Morse, by appointment. The translator of the "Ode to the Deity" (from
the Russian of Derzhavin) could not by any accident be an ordinary
man, and I anticipated great pleasure in his society. He received us
at his lodgings in the _Place Vendome_. I was every way pleased with
him. His knowledge of our country and its literature surprised me, and
I could not but be gratified with the unprejudiced and well-informed
interest with which he discoursed on our government and institutions.
He expressed great pleasure at having seen his ode in one of our
schoolbooks (Pierpont's Reader, I think), and assured us that the
promise to himself of a visit to America was one of his brightest
anticipations. This is not at all an uncommon feeling, by the way,
among the men of talent in Paris; and I am pleasingly surprised,
everywhere, with the enthusiastic hopes expressed for the success of
our experiment in liberal principles. Dr. Bowring is a slender man, a
little above the middle height, with a keen, inquisitive expression of
countenance, and a good forehead, from which the hair is combed
straight back all round, in the style of the Cameronians. His manner
is all life, and his motion and gesture nervously sudden and angular.
He talks rapidly, but clearly, and uses beautiful language--concise,
and full of select expressions and vivid figures. His conversation in
this particular was a constant surprise. He gave us a great deal of
information, and when we parted, inquired my route of travel, and
offered me letters to his friends, with a cordiality very unusual on
this side the Atlantic.
* * * * *
It is a cold but common rule with travellers in Europe to avoid the
society of their own countrymen. In a city like Paris, where time and
money are both so valuable, every additional acquaintance, pursued
either for etiquette or intimacy, is felt, and one very soon learns to
prefer his advantage to any tendency of his sympathies. The
infractions upon the rule, however, are very delightful, and, at the
general _reunion_ at our ambassador's on Wednesday evening, or an
occasional one at Lafayette's, the look of pleasure and relief at
beholding familiar faces, and hearing a familiar language once more,
is universal. I have enjoyed this morning the double happiness of
meeting an American circle, around an American breakfast. Mr. Cooper
had invited us (Morse, the artist, Dr. Howe, a gentleman of the navy,
and myself). Mr. C. lives with great hospitality, and in all the
comfort of American habits; and to find him as he is always found,
with his large family about him, is to get quite back to the
atmosphere of our country. The two or three hours we passed at his
table were, of course, delightful. It should endear Mr. Cooper to the
hearts of his countrymen, that he devotes all his influence, and no
inconsiderable portion of his large income, to the encouragement of
American artists. It would be natural enough, after being so long
abroad, to feel or affect a preference for the works of foreigners;
but in this, as in his political opinions, most decidedly, he is
eminently patriotic. We feel this in Europe, where we discern more
clearly by comparison the poverty of our country in the arts, and
meet, at the same time, American artists of the first talent, without
a single commission from home for original works, copying constantly
for support. One of Mr. Cooper's purchases, the "Cherubs," by
Greenough, has been sent to the United States, and its merit was at
once acknowledged. It was done, however (the artist, who is here,
informs me), under every disadvantage of feeling and circumstances;
and, from what I have seen and am told by others of Mr. Greenough, it
is, I am confident, however beautiful, anything but a fair specimen of
his powers. His peculiar taste lies in a bolder range, and he needs
only a commission from government to execute a work which will begin
the art of sculpture nobly in our country.
