communicating our feelings to each other, in a whisper however which
could not go beyond our own box, and with the less restraint because
we felt sure that the one stranger gentleman who shared it with us
could not understand our language. But herein we egregiously deceived
ourselves: though in appearance he was _Français jusqu'aux ongles_, we
soon found out that he could speak English as well as any of us; and,
with much real politeness, he had the good-nature to let us know this
before we had uttered anything too profoundly John Bullish to be
forgiven.
Fortunately, too, it appeared that our judgments accorded as well as
if we had all been born in the same parish. He lamented the decadence
of music in this, which ought to be its especial theatre; but spoke
with enthusiasm of the Théâtre Italien, and its great superiority in
science over every other in Paris. This theatre, to my great vexation,
is now closed; but I well remember that such too was my judgment of it
some seven years ago.
The English and the French are generally classed together as having
neither one nor the other any really national music of their own. We
have both of us, however, some sweet and perfectly original airs,
which will endure as long as the modulations of sound are permitted to
enchant our mortal ears. Nevertheless, I am not going to appeal
against a sentence too often repeated not to be universally received
as truth. But, notwithstanding this absence of any distinct school of
national music, it is impossible to doubt that the people of both
countries are fondly attached to the science. More sacrifices are made
by both to obtain good music than the happy German and Italian people
would ever dream of making. Nor would it, I think, be fair to argue,
from the present style of the performances at the Académie, that the
love of music is on the decline here. The unbounded expense bestowed
upon decorations, and the pomp and splendour of effect which results
from it, are quite enough to attract and dazzle the eyes of a more
"thinking people" than the Parisians; and the unprecedented perfection
to which the mechanists have brought the delusion of still-life seems
to permit a relaxation in the efforts of the manager to obtain
attraction from other sources.
But this will not last. The French people really love music, and will
have it. It is more than probable that the musical branch of this
academic establishment will soon revive; and if in doing so it
preserve its present superiority of decoration, it will again become
an amusement of unrivalled attraction.
I believe the French themselves generally consider us as having less
claim to the reputation of musical amateurship than themselves; but,
with much respect for their judgment on such subjects, I differ from
them wholly in this. When has France ever shown, either in her capital
or out of it, such a glorious burst of musical enthusiasm as produced
the festivals of Westminster Abbey and of York?
It was not for the sake of encouraging an English school of music,
certainly, that these extraordinary efforts were made. They were not
native strains which rang along the vaulted roofs; but it was English
taste, and English feeling, which recently, as well as in days of
yore, conceived and executed a scheme of harmony more perfect and
sublime than I can remember to have heard of elsewhere.
I doubt, too, if in any country a musical institution can be pointed
out in purer taste than that of our ancient music concert. The style
and manner of this are wholly national, though the compositions
performed there are but partially so; and I think no one who truly and
deeply loves the science but must feel that there is a character in it
which, considering the estimation in which it has for so many years
been held, may fairly redeem the whole nation from any deficiency in
musical taste.
There is one branch of the "gay science," if I may so call it, which I
always expect to find in France, but respecting which I have hitherto
been always disappointed: this is in the humble class of itinerant
musicians. In Germany they abound; and it not seldom happens that
their strains arrest the feet and enchant the ear of the most
fastidious. But whenever, in France, I have encountered an ambulant
troubadour, I confess I have felt no inclination to linger on my way
to listen to him. I do not, however, mean to claim much honour for
ourselves on the score of our travelling minstrels. If we fail to
pause in listening to those of France, we seldom fail to run whenever
our ears are overtaken by our own. Yet still we give strong proof of
our love of music, in the more than ordinary strains which may be
occasionally heard before every coffee-house in London, when the noise
and racket of the morning has given place to the hours of enjoyment. I
have heard that the bands of wind instruments which nightly parade
through the streets of London receive donations which, taken on an
average throughout the year, would be sufficient to support a theatre.
This can only proceed from a genuine propensity to being "moved by
concord of sweet sounds;" for no fashion, as is the case at our costly
operas, leads to it. On the contrary, it is most decidedly mauvais ton
to be caught listening to this unexclusive harmony; yet it is
encouraged in a degree that clearly indicates the popular feeling.
Have I then proved to your satisfaction, as completely as I
undoubtedly have to my own, that if without a national music, at least
we are not without a national taste for it?
LETTER LVI.
The Abbé Deguerry.--His eloquence.--Excursion across the
water.--Library of Ste. Geneviève.--Copy-book of the
Dauphin.--St. Etienne du Mont.--Pantheon.
