. Within a fortnight, however, I received visit the
second, when the conversation took a political turn, my guest freely
abusing the Bourbons, the aristocrats, and the present state of things
in France. I did little more than listen. When the way was thus opened,
I was asked if I admired Sir Walter Scott, and particularly what I
thought of Ivanhoe, or, rather, if I did not think it an indifferent
book. A little surprised at such a question, I told my _littérateur_,
that Ivanhoe appeared to me to be very unequal, the first half being
incomparably the best, but that, as a whole, I thought it stood quite at
the head of the particular sort of romances to which it belonged. The
Antiquary, and Guy Mannering, for instance, were both much nearer
perfection, and, on the whole, I thought both better books; but Ivanhoe,
especially its commencement, was a noble poem. But did I not condemn the
want of historical truth in its pictures? I did not consider Ivanhoe as
intended to be history; it was a work of the imagination, in which all
the fidelity that was requisite, was enough to be probable and natural,
and that requisite I thought it possessed in an eminent degree. It is
true, antiquarians accused the author of having committed some
anachronisms, by confounding the usages of different centuries, which
was perhaps a greater fault, in such a work, than to confound mere
individual characters; but of this I did not pretend to judge, not being
the least of an antiquarian myself. Did I not think he had done gross
injustice to the noble and useful order of the Templars? On this point I
could say no more than on the preceding, having but a very superficial
knowledge of the Templars, though I thought the probabilities seemed to
be perfectly well respected. Nothing could _seem_ to be more true, than
Scott’s pictures. My guest then went into a long vindication of the
Templars, stating that Scott had done them gross injustice, and
concluding with an exaggerated compliment, in which it was attempted to
persuade me that I was the man to vindicate the truth, and to do justice
to a subject that was so peculiarly connected with liberal principles. I
disclaimed the ability to undertake such a task, at all; confessed that
I did not wish to disturb the images which Sir Walter Scott had left,
had I the ability; and declared I did not see the connection between his
accusation, admitting it to be true, and liberal principles. My visitor
soon after went away, and I saw no more of him for a week, when he came
again. On this occasion, he commenced by relating several _piquant_
anecdotes of the _Bourbons_ and their friends, gradually and ingeniously
leading the conversation, again, round to his favourite Templars. After
pushing me, for half an hour, on this point, always insisting on my
being the man to vindicate the order, and harping on its connection with
liberty, he took advantage of one of my often repeated protestations of
ignorance of the whole matter, suddenly to say—“well, then, _Monsieur,
go and see for yourself_, and you will soon be satisfied that my account
of the order is true.” “Go and see what?” “The Templars.” “There are no
longer any.” “They exist still.” “Where?” “Here, in Paris.” “This is new
to me; I do not understand it.” “The Templars exist; they possess
documents to prove how much Scott has misrepresented them, and—but, you
will remember that the actual government has so much jealousy, of
everything it does not control, that secrecy is necessary—and, to be
frank with you, M. ——, I am commissioned by the Grand Master, to invite
you to be present, at a secret meeting, this very week.”
Of course, I immediately conjectured that some of the political
agitators of the day had assumed this taking guise, in order to combine
their means, and carry out their plans.[17] The proposition was gotten
rid of, by my stating, in terms that could not be misunderstood, that I
was a traveller, and did not wish to meddle with any thing that required
secrecy, in a foreign government; that I certainly had my own political
notions, and if pushed, should not hesitate to avow them anywhere; that
the proper place for a writer to declare his sentiments, was in his
books, unless under circumstances which authorized him to act; that I
did not conceive foreigners were justifiable in going beyond this; that
I never had meddled with the affairs of foreign countries, and that I
never would; and that the fact of this society’s being secret, was
sufficient to deter me from visiting it. With this answer, my guest
departed, and he never came again.
Footnote 17:
Since the revolution of 1830, these Templars have made public, but
abortive efforts, to bring themselves into notice, by instituting some
ceremonies, in which they appeared openly in their robes.
Now, the first impression was, as I have told you, and I supposed my
visitor, although a man of fifty, was one of those who innocently lent
himself to these silly exaggerations; either as a dupe, or to dupe
others. I saw reason, however, to change this opinion.
At the time these visits occurred, I scarcely knew any one in Paris, and
was living in absolute retirement—being, as you know already, quite
without letters. About ten days after I saw the last of my
_littérateur_, I got a letter from a high functionary of the government,
sending me a set of valuable medals. The following day, these were
succeeded by his card, and an invitation to dinner. Soon after, another
person, notoriously connected with court intrigues, sought me out, and
overwhelmed me with civilities. In a conversation that shortly after
occurred between us, this person gave a pretty direct intimation, that
by pushing a little, a certain decoration that is usually conferred on
literary men, was to be had, if it were desired. I got rid of all these
things, in the straight-forward manner, that is the best for upsetting
intrigues; and having really nothing to conceal, I was shortly permitted
to take my own course.
I have now little doubt that the _littérateur_ was a _spy_, sent, either
to sound me on some point connected with La Fayette and the republicans,
or possibly to lead me into some difficulty, though I admit that this is
no more than conjecture. I give you the facts, which, at the time,
struck me as, at least, odd, and you may draw your own conclusions.
This, however, is but one of a dozen adventures, more or less similar,
that have occurred, and I think it well to mention it, by way of giving
you an insight into what sometimes happens here.[18]
Footnote 18:
A conversation, which took place _after_ the revolution of 1830, with
one of the parties named, leaves little doubt as to the truth of the
original conjecture.
My rule has been, whenever I am pushed on the subject of politics, to
deal honestly and sincerely with all with whom I am brought in contact,
and in no manner to leave the impression, that I think the popular form
of government an unavoidable evil, to which America is obliged to
submit. I do not shut my eyes to the defects of our own system, or to
the bad consequences that flow from it, and from it alone; but, the more
I see of other countries, the more I am persuaded, that, under
circumstances which admit but of a choice of evils, we are greatly the
gainers by having adopted it. Although I do not believe every other
nation is precisely fitted to imitate us, I think it is their misfortune
they are not so. If the inhabitants of other countries do not like to
hear such opinions, they should avoid the subject with Americans.
