Paris.
Your acquaintance B—— has been in Paris for these three weeks past.
I cannot conceive how he has remained so long; for he has a very bad
opinion of this nation, and is fraught with the strongest prejudice
against French manners in general: He considers all their politesse as
impertinence, and receives their civilities as a prelude to the picking
of his pocket.
He and I went this forenoon to a review of the foot-guards, by Marshal
Biron. There was a crowd; and we could with difficulty get within the
circle so as to see conveniently. An old officer of high rank touched
some people who stood before us, saying,—Ces deux Messieurs sont des
étrangers; upon which they immediately made way, and allowed us to
pass.—Don’t you think that was very obliging? said I.—Yes, answered he;
but, by heavens, it was very unjust.
We returned by the Boulevards, where crowds of citizens, in their holiday
dresses, were making merry; the young dancing cotillons, the old beating
time to the music, and applauding the dancers, all in a careless oblivion
of the past, thoughtless of the future, and totally occupied with the
present.—These people seem very happy, said I.—Happy! exclaimed B——;
if they had common sense or reflection, they would be miserable. Why
so?—Could not the minister, answered he, pick out half a dozen of them,
if he pleased, and clap them into the Bicetre?—That is true indeed, said
I; that is a catastrophe which, to be sure, may very probably happen, and
yet I thought no more of it than they.
We met, a few days after he arrived, at a French house where we had both
been invited to dinner. There was an old lady of quality present, next to
whom a young officer was seated, who paid her the utmost attention.—He
helped her to the dishes she liked, filled her glass with wine or water,
and addressed his discourse particularly to her.—What a fool, says B——,
does that young fellow make of the poor old woman! If she were my mother,
d—n me, if I would not call him to an account for it.—
Though B—— understands French, and speaks it better than most Englishmen,
he had no relish for the conversation, soon left the company, and has
refused all invitations to dinner ever since. He generally finds some of
our countrymen who dine and pass the evening with him at the Parc Royal.
After the review this day, we continued together, and being both
disengaged, I proposed, by way of variety, to dine at the public ordinary
of the Hôtel de Bourbon. He did not like this much at first.—I shall be
teased, says he, with their confounded ceremony:—But on my observing,
that we could not expect much ceremony or politeness at a public
ordinary, he agreed to go.
Our entertainment turned out different, however, from my expectations and
his wishes: A marked attention was paid us the moment we entered; every
body seemed inclined to accommodate us with the best places. They helped
us first, and all the company seemed ready to sacrifice every little
conveniency and distinction to the strangers: For, next to that of a
lady, the most respected character at Paris is that of a stranger.
After dinner, B—— and I walked into the gardens of the Palais Royal.
There was nothing real in all the fuss those people made about us, says
he.
I can’t help thinking it something, said I, to be treated with civility
and apparent kindness in a foreign country—by strangers who know nothing
about us, but that we are Englishmen, and often their enemies.
But their politeness consists in trifles, said he.—In what consists any
body’s politeness? rejoined I.—The utmost a Frenchman will do for you,
added he, is to endeavour to amuse you, and make your time pass agreeably
while you remain in his country. And I think that no trifle, answered
I.—There are so many sources of uneasiness and vexation in this life,
that I cannot help having a good will, and even gratitude, to all those
who enable me to forget them:—For such people alleviate my pain, and
contribute to my happiness.
But these Frenchmen, rejoined he, do not care a farthing for you in
their hearts.—And why should I care a farthing for that? said I.—We have
nothing to do with their hearts.—You do not expect a friend in every
agreeable acquaintance.
But they are an interested set of people; and even those among them who
pretend to be your friends,—do it only for some selfish end.
That is only an assertion, said I, but no proof.—If you stood in need of
pecuniary assistance, they would not advance you a louis to save you from
a jail, continued he.
I hope never to be perfectly convinced of that, said I;—but if we were
to cultivate friendship from the idea of assistance of that nature, it
would be doing exactly what you accuse them of: Besides, continued I,
the power and opportunity of obliging our acquaintances and friends by
great, and, what are called, essential services, seldom occur; but those
attentions and courtesies, which smooth the commerce between man and man,
and sweeten social life, are in every body’s power, and there are daily
and hourly occasions of displaying them,—particularly to strangers.—Curse
their courtesies, said he, they are the greatest _Bore_ in nature.—I hate
the French.—They are the enemies of England, and a false, deceitful,
perfidious—But as we did not come over, interrupted I, to fight them at
present, we shall suspend hostilities till a more convenient season; and
in the mean time, if you have no objection, let us go to the play.
He agreed to this proposal, and here our conversation ended.
You know B—— is as worthy a fellow as lives; and, under a rough address,
conceals the best disposition in the world. His manner, I imagine, was
originally assumed from a notion, which he has in common with many
people, that great politeness, and apparent gentleness of behaviour,
are generally accompanied with falsehood and real coldness;—even
inhumanity of character,—as if human nature, like marble, took a polish
proportionable to its hardness.
This idea is certainly formed without an accurate examination, and from a
superficial view of mankind. As a boorish address is no proof of honesty,
so is politeness no indication of the reverse;—and if they are once
reduced to an equality in this particular, it is evident that the latter
is preferable in every other respect.
But to return to the French; I am clearly of opinion, that a stranger may
fairly avail himself of every conveniency arising from their obliging
manners, although he should be convinced that all their assiduity and
attention are unconnected with any regard to him, and flow entirely from
vanity and self-love. He may perceive that his Parisian friend, while he
loads him with civilities, is making a display of his own proficiency in
the science of politeness, and endeavouring to thrust himself forward in
the good opinion of the company, by yielding the preference on a thousand
trifling occasions.—Though he plainly sees, that all this stooping is
with a view to conquer, why should he repine at a victory which is
accompanied with so many conveniencies to himself? why quarrel with the
motive while he feels the benefit of the effect?
If writers or preachers of morality could, by the force of eloquence,
eradicate selfishness from the hearts of men, and make them in reality
love their neighbours as themselves, it would be a change devoutly to be
wished. But until that blessed event, let us not find fault with those
forms and attentions which create a kind of artificial friendship and
benevolence, which for many of the purposes of society produce the same
effects as the true.
People who love to amuse themselves with play, and have not ready money,
are obliged to use counters. You and I, my friend, as long as we cut and
shuffle together, shall never have occasion for such a succedaneum;—I
am fully persuaded we are provided, on both sides, with a sufficient
quantity of pure gold.