The finest sermon I have heard since I have been in Paris--and, I am
almost inclined to think, the finest I ever heard anywhere--was
preached yesterday by the Abbé Deguerry at St. Roch. It was a
discourse calculated to benefit all Christian souls of every sect and
denomination whatever--had no shade of doctrinal allusion in it of any
kind, and was just such a sermon as one could wish every soi-disant
infidel might be forced to listen to while the eyes of a Christian
congregation were fixed upon him. It would do one good to see such a
being cower and shrink, in the midst of his impotent and petulant
arrogance, to feel how a "plain word could put him down."
The Abbé Deguerry is a young man, apparently under thirty; but nature
seems to have put him at once in possession of a talent which
generally requires long years to bring to perfection. He is eloquent
in the very best manner; for it is an eloquence intended rather to
benefit the hearer than to do honour to the mere human talent of the
orator. Beautifully as his periods flowed, I felt certain, as I
listened to him, that their harmonious rhythm was the result of no
study, but purely the effect, unconsciously displayed, of a fine ear
and an almost unbounded command of language. He had studied his
matter,--he had studied and deeply weighed his arguments; but, for his
style, it was the free gift of Heaven.
Extempore preaching has always appeared to me to be a fearfully
presumptuous exercise. Thoughts well digested, expressions carefully
chosen, and arguments conscientiously examined, are no more than every
congregation has a right to expect from one who addresses them with
all the authority of place on subjects of most high importance; and
rare indeed is the talent which can produce this without cautious and
deliberate study. But in listening to the Abbé Deguerry, I perceived
it was possible that a great and peculiar talent, joined to early and
constant practice, might enable a man to address his fellow-creatures
without presumption even though he had not written his sermon;--yet it
is probable that I should be more correct were I to say, without
reading it to his congregation, for it is hardly possible to believe
that such a composition was actually and altogether extempore.
His argument, which was to show the helpless insufficiency of man
without the assistance of revelation and religious faith, was never
lost sight of for an instant. There was no weak wordiness, no
repetition, no hacknied ornaments of rhetoric; but it was the voice of
truth, speaking in that language of universal eloquence which all
nations and all creeds must feel; and it flowed on with unbroken
clearness, beauty, and power, to the end.
Having recently quitted Flanders, where everything connected with the
Roman Catholic worship is sustained in a style of stately magnificence
which plainly speaks its Spanish origin, I am continually surprised by
the comparatively simple vestments and absence of ostentatious display
in the churches of Paris. At the metropolitan church of Notre Dame,
indeed, nothing was wanting to render its archiepiscopal dignity
conspicuous; but everywhere else, there was a great deal less of pomp
and circumstance than I expected. But nowhere is the relaxation of
clerical dignity in the clergy of Paris so remarkable as in the
appearance of the young priests whom we occasionally meet in the
streets. The flowing curls, the simple round hat, the pantaloons, and
in some cases the boots also, give them the appearance of a race of
men as unlike as possible to their stiff and primitive predecessors.
Yet they all look flourishing, and well pleased with themselves and
the world about them: but little of mortification or abstinence can be
traced on their countenances; and if they do fast for some portion of
every week, they may certainly say with Father Philip, that "what they
take prospers with them marvellously."
[Illustration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.
PRÊTRES DE LA JEUNE FRANCE.
London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1835.]
We have this morning made an excursion to the other side of the water,
which always seems like setting out upon a journey; and yet I know not
why it should be so, for as the river is not very wide, the bridges
are not very long; but so it is, that for some reason or other, if it
were not for the magnetic Abbaye-aux-Bois, we should very rarely find
ourselves on the left bank of the Seine.
On this occasion, our object was to visit the famous old library of
Ste. Geneviève, on the invitation of a gentleman who is one of the
librarians. Nothing can be more interesting than an expedition of this
sort, with an intelligent and obliging cicisbeo, who knows everything
concerning the objects displayed before you, and is kindly willing to
communicate as much of his _savoir_ as the time may allow, or as may
be necessary to make the different objects examined come forth from
that venerable but incomprehensible accumulation of treasures, which
form the mass of all the libraries and museums in the world, and
which, be he as innocent of curiosity as an angel, every stranger is
bound over to visit, under penalty, when honestly reciting his
adventures, of hearing exclamations from all the friends he left at
home, of--"What! ... did you not see that?... Then you have seen
nothing!"
I would certainly never expose myself to this cutting reproach, could
I always secure as agreeable a companion as the one who tempted us to
mount to the elevated repository which contains the hundred thousand
volumes of the royal library of Ste. Geneviève. Were I a student
there, I should grumble prodigiously at the long and steep ascent to
this temple of all sorts of learning: but once reached, the tranquil
stillness, and the perfect seclusion from the eternal hum of the great
city that surrounds it, are very delightful, and might, I think, act
as a sedative upon the most restive and truant imagination that ever
beset a student.