It is very much the custom here, whenever the example of America is
quoted in favour of the practicability of republican institutions, to
attribute our success to the fact of society’s being so simple, and the
people so virtuous. I presume I speak within bounds, when I say that I
have heard the latter argument urged a hundred times, during the last
eighteen months. One lady, in particular, who is exceedingly clever, but
who has a dread of all republics, on account of having lost a near
friend during the reign of terror, was especially in the practice of
resorting to this argument, whenever, in our frequent playful
discussions of the subject, I have succeeded in disturbing her
inferences, by citing American facts. “_Mais, Monsieur, l’Amérique est
si jeunes, et vous avez les vertues que nous manquons_,” &c., &c., has
always been thought a sufficient answer. Now, I happen to be one of
those who do not entertain such extravagant notions of the exclusive and
peculiar virtues of our own country. Nor, have I been so much struck
with the profound respect of the Europeans, in general, for those very
qualities that, nevertheless, are always quoted as the reason of the
success of what is called the “American experiment.” Quite the contrary:
I have found myself called on, more than once, to repel accusations
against our morality of a very serious nature; accusations that we do
_not_ deserve; and my impression certainly is, that the American people,
so far as they are at all the subjects of observation, enjoy any thing
but a good name, in Europe. Struck by this flagrant contradiction, I
determined to practice on my female friend, a little; a plan that was
successfully carried out, as follows.
Avoiding all allusion to politics, so as to throw her completely off her
guard, I took care to introduce such subjects, as should provoke
comparisons on other points, between France and America; or rather,
between the latter and Europe generally. As our discussions had a tinge
of philosophy, neither being very bigoted, and both preserving perfect
good humour, the plot succeeded admirably. After a little time, I took
occasion to fortify one of my arguments by a slight allusion to the
_peculiar virtues_ of the American people. She was too well-bred to
controvert this sort of reasoning at first, until, pushing the point,
little by little, she was so far provoked as to exclaim, “you lay great
stress on the exclusive virtues of your countrymen, Monsieur, but I have
yet to learn that they are so much better than the rest of the world!”
“I beg a thousand pardons, Madame, if I have been led into an
indiscretion on this delicate subject; but you must ascribe my error to
your own eloquence, which, contrary to my previous convictions, had
persuaded me into the belief that we have some peculiar unction of this
nature, that is unknown in Europe. I now begin to see the mistake, and
to understand _que nous autres Américains_, are to be considered
_virtuous_, only where there is question of the practicability of
maintaining a republican form of government, and, as great rogues on all
other occasions.” Madame de —— was wise enough, and good tempered
enough, to laugh at the artifice, and the allusion to “_nous autres
vertueux_,” has got to be a _mot d’ordre_ with us. The truth is, that
the question of politics is exclusively one of personal advantages, with
a vast majority of the people of Europe; one set selfishly struggling to
maintain their present superiority, while the other is as selfishly, and
in some respects as blindly, striving to overturn all that is
established, in order to be benefited by the scramble that will follow;
and religion, justice, philosophy, and practical good, are almost
equally remote from the motives of both parties.
From reflecting on such subjects, I have been led into a consideration
of the influence of political institutions on the more ordinary
relations of society. If the conclusions are generally in favour of
popular rights, and what is called freedom, there can be little question
that there are one or two weak spots, on our side of the question, that
it were better did they not exist. Let us, for the humour of the thing,
look a little into these points.
It is a common remark of all foreigners, that there is less social
freedom in America than in most other countries of Christendom. By
social freedom, I do not mean as relates to the mere forms of society,
for in these we are loose rather than rigid; but that one is less a
master of his own acts, his own mode of living, his own time, being more
rigidly amenable to public opinion, on all these points, than elsewhere.
The fact, I believe, out of all question, is true; at least it appears
to be true, so far as my knowledge of our own, and of other countries
extends. Admitting then the fact to be so, it is worth while to throw
away a moment in inquiring into the consequent good and evil of such a
state of things, as well as in looking for the causes. It is always a
great assistant in our study of others, to have some tolerable notions
of ourselves.
The control of public opinion has, beyond question, a salutary influence
on the moral _exterior_ of a country. The great indifference which the
French, and indeed the higher classes of most European countries,
manifest to the manner of living of the members of their different
circles, so long as certain appearances are respected, may do no
affirmative good to society, though at the same time it does less
positive harm than you may be disposed to imagine. But this is not the
point to which I now allude. Europeans maintain that, in things,
_innocent in themselves_, but which are closely connected with the
independence of action and tastes of men, the American is less his own
master than the inhabitant of this part of the world; and this is the
fact I, for one, feel it necessary to concede to them. There can be no
doubt that society meddles much more with the private affairs of
individuals, and affairs too, over which it properly has no control, in
America than in Europe. I will illustrate what I mean, by an example.
About twenty years since there lived in one of our shire-towns a family,
which, in its different branches, had numerous female descendants, then
all children. A member of this family, one day, went to a respectable
clergyman, his friend, and told him that he and his connections had so
many female children, whom it was time to think of educating, that they
had hit upon the plan of engaging some suitable instructress, with the
intention of educating their girls all together, both for economy’s sake
and for convenience, as well as that such near connections might be
brought up in a way to strengthen the family tie. The clergyman warmly
remonstrated against the scheme, assuring his friend, _that the
community would not bear it, and that it would infallibly make enemies_!
This was the feeling of a very sensible man, and of an experienced
divine, and I was myself the person making the application. This is
religiously true, and I have often thought of the circumstance since,
equally with astonishment and horror.
There are doubtless many parts of America, even, where such an
interference with the private arrangement of a family would not be
dreamt of; but there is a large portion of the country in which the
feeling described, by my clerical friend, does prevail. Most observers
would refer all this to democracy, but I do not. The interference would
not proceed from the humblest classes of society at all, but from those
nearer one’s own level. It would proceed from a determination to bring
all within the jurisdiction of a common opinion, or to be revenged on
delinquents, by envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. There is no
disposition in America, to let one live as he or she may happen to
please to live; the public choosing, though always in its proper circle,
to interfere, and say _how_ you must live. It is folly to call this by
terms as sounding as republicanism or democracy, which inculcate the
doctrine of as much personal freedom as at all comports with the public
good. He is, indeed, a most sneaking democrat, who finds it necessary to
consult a neighbourhood before he can indulge his innocent habits and
tastes. It is sheer _meddling_, and no casuistry can fitly give it any
other name.
A portion of this troublesome quality is owing, beyond question, to our
provincial habits, which are always the most exacting; but I think a
large portion, perhaps I ought to say the largest, is inherited from
those pious but exaggerated religionists who first peopled the country.