* * * * *
My curiosity led me into a strange scene to-day. I had observed for
some time among the placards upon the walls an advertisement of an
exhibition of "fighting animals," at the _Barriere du Combat_. I am
disposed to see almost any sight _once_, particularly where it is,
like this, a regular establishment, and, of course, an exponent of the
popular taste. The place of the "_Combats des Animaux_," is in one of
the most obscure suburbs, outside the walls, and I found it with
difficulty. After wandering about in dirty lanes for an hour or two,
inquiring for it in vain, the cries of the animals directed me to a
walled place, separated from the other houses of the suburb, at the
gate of which a man was blowing a trumpet. I purchased a ticket of an
old woman who sat shivering in the porter's lodge; and, finding I was
an hour too early for the fights, I made interest with a
savage-looking fellow, who was carrying in tainted meat, to see the
interior of the establishment. I followed him through a side gate, and
we passed into a narrow alley, lined with stone kennels, to each of
which was confined a powerful dog, with just length of chain enough to
prevent him from reaching the tenant of the opposite hole. There were
several of these alleys, containing, I should think, two hundred dogs
in all. They were of every breed of strength and ferocity, and all of
them perfectly frantic with rage or hunger, with the exception of a
pair of noble-looking black dogs, who stood calmly at the mouths of
their kennels; the rest struggled and howled incessantly, straining
every muscle to reach us, and resuming their fierceness toward each
other when we had passed by. They all bore, more or less, the marks of
severe battles; one or two with their noses split open, and still
unhealed; several with their necks bleeding and raw, and galled
constantly with the iron collar, and many with broken legs, but all
apparently so excited as to be insensible to suffering. After
following my guide very unwillingly through the several alleys,
deafened with the barking and howling of the savage occupants, I was
taken to the department of wild animals. Here were all the tenants of
the menagerie, kept in dens, opening by iron doors upon the pit in
which they fought. Like the dogs, they were terribly wounded; one of
the bears especially, whose mouth was torn all off from his jaws,
leaving his teeth perfectly exposed, and red with the continually
exuding blood. In one of the dens lay a beautiful deer, with one of
his haunches severely mangled, who, the man told me, had been hunted
round the pit by the dogs but a day or two before. He looked up at us,
with his large soft eye, as we passed, and, lying on the damp stone
floor, with his undressed wounds festering in the chilly atmosphere of
mid-winter, he presented a picture of suffering which made me ashamed
to the soul of my idle curiosity.
The spectators began to collect, and the pit was cleared. Two thirds
of those in the amphitheatre were Englishmen, most of whom were
amateurs, who had brought dogs of their own to pit against the regular
mastiffs of the establishment. These were despatched first. A strange
dog was brought in by the collar, and loosed in the arena, and a
trained dog let in upon him. It was a cruel business. The sleek,
well-fed, good-natured animal was no match for the exasperated, hungry
savage he was compelled to encounter. One minute, in all the joy of a
release from his chain, bounding about the pit, and fawning upon his
master, and the next attacked by a furious mastiff, who was taught to
fasten on him at the first onset in a way that deprived him at once of
his strength; it was but a murderous exhibition of cruelty. The
combats between two of the trained dogs, however, were more equal.
These succeeded to the private contests, and were much more severe and
bloody. There was a small terrier among them, who disabled several
dogs successively, by catching at their fore-legs, and breaking them
instantly with a powerful jerk of his body. I was very much interested
in one of the private dogs, a large yellow animal, of a noble
expression of countenance, who fought several times very unwillingly,
but always gallantly and victoriously. There was a majesty about him,
which seemed to awe his antagonists. He was carried off in his
master's arms, bleeding and exhausted, after punishing the best dogs
of the establishment.
The baiting of the wild animals succeeded the canine combats. Several
dogs (Irish, I was told), of a size and ferocity such as I had never
before seen, were brought in, and held in the leash opposite the den
of the bear whose head was so dreadfully mangled.
The door was then opened by the keeper, but poor bruin shrunk from the
contest. The dogs became unmanageable at the sight of him, however,
and, fastening a chain to his collar, they drew him out by main force,
and immediately closed the grating. He fought gallantly, and gave more
wounds than he received, for his shaggy coat protected his body
effectually. The keepers rushed in and beat off the dogs, when they
had nearly finished peeling the remaining flesh from his head; and the
poor creature, perfectly blind and mad with pain, was dragged into his
den again, to await another day of _amusement_!
I will not disgust you with more of these details. They fought several
foxes and wolves afterward, and, last of all, one of the small donkeys
of the country, a creature not so large as some of the dogs, was led
in, and the mastiffs loosed upon her. The pity and indignation I felt
at first at the cruelty of baiting so unwarlike an animal, I soon
found was quite unnecessary. She was the severest opponent the dogs
had yet found. She went round the arena at full gallop, with a dozen
savage animals springing at her throat, but she struck right and left
with her fore-legs, and at every kick with her heels threw one of them
clear across the pit. One or two were left motionless on the field,
and others carried off with their ribs kicked in, and their legs
broken, while their inglorious antagonist escaped almost unhurt. One
of the mastiffs fastened on her ear and threw her down, in the
beginning of the chase, but she apparently received no other injury.