These sectaries extended the discipline of the church to all the
concerns of life. Nothing was too minute to escape their cognizance, and
a parish sat in judgment on the affairs of all who belonged to it. One
may easily live so long in the condition of society that such an origin
has entailed on us, as to be quite unconscious of its peculiarities, but
I think they can hardly escape one who has lived much beyond its
influence.
Here, perhaps, the fault is to be found in the opposite extreme, though
there are so many virtues consequent on independence of thought and
independence of habits, that I am not sure the good does not equal the
evil. There is no canting, and very little hypocrisy, in mere matters of
habits, in France; and this, at once, is abridging two of our own most
besetting vices. Still the French can hardly be called a very original
people. Convention ties them down mercilessly in a great many things.
They are less under the influence of mere fashion, in their intercourse,
it is true, than some of their neighbours, reason and taste exercising
more influence over such matters, in France, than almost any where else;
but they are mannerists in the fine arts, in their literature, and in
all their _feelings_, if one can use such an expression. The gross
exaggerations of the romantic school that is, just now, attracting so
much attention, are merely an effort to liberate themselves. But, after
allowing for the extreme ignorance of the substratum of society, which,
in France, although it forms so large a portion of the whole, should no
more be taken into the account in speaking of the national qualities,
than the slaves of Carolina should be included in an estimate of the
character of the Carolinians, there is, notwithstanding this mannerism,
a personal independence here, that certainly does not exist with us. The
American goes and comes when he pleases, and no one asks for a passport;
he has his political rights; talks of his liberty; swaggers of his
advantages, and yet does less as he pleases, even in innocent things,
than the Frenchman. His neighbours form a police, and a most troublesome
and impertinent one it sometimes proves to be. It is also unjust, for
having no legal means of arriving at facts, it half the time condemns on
conjecture.
The truth is, our institutions are the result of facts and accidents,
and, being necessarily an imitative people, there are often gross
inconsistencies between our professions and our practice; whereas the
French have had to struggle through their apprenticeship in political
rights, by the force of discussions and appeals to reason, and theory is
still too important to be entirely overlooked. Perhaps no people
understand the _true_ private characters of their public men so little
as the Americans, or any people so well as the French. I have never
known a distinguished American, in whom it did not appear to me that his
popular character was a false one; or a distinguished Frenchman whom the
public did not appear to estimate very nearly as he deserved to be. Even
Napoleon, necessary as he is to the national pride, and dazzling as is
all military renown, seems to me to be much more justly appreciated at
Paris, than any where else. The practice of meddling can lead to no
other result. They who wish to stand particularly fair before the
public, resort to deception, and I have heard a man of considerable
notoriety in America confess that he was so much afraid of popular
comments, that he always acted as if an enemy were looking over his
shoulder. With us, no one scruples to believe that he knows all about a
public man, even to the nicest traits of his character; all talk of him,
as none should talk but those who are in his intimacy, and, what between
hypocrisy on his part—an hypocrisy to which he is in some measure driven
by the officious interference with his most private interests—and
exaggerations and inventions, that ingenious tyrant, public opinion,
comes as near the truth as a fortune teller who is venturing his
prediction in behalf of a stranger.[19]
Footnote 19:
I can give no better illustration of the state of dependence to which
men are reduced in America, by this spirit of meddling, than by the
following anecdote. A friend was about to build a new town house, and
letting me know the situation, he asked my advice as to the mode of
construction. The inconveniences of an ordinary American town house
were pointed out to him,—its unfitness for the general state of
society, the climate, the other domestic arrangements, and its
ugliness. All were admitted, and the plan proposed in place of the old
style of building was liked, but still my friend hesitated about
adopting it. “It will be a genteeler and a better looking house than
the other.” “Agreed.” “It will be really more convenient.” “I think
so, too.” “It will be cheaper.” “Of that there is no question.” “Then
why not adopt it?” “To own the truth, I _dare not build differently
from my neighbours_!”
In France the right of the citizen to discuss all public matters is not
only allowed but _felt_. In America it is not _felt_, though it is
allowed. A homage must be paid to the public, by assuming the disguise
of acting as a public agent, in America; whereas, in France, individuals
address their countrymen, daily, under their own signatures. The
impersonality of _we_, and the character of public journalists, is
almost indispensable, with us, to impunity, although the mask can
deceive no one, the journalists notoriously making their prints
subservient to their private passions and private interests, and being
_impersonal_ only in the use of the imperial pronoun. The
_representative_, too, in America, is privileged to teach, in virtue of
his collective character, by the very men who hold the extreme and
untenable doctrine of instruction! It is the fashion to say in America,
_that the people will rule_; it would be nearer the truth, however, to
say, _the people will seem to rule_.
I think that these distinctions are facts, and they certainly lead to
odd reflections. We are so peculiarly situated as a nation, that one is
not to venture on conclusions too hastily. A great deal is to be imputed
to our provincial habits; much to the circumstance of the disproportion
between surface and population, which, by scattering the well-bred and
intelligent, a class at all times relatively small, serves greatly to
lessen their influence in imparting a tone to society; something to the
inquisitorial habits of our pious forefathers, who appear to have
thought that the charities were nought, and, in the very teeth of
revelation, that Heaven was to be stormed by impertinences; while a good
deal is to be conceded to the nature of a popular government whose
essential spirit is to create a predominant opinion, before which, right
or wrong, all must bow until its _cycle_ shall be completed. Thus it is,
that we are always, more or less, under one of two false influences, the
blow or its rebound; action that is seldom quite right, or reaction that
is always wrong; sinning heedlessly, or repenting to fanaticism. The
surest process in the world, of “riding on to fortune” in America, is to
get seated astride a lively “reaction,” which is rather more likely to
carry with it a unanimous sentiment, than even the error to which it
owes its birth.
As much of this weakness as is inseparable from humanity exists here,
but it exists under so many modifying circumstances, as, in this
particular, to render France as unlike America as well may be. Liberty
is not always pure philosophy nor strict justice, and yet, as a whole,
it is favourable to both. These are the spots on the political sun. To
the eye which seeks only the radiance and warmth of the orb, they are
lost, but he who studies it, with calmness and impartiality, sees them,
too plainly, to be in any doubt of their existence.
LETTER XI.
TO JAMES E. DE KAY, M. D.
Although we have not been without our metaphysical hallucinations in
America, I do not remember to have heard that “animal magnetism” was
ever in vogue among us. A people who are not very quick to feel the
poetry of sentiment, may well be supposed exempt from the delusions of a
doctrine which comprehends the very poetry of physics. Still, as the
subject is not without interest, and as chance has put me in the way of
personally inquiring into this fanciful system, I intend, in this
letter, to give you an account of what I have both heard and seen.
I shall premise by saying that I rank “animal magnetism” among the
“arts” rather than among the “sciences.” Of its theory I have no very
clear notion, nor do I believe that I am at all peculiar in my
ignorance; but until we can say what is that other “magnetism” to which
the world is indisputably so much indebted for its knowledge and
comforts, I do not know that we are to repudiate this, merely because we
do not understand it. Magnetism is an unseen and inexplicable influence,
and that is “metallic” while this is “animal;” _voilà tout_. On the
whole, it may be fairly mooted which most controls the world, the animal
or the metallic influence.
To deal gravely with a subject that, at least, baffles our
comprehension, there are certainly very extraordinary things related of
animal magnetism, and apparently on pretty good testimony. Take, for
instance, a single fact. _M. Jules Cloquet_ is one of the cleverest
practitioners of Paris, and is in extensive business. This gentleman
publicly makes the following statement. I write it from memory, but have
heard it and read it so often, that I do not think my account will
contain any essential error.
A woman, who was subject to the magnetic influence, or who was what is
commonly called a _somnambule_, had a cancer in the breast. M. ——, one
of the principal magnetisers of Paris, and from whom, among others, I
have had an account of the whole affair, was engaged to magnetise this
woman, while M. Cloquet operated on the diseased part. The patient was
put asleep, or rather into the magnetic trance, for it can scarcely be
called sleep, and the cancer was extracted, without the woman’s
_manifesting the least terror, or the slightest sense of pain_! To the
truth of the substance of this account, M. Cloquet, who does not pretend
to explain the reason, nor profess to belong, in any way, to the school,
simply testifies. He says that he had such a patient, and that she was
operated on, virtually, as I have told you. Such a statement, coming
from so high a source, induced the Academy, which is certainly not
altogether composed of magnetisers, but many of whose members are quite
animal enough to comprehend the matter, to refer the subject to a
special committee, which committee, I believe, was comprised of very
clever men. The substance of their report was pretty much what might
have been anticipated. They said that the subject was inexplicable, and
that “animal magnetism” could not be brought within the limits of any
known laws of nature. They might have said the same thing of the comets!
In both cases we have facts, with a few established consequences, but
are totally without elementary causes.
Animal magnetism is clearly one of three things: it is what it pretends
to be, an unexplained and as yet incomprehensible physical influence; it
is delusion; or it is absolute fraud.
A young countryman of ours, having made the acquaintance of M. C——,
professionally, and being full of the subject, I have so far listened to
his entreaties as to inquire personally into the facts, a step I might
not have otherwise been induced to take.
I shall now proceed to the history of my own experience in this
inexplicable mystery. We found M. C—— buried in the heart of Paris, in
one of those vast old hotels, which give to this town the air of
generations of houses, commencing with the quaint and noble of the
sixteenth century, and ending with the more fashionable pavilion of our
own times. His cabinet looked upon a small garden, a pleasant transition
from the animal within to the vegetable without. But one meets with
gardens, with their verdure and shrubbery and trees, in the most
unexpected manner, in this crowded town.
M. C—— received us politely, and we found with him one of his
_somnambules_, but as she had just come out of a trance, we were told
she could not be put asleep again that morning. Our first visit
therefore went no farther than some discourse on the subject of “animal
magnetism,” and a little practical by-play, that shall be related in its
place.
M. C—— did not attempt ascending to first principles, in his
explanations. Animal magnetism was animal magnetism—it was a fact, and
not a theory. Its effects were not to be doubted; they depended on
testimony of sufficient validity to dispose of any mere question of
authenticity. All that he attempted was hypothesis, which he invited us
to controvert. He might as well have desired me to demonstrate that the
sun is not a carbuncle. On the _modus operandi_, and the powers of his
art, the doctor was more explicit. There were a great many gradations in
quality in his _somnambules_, some being better and some worse; and
there was also a good deal of difference in the _intensity_ of the
_magnetisers_. It appears to be settled that the best _somnambules_ are
females, and the best _magnetisers_ males, though the law is not
absolute. I was flattered with being, by nature, a first rate
magnetiser, and the doctor had not the smallest doubt of his ability to
put me to sleep; an ability, so far as his theory went, I thought it was
likely enough he might possess, though I greatly questioned his physical
means.
I suppose it is _primâ facie_ evidence of credulity, to take the trouble
to inquire into the subject at all; at any rate, it was quite evident I
was set down as a good subject, from the moment of my appearance. Even
the _somnambule_ testified to this, though she would not then consent to
be put into a trance in order to give her opinion its mystical sanction.
The powers of a really good _somnambule_ are certainly of a very
respectable class. If a lock of hair be cut from the head of an invalid,
and sent a hundred leagues from the provinces, such a _somnambule_
properly magnetised, becomes gifted with the faculty to discover the
seat of the disease, however latent; and, by practice, she may even
prescribe the remedy, though this is usually done by a physician, like
M. C——, who is regularly graduated. The _somnambule_ is, properly, only
versed in pathology, any other skill she may discover being either a
consequence of this knowledge, or the effects of observation and
experience. The powers of a somnambule extend equally to the _morale_ as
well as to the _physique_. In this respect a phrenologist is a pure
quack in comparison with a lady in a trance. The latter has no
dependence on bumps and organs, but she looks right through you, at a
glance, and pronounces _ex cathedrâ_ whether you are a rogue, or an
honest man; a well disposed, or an evil disposed child of Adam. In this
particular, it is an invaluable science, and it is a thousand pities all
young women were not magnetised before they pronounce the fatal vows, as
not a few of them would probably wake up, and cheat the parson of his
fee. Our sex is difficult to be put asleep, and are so obstinate, that I
doubt if they would be satisfied with a shadowy glimpse of the temper
and dispositions of their mistresses.
You may possibly think I am trifling with you, and that I invent as I
write. On the contrary, I have not related one half of the miraculous
powers which being magnetised imparts to the thoroughly good
_somnambule_, as they were related to me by M. C——, and vouched for by
four or five of his patients who were present, as well as by my own
companion, a firm believer in the doctrine. M. C—— added that
_somnambules_ improve by practice, as well as _magnetisers_, and that he
has such command over one of his somnambules that he can put her to
sleep, by a simple effort of the will, although she may be in her own
apartment, in an adjoining street. He related the story of M. Cloquet
and the cancer, with great unction, and asked me what I thought of that?