I had remained till the close of the exhibition with some violence to
my feelings, and I was very glad to get away. Nothing would tempt me
to expose myself to a similar disgust again. How the intelligent and
gentlemanly Englishmen whom I saw there, and whom I have since met in
the most refined society of Paris, can make themselves familiar, as
they evidently were, with a scene so brutal, I cannot very well
conceive.
LETTER IX.
MALIBRAN--PARIS AT MIDNIGHT--A MOB, ETC.
Our beautiful and favorite MALIBRAN is playing in Paris this winter. I
saw her last night in Desdemona. The other theatres are so attractive,
between Taglioni, Robert le Diable (the new opera), Leontine Fay, and
the political pieces constantly coming out, that I had not before
visited the Italian opera. Madame Malibran is every way changed. She
sings, unquestionably, better than when in America. Her voice is
firmer, and more under control, but it has lost that gushing wildness,
that brilliant daringness of execution, that made her singing upon our
boards so indescribably exciting and delightful. Her person is perhaps
still more changed. The round, graceful fulness of her limbs and
features has yielded to a half-haggard look of care and exhaustion,
and I could not but think that there was more than Desdemona's
fictitious wretchedness in the expression of her face. Still, her
forehead and eyes have a beauty that is not readily lost, and she will
be a strikingly interesting, and even splendid creature, as long as
she can play. Her acting was extremely impassioned; and in the more
powerful passages of her part, she exceeded everything I had
conceived of the capacity of the human voice for pathos and melody.
The house was crowded, and the applause was frequent and universal.
Madame Malibran, as you probably know, is divorced from the man whose
name she bears, and has married a violinist of the Italian orchestra.
She is just now in a state of health that will require immediate
retirement from the stage, and, indeed, has played already too long.
She came forward after the curtain dropped, in answer to the continual
demand of the audience, leaning heavily on Rubini, and was evidently
so exhausted as to be scarcely able to stand. She made a single
gesture, and was led off immediately, with her head drooping on her
breast, amid the most violent acclamations. She is a perfect passion
with the French, and seems to have out-charmed their usual caprice.
* * * * *
It was a lovely night, and after the opera I walked home. I reside a
long distance from the places of public amusement. Dr. Howe and myself
had stopped at a _cafe_ on the Italian Boulevards an hour, and it was
very late. The streets were nearly deserted--here and there a solitary
cabriolet with the driver asleep under his wooden apron, or the
motionless figure of a municipal guardsman, dozing upon his horse,
with his helmet and brazen armor glistening in the light of the lamps.
Nothing has impressed me more, by the way, than a body of these men
passing me in the night. I have once or twice met the King returning
from the theatre with a guard, and I saw them once at midnight on an
extraordinary patrol winding through the arch into the Place
Carrousel. Their equipments are exceedingly warlike (helmets of
brass, and coats of mail), and, with the gleam of the breast-plates
through their horsemen's cloaks, the tramp of hoofs echoing through
the deserted streets, and the silence and order of their march, it was
quite a realization of the descriptions of chivalry.
We kept along the Boulevards to the Rue Richelieu. A carriage, with
footmen in livery, had just driven up to Frascati's, and, as we
passed, a young man of uncommon personal beauty jumped out and entered
that palace of gamblers. By his dress he was just from a ball, and the
necessity of excitement after a scene meant to be so gay, was an
obvious if not a fair satire on the happiness of the "gay" circle in
which he evidently moved. We turned down the Passage Panorama, perhaps
the most crowded thoroughfare in all Paris, and traversed its long
gallery without meeting a soul. The widely-celebrated _patisserie_ of
Felix, the first pastry-cook in the world, was the only shop open from
one extremity to the other. The guard, in his gray capote, stood
looking in at the window, and the girl, who had served the palates of
half the fashion and rank of Paris since morning, sat nodding fast
asleep behind the counter, paying the usual fatiguing penalty of
notoriety. The clock struck two as we passed the _facade_ of the
Bourse. This beautiful and central square is, night and day, the grand
rendezvous of public vice; and late as the hour was, its _pave_ was
still thronged with flaunting and painted women of the lowest
description, promenading without cloaks or bonnets, and addressing
every passer-by.