Upon my word, I did not very well know what I did think of it, unless it
was to think it very queer. It appeared to me to be altogether
extraordinary, especially as I knew M. Cloquet to be a man of talents,
and believe him to be honest.
By this time I was nearly magnetised with second-hand facts; and I
became a little urgent for one or two that were visible to my own
senses. I was promised more testimony, and a sight of the process of
magnetising some water that a patient was to drink. This patient was
present; the very type of credulity. He listened to every thing that
fell from M. C—— with a _gusto_ and a faith that might have worked
miracles truly, had it been of the right sort, now and then turning his
good-humoured marvel-eating eyes on me, as much as to say, “what do you
think of that, now?” My companion told me, in English, he was a man of
good estate, and of proved philanthropy, who had no more doubt of the
efficacy of animal magnetism than I had of my being in the room. He had
brought with him two bottles of water, and these M. C—— _magnetised_, by
pointing his fingers at their orifices, rubbing their sides, and ringing
his hands about them, as if washing them, in order to disengage the
subtle fluid that was to impart to them their healing properties, for
the patient drank no other water.
Presently a young man came in, of a good countenance, and certainly of a
very respectable exterior. As the _somnambule_ had left us, and this
person could not consult her, which was his avowed intention in coming,
M. C—— proposed to let me see his own power as a magnetiser, in an
experiment on this patient. The young man consenting, the parties were
soon prepared. M. C—— began by telling me, that he would, _by a
transfusion of his will_, into the body of the patient, compel him to
sit still, although his own desire should be to rise. In order to
achieve this, he placed himself before the young man, and threw off the
fluid from his fingers’ ends, which he kept in a cluster, by constant
forward gestures of the arms. Sometimes he held the fingers pointed at
some particular part of the body, the heart in preference, though the
brain would have been more poetical. The young man certainly did not
rise; neither did I, nor any one else in the room. As this experiment
appeared so satisfactory to every body else, I was almost ashamed to
distrust it, easy as it really seemed to sit still, with a man
flourishing his fingers before one’s eyes.
I proposed that the doctor should see if he could pin me down, in this
invisible fashion, but this he frankly admitted he did not think he
could do _so soon_, though he foresaw I would become a firm believer in
the existence of animal magnetism, ere long, and a public supporter of
its wonders. In time, he did not doubt his power to work the same
miracle on me. He then varied the experiment, by making the young man
raise his arm _contrary_ to his wishes. The same process was repeated,
all the fluid being directed at the arm, which, after a severe trial,
was slowly raised, until it pointed forward like a finger-board. After
this, he was made to stand up, in spite of himself. This was the hardest
affair of all, the doctor throwing off the fluid in handsful; the
magnetized refusing for some time to budge an inch. At length he
suddenly stood up, and seemed to draw his breath like one who finally
yields after a strong trial of his physical force.
Nothing, certainly, is easier than for a young man to sit still and to
stand up, pretending that he strives internally to resist the desire to
do either. Still if you ask me, if I think this was simple collusion, I
hardly know what to answer. It is the easiest solution, and yet it did
not strike me as being the true one. I never saw less of the appearance
of deception than in the air of this young man; his face, deportment,
and acts being those of a person in sober earnest. He made no
professions, was extremely modest, and really seemed anxious not to have
the experiments tried. To my question, if he resisted the will of M.
C——, he answered, as much as he could, and said, that when he rose, he
did it because he could not help himself. I confess myself disposed to
believe in his sincerity and good faith.
I had somewhat of a reputation, when a boy, of effecting my objects, by
pure dint of teasing. Many is the shilling I have abstracted, in this
way, from my mother’s purse, who, constantly affirmed, that it was sore
against her will. Now, it seems to me, that M. C——, may, very easily,
have acquired so much command over a credulous youth, as to cause him to
do things of this nature, as he many fancy, against his own will. Signs
are the substitutes of words, which of themselves are purely
conventional, and, in his case, the flourishing of the fingers are
merely so many continued solicitations to get up. When the confirmation
of a theory that is already received, and which is doubly attractive by
its mysticisms, depends, in some measure, on the result, the experiment
becomes still less likely to fail. It is stripping me of all pretensions
to be a physiognomist, to believe that this young man was not honest;
and I prefer getting over the difficulty in this way. As to the operator
himself, he might, or might not be the dupe of his own powers. If the
former, I think it would, on the whole, render him the more likely to
succeed with his subject.
After a visit or two, I was considered sufficiently advanced to be
scientifically examined. One of the very best of the _somnambules_ was
employed on the occasion, and every thing being in readiness, she was
put to sleep. There was a faithshaking brevity in this process, which,
to say the least, if not fraudulent, was ill-judged. The doctor merely
pointed his fingers at her once or twice, looking her intently in the
eye, and the woman gaped; this success was followed up by a flourish or
two of the hand, and the woman slept; or was magnetised. Now this was
hardly sufficient even for my theory of the influence of the
imagination. One could have wished the _somnambule_ had not been so
drowsy. But there she was, with her eyes shut, giving an occasional,
hearty gape and the doctor declared her perfectly fit for service. She
retained her seat, however, moved her body, laughed, talked, and, in all
other respects, seemed to be precisely the woman she was before he
pointed his fingers at her. At first, I felt a disposition to manifest
that more parade was indispensable to humbugging me (who am not the
Pope, you will remember,) but reflection said, the wisest way was to
affect a little faith, as the surest means of securing more experiments.
Moreover, I am not certain, on the whole, that the simplicity of the
operation is not in favour of the sincerity of the parties, for, were
deception deliberately planned, it would be apt to call in the aid of
more mummery, and this, particularly, in a case in which there was
probably a stronger desire than usual to make a convert.
I gave the _somnambule_ my hand, and the examination was commenced,
forthwith. I was first physically inspected, and the report was highly
favourable to the condition of the animal. I had the satisfaction of
hearing from this high authority, that the whole machinery of the mere
material man was in perfect order, every thing working well and in its
proper place. This was a little contrary to my own experience, it is
true, but as I had no means of seeing the interior clockwork of my own
frame, like the _somnambule_, had I ventured to raise a doubt, it would
have been overturned by the evidence of one who had ocular proofs of
what she said, and should, beyond question, have incurred the ridicule
of being accounted a _malade imaginaire_.
Modesty must prevent my recording all that this obliging _somnambule_
testified to, on the subject of my _morale_. Her account of the matter
was highly satisfactory, and I must have been made of stone, not to
credit her and her mysticisms. M. C—— looked at me, again and again,
with an air of triumph, as much as to say, “what do you think of all
that now; are you not _really_ the noble, honest, virtuous,
disinterested, brave creature, she has described you to be?” I can
assure you, it required no little self-denial to abstain from becoming a
convert to the whole system. As it is very unusual to find a man with a
good head, who has not a secret inclination to believe in phrenology, so
does he, who is thus purified by the scrutiny of animal magnetism, feel
disposed to credit its mysterious influence. Certainly, I might have
gaped, in my turn, and commenced the moral and physical dissection of
the _somnambule_, whose hand I held, and no one could have given me the
lie, for nothing is easier than to speak _ex cathedrâ_, when one has a
monopoly of knowledge.
Encouraged by this flattering account of my own condition, I begged hard
for some more indisputable evidence of the truth of the theory. I
carried a stopwatch, and as I had taken an opportunity to push the stop
on entering the room, I was particularly desirous that the _somnambule_
should tell me the time indicated by its hands, a common test of their
powers I had been told; but to this M. C—— objected, referring every
thing of this tangible nature to future occasions. In fine, I could get
nothing during three or four visits, but pretty positive assertions,
expressions of wonder that I should affect to doubt what had been so
often and so triumphantly proved to others, accounts physical and moral,
like the one of which I had been the subject myself, and which did not
admit of either confirmation or refutation, and often repeated
declarations, that the time was not distant when, in my own unworthy
person, I was to become one of the most powerful magnetisers of the age.
All this did very well to amuse, but very little towards convincing; and
I was finally promised, that at my next visit, the _somnambule_ would be
prepared to show her powers, in a way that would not admit of cavil.
I went to the appointed meeting with a good deal of curiosity to learn
the issue, and a resolution not to be easily duped. When I presented
myself, (I believe it was the fourth visit,) M. C—— gave me a sealed
paper, that was not to be opened for several weeks, and which, he said,
contained the prediction of an event that was to occur to myself,
between the present time and the day set for the opening of the letter,
and which the _somnambule_ had been enabled to foresee, in consequence
of the interest she took in me and mine. With this sealed revelation,
then, I was obliged to depart, to await the allotted hour.
M. C—— had promised to be present at the opening of the seal, but he did
not appear. I dealt fairly by him, and the cover was first formally
removed, on the evening of the day endorsed on its back, as the one when
it would be permitted. The _somnambule_ had foretold that, in the
intervening time, one of my children would be seriously ill, that I
should magnetise it, and that the child would recover. Nothing of the
sort had occurred. No one of the family had been ill, I had not
attempted to magnetise any one, or even dreamed of it, and of course,
the whole prediction was a complete failure.
To do M. C—— justice, when he heard the result, he manifested surprise
rather than any less confident feeling. I was closely questioned, first,
as to whether neither of the family had not been ill, and secondly,
whether I had not felt a secret desire to magnetise any one of them. To
all these interrogatories, truth compelled me to give unqualified
negatives. I had hardly thought of the subject during the whole time. As
this interview took place at my own house, politeness compelled me to
pass the matter off as lightly as possible. There happened to be several
ladies present, however, the evening M. C—— called, and, thinking the
occasion a good one for him to try his powers on some one besides his
regular _somnambules_, I invited him to magnetise any one of the party
who might be disposed to submit to the process. To this he made no
difficulty, choosing an English female friend as the subject of the
experiment. The lady in question raised no objection, and the doctor
commenced with great zeal, and with every appearance of faith in his own
powers. No effect, however, was produced on this lady, or on one or two
more of the party, all of whom obstinately refused even to gape. M. C——
gave the matter up, and soon after took his leave, and thus closed my
personal connection with animal magnetism.
If you ask me for the conclusions I have drawn from these facts, I shall
be obliged to tell you, that I am in doubt how far the parties concerned
deceived others, and how far they deceived themselves. It is difficult
to discredit entirely all the testimony that has been adduced in behalf
of this power; and one is consequently obliged to refer all the
established facts to the influence of the imagination. Then testimony
itself is but a precarious thing, different eyes seeing the same objects
in very different lights.
Let us take ventriloquism as a parallel case to that of animal
magnetism. Ventriloquism is neither more nor less than imitation; and
yet, aided by the imagination, perhaps a majority of those who know any
thing about it, are inclined to believe there is really such a faculty
as that which is vulgarly attributed to ventriloquism. The whole art of
the ventriloquist consists in making such sounds as would be produced by
a person, or thing, that should be actually in the circumstances that he
wishes to represent. Let there be, for instance, five or six sitting
around a table, in a room with a single door; a ventriloquist among
them, wishes to mislead his companions, by making them believe that
another is applying for admission. All he has to do is to make a sound
similar to that which a person on the outside would make, in applying
for admission. “Open the door, and let me in,” uttered in such a manner,
would deceive any one who was not prepared for the experiment, simply
because men do not ordinarily make such sounds when sitting near each
other, because the words themselves would draw the attention to the
door, and because the sounds would be suited to the fictitious
application. If there were _two_ doors, the person first moving his head
towards one of them, would probably give a direction to the imaginations
of all the others; unless, indeed, the ventriloquist himself, by his
words, or his own movements, as is usually the case, should assume the
_initiative_. Every ventriloquist takes especial care to _direct_ the
imagination of his listener to the desired point, either by what he
says, by some gesture, or by some movement. Such, undeniably, is the
fact in regard to ventriloquism; for we know enough of the philosophy of
sound, to be certain it can be nothing else. One of the best
ventriloquists of this age, after affecting to resist this explanation
of his mystery, candidly admitted to me, on finding that I stuck to the
principles of reason, that all his art consisted of no more than a power
to control the imagination by imitation, supported occasionally by
acting. And, yet I once saw this man literally turn a whole family out
of doors, in a storm, by an exercise of his art. On that occasion, so
complete was the delusion, that the good people of the house actually
fancied sounds which came from the ventriloquist, came from a point
considerably beyond the place where they stood, and on the side
_opposite_ to that occupied by the speaker, although they stood at the
top of a flight of steps, and he stood at the bottom. All this time, the
sounds appeared to me to come from the place whence, by the laws of
sound, except in cases of reverberation, and of the influence of the
imagination, they only could appear to come; or, in other words, from
the mouth of the ventriloquist himself. Now, if the imagination can
effect so much, even in crowded assemblies, composed of people of all
degrees of credulity, intelligence, and strength of mind, and when all
are prepared, in part at least, for the delusion, what may it not be
expected to produce on minds peculiarly suited to yield to its
influence, and this, too, when the prodigy take the captivating form of
mysticism and miracles.