The Palais Royal lay in our way, just below the Bourse, and we entered
its magnificent court with an exclamation of new pleasure. Its
thousand lamps were all burning brilliantly, the long avenues of trees
were enveloped in a golden atmosphere created by the bright radiation
of light through the mist, the Corinthian pillars and arches retreated
on either side from the eye in distinct and yet mellow perspective,
the fountain filled the whole palace with its rich murmur, and the
broad marble-paved galleries, so thronged by day, were as silent and
deserted as if the drowsy _gens d'armes_ standing motionless on their
posts were the only living beings that inhabited it. It was a scene
really of indescribable impressiveness. No one who has not seen this
splendid palace, enclosing with its vast colonnades so much that is
magnificent, can have an idea of its effect upon the imagination. I
had seen it hitherto only when crowded with the gay and noisy idlers
of Paris, and the contrast of this with the utter solitude it now
presented--not a single footfall to be heard on its floors, yet every
lamp burning bright, and the statues and flowers and fountains all
illuminated as if for a revel--was one of the most powerful and
captivating that I have ever witnessed. We loitered slowly down one of
the long galleries, and it seemed to me more like some creation of
enchantment than the public haunt it is of pleasure and merchandise. A
single figure, wrapped in a cloak, passed hastily by us and entered
the door to one of the celebrated "hells," in which the playing scarce
commences till this hour--but we met no other human being.
We passed on from the grand court to the Galerie Nemours. This, as you
may find in the descriptions, is a vast hall, standing between the
east and west courts of the Palais Royal. It is sometimes called the
"glass gallery." The roof is of glass, and the shops, with fronts
entirely of windows, are separated only by long mirrors, reaching in
the shape of pillars from the roof to the floor. The pavement is
tesselated, and at either end stand two columns completing its form,
and dividing it from the other galleries into which it opens. The
shops are among the costliest in Paris; and what with the vast
proportions of the hall, its beautiful and glistening material, and
the lightness and grace of its architecture, it is, even when
deserted, one of the most fairy-like places in this fantastic city. It
is the lounging place of military men particularly; and every evening
from six to midnight, it is thronged by every class of gayly dressed
people, officers off duty, soldiers, polytechnic scholars, ladies, and
strangers of every costume and complexion, promenading to and fro in
the light of the _cafes_ and the dazzling shops, sheltered completely
from the weather, and enjoying, without expense or ceremony, a scene
more brilliant than the most splendid ball-room in Paris. We lounged
up and down the long echoing pavement an hour. It was like some kingly
"banquet hall deserted." The lamps burned dazzlingly bright, the
mirrors multiplied our figures into shadowy and silent attendants, and
our voices echoed from the glittering roof in the utter stillness of
the hour, as if we had broken in, Thalaba-like, upon some magical
palace of silence.
It is singular how much the differences of time and weather affect
scenery. The first sunshine I saw in Paris, unsettled all my previous
impressions completely. I had seen every place of interest through the
dull heavy atmosphere of a week's rain, and it was in such leaden
colors alone that the finer squares and palaces had become familiar to
me. The effect of a clear sun upon them was wonderful. The sudden
gilding of the dome of the Invalides by Napoleon must have been
something like it. I took advantage of it to see everything over
again, and it seemed to me like another city. I never realized so
forcibly the beauty of sunshine. Architecture, particularly, is
nothing without it. Everything looks heavy and flat. The tracery of
the windows and relievos, meant to be definite and airy, appears
clumsy and confused, and the whole building flattens into a solid
mass, without design or beauty.