In the case of the patient of M. Cloquet, we are reduced to the
alternatives of denying the testimony, of believing that recourse was
had to drugs, of referring all to the force of the imagination, or of
admitting the truth of the doctrine of animal magnetism. The character
of M. Cloquet, and the motiveless folly of such a course, compel us to
reject the first; the second can hardly be believed, as the patient had
not the appearance of being drugged, and the possession of such a secret
would be almost as valuable as the art in question itself. The doctrine
of animal magnetism we cannot receive, on account of the want of
uniformity and exactitude in the experiments, and I think, we are fairly
driven to take refuge in the force of the imagination. Before doing
this, however, we ought to make considerable allowances for
exaggerations, colouring, and the different manner in which men are apt
to regard the same thing. My young American friend, who _did_ believe in
animal magnetism, viewed several of the facts I have related with eyes
more favourable than mine, although even he was compelled to allow that
M. C—— had much greater success with himself, than with your humble
servant!
LETTER XII.
TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQUIRE, COOPERSTOWN.
We entered France in July, 1826, and having remained in and about the
French capital, until February, 1828, we thought it time to change the
scene. Paris is effectually the centre of Europe, and a residence in it,
is the best training an American can have, previously to visiting the
other parts of that quarter of the world. Its civilization, usages, and
facilities, takes the edge off of our provincial admiration, removes
prejudices, and prepares the mind to receive new impressions, with more
discrimination and tact. I would advise all our travellers to make this
their first stage, and then to visit the north of Europe, before
crossing the Alps, or the Pyrenees. Most people, however, hurry into the
south, with a view to obtain the best as soon as possible, but it is
with this, as in most of our enjoyments, a too eager indulgence defeats
its own aim.
We had decided to visit London, where the season, _or winter_, would
soon commence. The necessary arrangements were made, and we sent round
our cards of p. p. c., and obtained passports. On the very day we were
to quit Paris, an American friend wrote me a note to say that a young
connexion of his was desirous of going to London, and begged a place for
her in my carriage. It is, I believe, a peculiar and a respectable
trait, in the national character, that we so seldom hesitate about
asking, or acceding to, favours of this sort. Whenever woman is
concerned, our own sex yield, and usually without murmuring. At all
events, it was so with W——, who cheerfully gave up his seat in the
carriage to Miss ——, in order to take one in the _coupé_ of the
_diligence_. The notice was so short, and the hour so late, that there
was no time to get a passport for him, and, as he was included in mine,
I was compelled to run the risk of sending him to the frontiers without
one. I was a consul at the time: a titular one, as to duties, but, in
reality as much of a consul, as if I had ever visited my consulate.[20]
The only official paper I possessed, in connection with the office, the
commission and _exequatur_ excepted, was a letter from the _Préfet_ of
the Rhone, acknowledging the receipt of the latter. As this was strictly
a French document, I gave it to W——, as proof of my identity,
accompanied by a brief statement of the reasons why he was without a
passport, begging the authorities, at Need, to let him pass as far as
the frontier, where I should be in season to prove his character. This
statement I signed as consul, instructing W—— to show it, if applied to
for a passport, and if the _gensd’armes_ disavowed me, to show the
letter, by way of proving who I was. The expedient was clumsy enough,
but it was the best that offered.
Footnote 20:
There being so strong a propensity to cavil at American facts, lest
this book might fall into European hands, it may be well to explain a
little. The consulate of the writer was given to him solely to avoid
the appearance of going over to the enemy, during his residence
abroad. The situation conferred neither honour nor profit, there being
no salary, and, in his case, not fees enough to meet the expense of
the office opened by a deputy. The writer suspects he was much too
true to the character and principles of his native country, to be
voluntarily selected by its government as the object of its honours or
rewards, and it is certain he never solicited either. There are
favours, it would seem, that are reserved, in America, for those who
most serve the interests of her enemies! A day of retribution will
come.
This arrangement settled, we got into the carriage and took our leave of
Paris. Before quitting the town, however, I drove round to the _rue
d’Anjou_, to take my leave of General La Fayette. This illustrious man
had been seriously ill, for some weeks, and I had many doubts of my ever
seeing him again. He did not conceive himself to be in any danger,
however, but spoke of his speedy recovery as a matter of course, and
made an engagement with me for the ensuing summer. I bade him adieu,
with a melancholy apprehension that I should never see him again.
We drove through the gates of Paris, amid the dreariness of a winter’s
evening. You are to understand that every body quits London and Paris
just as night sets in. I cannot tell you whether this is caprice, or
whether it is a usage that has arisen from a wish to have the day in
town, and a desire to relieve the monotony of roads so often travelled,
by sleep; but so it is. We did not fall into the fashion, simply because
it is a fashion, but the days are so short in February, in these high
latitudes, that we could not make our preparations earlier.
I have little agreeable to say concerning the first forty miles of the
journey. It rained, and the roads were, as usual, slippery with mud, and
full of holes. The old _pavés_ are beginning to give way, however, and
we actually got a bit of _terre_ within six posts of Paris. This may be
considered a triumph of modern civilization; for, whatever may be said
and sung in favour of Appian ways and Roman magnificence, a more cruel
invention for travellers and carriage wheels, than these _pavés_, was
never invented. A real Paris winter’s day is the most uncomfortable of
all weather. If you walk, no device of leather will prevent the moisture
from penetrating to your heart; if you ride, it is but an affair of mud
and _gras de Paris_. We enjoyed all this until nine at night, by which
time we had got enough of it, and in Beauvais, instead of giving the
order _à la poste_, the postilion was told to go to an inn. A warm
supper and good beds put us all in good humour, again.
In putting into the mouth of Falstaff, the words “shall I not take mine
ease, in mine inn,” Shakspeare may have meant no more than the drowsy
indolence of a glutton, but they recur to me with peculiar satisfaction,
whenever I get unbooted and with a full stomach, before the warm fire of
a hotel, after a fatiguing and chilling day’s work. If any man doubt
whether Providence has not dealt justly by all of us, in rendering our
enjoyments dependent on comparative rather than on positive benefits,
let him travel through a dreary day, and take his comfort at night, in a
house where every thing is far below his usual habits, and learn to
appreciate the truth. The sweetest sleep I have ever had, has been
caught on deck, in the middle watch, under a wet pee-jacket, and with a
coil of rope for a pillow.
Our next day’s work carried us as far as Abbeville, in Picardy. Here we
had a capital supper of game, in a room that set us all shivering with
good honest cold. The beds, as usual, were excellent. The country
throughout all this part of France is tame and monotonous, with wide
reaches of grainlands, that are now brown and dreary, here and there a
wood, and the usual villages of dirty stone houses. We passed a few
hamlets, however, that were more than commonly rustic and picturesque,
and in which the dwellings seemed to be of mud, and were thatched. As
they were mostly very irregular in form, the street winding through them
quite prettily, they would have been good in their way, had there been
any of the simple expedients of taste to relieve their poverty. But the
French peasants of this province appear to think of little else but
their wants. There was occasionally a venerable and generous old vine,
clinging about the door, however, to raise some faint impressions of
happiness.
We passed through, or near, the field of Cressy. By the aid of the
books, we fancied we could trace the positions of the two armies, but it
was little more than very vague conjecture. There was a mead, a breadth
of field well adapted to cavalry, and a wood. The river is a mere brook,
and could have offered but little protection, or resistance to the
passage of any species of troops. I saw no village, and we may not have
been within a mile of the real field, after all. Quite likely no one
knows where it is. It is very natural that the precise sites of great
events should be lost, though our own history is so fresh and full, that
to us it is apt to appear extraordinary. In a conversation with a
gentleman of the Stanley family, lately, I asked him if Latham-house, so
celebrated for its siege in the civil wars, was still in the possession
of its ancient proprietors. I was told it no longer existed, and that,
until quite recently, its positive site was a disputed point, and one
which had only been settled by the discovery of a hole in a rock, in
which shot had been cast during the siege, and which hole was known to
have formerly been in a court. It is no wonder that doubts exist as to
the identity of Homer, or the position of Troy.
We have anglicized the word Cressy, which the French term _Crécy_, or,
to give it a true Picard orthography, _Créci_. Most of the names that
have this termination are said to be derived from this province. Many of
them have become English, and have undergone several changes in the
spelling. Tracy, or Tracey; de Courcy, or de Courcey; Montmorency, and
Lacy or Lacey, were once _Traci_, _Courci_, _Montmorenci_ and
_Laci_.[21] The French get over the disgrace of their ancient defeats,
very ingeniously, by asserting that the English armies of old were
principally composed of Norman soldiers, and that the chivalrous
nobility which performed such wonders were of purely Norman blood. The
latter was probably more true than the former.
Footnote 21:
The celebrated Sir William Draper was once present when the subject
turned on the descent of families, and the changes that names
underwent. “Now my own is a proof of what I say,” he continued, with
the intention to put an end to a discourse that was getting to savour
of family pride—“my family being directly derived from King Pepin.”
“How do you make that out, Sir William?” “By self evident
orthographical testimony—as you may see—Pepin, Pipkin, Napkin, Diaper,
Draper.”
As we drew nearer to the coast, the country became more varied.
Montreuil and Saumer are both fortified, and one of these places,
standing on an abrupt, rocky eminence, is quite picturesque and quaint.
But we did not stop to look at any thing very minutely, pushing forward,
as fast as three horses could draw us, for the end of our journey. A
league or two from Boulogne, we were met by a half dozen mounted runners
from the different inns, each inviting us to give our custom to his
particular employer. These fellows reminded me of the wheatrunners on
the hill at Albany, though they were as much more clamorous and earnest,
as a noisy protestation-making Frenchman is more obtrusive than a
shrewd, quiet calculating Yankee. We did not stop in Boulogne, to try
how true were the voluble representations of these gentry, but, changing
horses at the post, went our way. The town seemed full of English, and
we gazed about us, with some curiosity, at a place that has become so
celebrated by the great demonstration of Napoleon. There is a high
monument standing at no great distance from the town, to commemorate one
of his military parades. The port is small and crowded, like most of the
harbours on both sides of the channel.
We had rain, and chills and darkness, for the three or four posts that
succeeded. The country grew more and more tame, until after crossing an
extensive plain of moist meadow land, we passed through the gate of
Calais. I know no place that will give you a more accurate notion of
this celebrated port than Powles Hook. It is, however, necessary to
enlarge the scale greatly, for Calais is a town of some size, and the
hommock on which it stands, and the low land by which it is environed,
are much more considerable in extent than the spot just named.
We drove to the inn that Sterne has immortalized, or, one at least that
bears the same name, and found English comfort united with French
cookery and French taste. After all, I do not know why I may not say
French comforts, too; for in many respects they surpass their island
neighbours even in this feature of domestic comfort. It is a comfort to
have a napkin even when eating a muffin; to see one’s self entire in a
mirror, instead of _edging_ the form into it, or out of it, sideways; to
drink good coffee; to eat good _côtelettes_, and to be able to wear the
same linen for a day, without having it soiled. The Bible says, “comfort
me with flaggons or apples,” I really forget which,—and if either of
these is to be taken as authority, a _côtelette_ may surely be admitted
into the _carte de conforts_.
We found Calais a clean town, and possessing a certain medium aspect,
that was as much English as French. The position is strong, though I was
not much struck with the strength of the works. England has no motive to
wish to possess it, now that conquest on the continent is neither
expedient nor possible. The port is good for nothing, in a warlike
sense, except to protect a privateer or two; though the use of steam
will probably make it of more importance in any future war, than it has
been for the last two centuries.
We found W—— safely arrived. At one of the frontier towns he had been
asked for his passport, and, in his fright, he gave the letter of the
Prefet of the Rhone, instead of the explanation I had so cleverly
devised. This letter commenced with the words “_Monsieur le Consul_” in
large letters, and occupying, according to French etiquette, nearly half
of the first page. The _gensdarme_, a _vieux moustache_, held his
lantern up to read it, and seeing this ominous title, it would seem that
Napoleon and Marengo, and all the glories of the Consulate arose in his
imagination. He got no further than those three words, which he
pronounced aloud, and, then folding the letter, he returned it with a
profound bow, asking no further questions. As the _diligence_ drove on,
W—— heard him say—“_apparemment vous avez un homme tres considérable, là
dedans, Monsieur le Conducteur_.” So much for our fears, for passports,
and for _gensd’armes_!
We went to bed, with the intention of embarking for England in the
morning.