* * * * *
I have spent the whole day in a Paris mob. The arrival of General
Romarino and some of his companions from Warsaw, gave the malcontents
a plausible opportunity of expressing their dislike to the measures of
government; and, under cover of a public welcome to this distinguished
Pole, they assembled in immense numbers at the Port St. Denis, and on
the Boulevard Montmartre. It was very exciting altogether. The cavalry
were out, and patroled the streets in companies, charging upon the
crowd wherever there was a stand; the troops of the line marched up
and down the Boulevards, continually dividing the masses of people,
and forbidding any one to stand still. The shops were all shut, in
anticipation of an affray. The students endeavored to cluster, and
resisted, as far as they dared, the orders of the soldiery; and from
noon till night there was every prospect of a quarrel. The French are
a fine people under excitement. Their handsome and ordinarily
heartless faces become very expressive under the stronger emotions;
and their picturesque dresses and violent gesticulation, set off a
popular tumult exceedingly. I have been highly amused all day, and
have learned a great deal of what it is very difficult for a foreigner
to acquire--the language of French passion. They express themselves
very forcibly when angry. The constant irritation kept up by the
intrusion of the cavalry upon the sidewalks, and the rough manner of
dispersing gentlemen by sabre-blows and kicks with the stirrup, gave
me sufficient opportunity of judging. I was astonished, however, that
their summary mode of proceeding was borne at all. It is difficult to
mix in such a vast body, and not catch its spirit, and I found myself,
without knowing why, or rather with a full conviction that the
military measures were necessary and right, entering with all my heart
into the rebellious movements of the students, and boiling with
indignation at every dispersion by force. The students of Paris are
probably the worst subjects the king has. They are mostly young men of
from twenty to twenty-five, full of bodily vigor and enthusiasm, and
excitable to the last degree. Many of them are Germans, and no small
proportion Americans. They make a good _amalgam_ for a mob, dress
being the last consideration, apparently, with a medical or law
student in Paris. I never saw such a collection of atrocious-looking
fellows as are to be met at the lectures. The polytechnic scholars, on
the other hand, are the finest-looking body of young men I ever saw.
Aside from their uniform, which is remarkably neat and beautiful,
their figures and faces seem picked for spirit and manliness. They
have always a distinguished air in a crowd, and it is easy, after
seeing them, to imagine the part they played as leaders in the
revolution of the three days.
Contrary to my expectation, night came on without any serious
encounter. One or two individuals attempted to resist the authority of
the troops, and were considerably bruised; and one young man, a
student, had three of his fingers cut off by the stroke of a dragoon's
sabre. Several were arrested, but by eight o'clock all was quiet, and
the shops on the Boulevards once more exposed their tempting goods,
and lit up their brilliant mirrors without fear. The people thronged
to the theatres to see the political pieces, and evaporate their
excitement in cheers at the liberal allusions; and so ends a tumult
that threatened danger, but operated, perhaps, as a healthful vent for
the accumulating disorders of public opinion.
LETTER X.
GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES--FASHIONABLE DRIVES--FRENCH
OMNIBUSES--CHEAP RIDING--SIGHTS--STREET-BEGGARS--IMPOSTORS,
ETC.
The garden of the Tuileries is an idle man's paradise. Magnificent as
it is in extent, sculptures, and cultivation, we all know that statues
may be too dumb, gravel walks too long and level, and trees and
flowers and fountains a little too Platonic, with any degree of
beauty. But the Tuileries are peopled at all hours of sunshine with,
to me, the most lovely objects in the world--children. You may stop a
minute, perhaps, to look at the thousand gold fishes in the basin
under the palace-windows, or follow the swans for a single voyage
round the fountain in the broad avenue--but you will sit on your hired
chair (at this season) under the shelter of the sunny wall, and gaze
at the children chasing about, with their attending Swiss maids, till
your heart has outwearied your eyes, or the palace-clock strikes five.
I have been there repeatedly since I have been in Paris, and have seen
nothing like the children. They move my heart always, more than
anything under heaven; but a French child, with an accent that all
your paid masters cannot give, and manners, in the midst of its
romping, that mock to the life the air and courtesy for which Paris
has a name over the world, is enough to make one forget Napoleon,
though the column of Vendome throws its shadow within sound of their
voices. Imagine sixty-seven acres of beautiful creatures (that is the
extent of the garden, and I have not seen such a thing as an _ugly_
French child)--broad avenues stretching away as far as you can see,
covered with little foreigners (so they seem to _me_), dressed in gay
colors, and laughing and romping and talking French, in all the
amusing mixture of baby passions and grown-up manners, and answer
me--is it not a sight better worth seeing than all the grand palaces
that shut it in?
The Tuileries are certainly very magnificent, and, to walk across from
the Seine to the Rue Rivoli, and look up the endless walks and under
the long perfect arches cut through the trees, may give one a very
pretty surprise for once--but a winding lane is a better place to
enjoy the loveliness of green leaves, and a single New England elm,
letting down its slender branches to the ground in the inimitable
grace of nature, has, to my eye, more beauty than all the clipped
vistas from the king's palace to the _Arc de l'Etoile_, the _Champs
Elysees_ inclusive.