I was sorry to hear that symptoms of decay in the timbers of the
venerable roof make it probable that this fine old room must be given
up, and the large collection it has so long sheltered be conveyed
elsewhere. The apartment is in the form of a cross, with a dome at the
point of intersection, painted by the elder Restout. Though low, and
in fact occupying only the roof of the college, formerly the Abbaye of
Sainte Geneviève, there is something singularly graceful and pleasing
to the eye in this extensive chamber, its ornaments and general
arrangement;--something monastic, yet not gloomy; with an air of
learned ease, and comfortable exclusion of all annoyance, that is very
enviable.
The library appears to be kept up in excellent style, and in a manner
to give full effect to its liberal regulations, which permit the use
of every volume in the collection to all the earth. The wandering
scholar at distance from his own learned cell, and the idle reader for
mere amusement, may alike indulge their bookish propensities here,
with exactly the same facilities that are accorded to the students of
the college. The librarians or their deputies are ready to deliver to
them any work they ask for, with the light and reasonable condition
annexed that the reader shall accompany the person who is to find the
volume or volumes required, and assist in conveying them to the spot
which he has selected for his place of study.
The long table which stretches from the centre under the doom, across
the transepts of the cross, was crowded with young men when we were
there, who really seemed most perfectly in earnest in their
occupation--gazing on the volumes before them "with earnest looks
intent," even while a large party swept past them to examine a
curious model of Rome placed at the extremity of one of the transepts.
A rigorous silence, however, is enjoined in this portion of the
apartments; so that even the ladies were obliged to postpone their
questions and remarks till they had passed out of it.
After looking at splendid editions, rare copies, and so forth, our
friend led us to some small rooms, fitted up with cases for the
especial protection under lock and key of the manuscripts of the
collection. Having admired the spotless vellum of some, and the fair
penmanship of others, a thin morocco-bound volume was put into my
hands, which looked like a young lady's collection of manuscript
waltzes. This was the copy-book of the Dauphin, father of the
much-regretted Duke de Bourgogne, and grandfather of Louis Quinze.
The characters were evidently written with great care. Each page
contained a moral axiom, and all of them more or less especially
applicable to a royal pupil. There was one of these which I thought
might be particularly useful to all such at the present day: it was
entitled, in large letters--
SE MOQUEUR DE LIBELLES
--the superfluous U being erased by a dash of the master's pen. Then
followed, in extremely clear and firm characters, these lines:--
Si de vos actions la satyre réjoue,
Feignez adroitement de ne la pas ouïr:
Qui relève une injure, il semble qu'il l'avoue;
Qui la scait mépriser, la fait évanouir.
L LOUIS LOUIS LOUIS LOUIS
In one of these smaller rooms hangs the portrait of a negress in the
dress of a nun. It has every appearance of being a very old painting,
and our friend M. C*** told us that a legend had been ever
attached to it, importing that it was the portrait of a daughter of
Mary Queen of Scots, born before she left France for Scotland. What
could have originated such a very disagreeable piece of scandal, it is
difficult to imagine; but I can testify that all the internal evidence
connected with it is strong against its truth, for no human
countenance can well be conceived which would show less family
likeness to our lovely and unfortunate northern queen than does that
of this grim sister.
From the library of Ste. Geneviève, we went under the same kind escort
to look at the barbaric but graceful vagaries of St. Etienne du Mont.
The galleries suspended as if by magic between the pillars of the
choir, and the spiral staircases leading to them, out of all order as
they are, must nevertheless be acknowledged as among the lightest and
most fairy-like constructions in the world. This singular church,
capricious in its architecture both within and without, is in some
parts of great antiquity, and was originally built as a chapel of ease
to the old church of Ste. Geneviève, which stood close beside it, and
of which the lofty old tower still remains, making part of the college
buildings. As a proof of the entire dependance of this pretty little
church upon its mother edifice, it was not permitted to have any
separate door of its own, the only access to it being through the
great church. This subsidiary chapel, now dignified into a parish
church, has at different periods been enlarged and beautified, and has
again and again petitioned for leave from its superior to have a door
of its own; but again and again it was refused, and it was not till
the beginning of the sixteenth century that this modest request was at
length granted. The great Pascal lies buried in this church.
I was very anxious to give my children a sight of the interior of that
beautiful but versatile building called, when I first saw it, the
Pantheon--when I last saw it, Ste. Geneviève, and which is now again
known to all the world, or at least to that part of it which has been
fortunate enough to visit Paris since the immortal days, as the
Pantheon.
We could not, however, obtain an entrance to it; and it is very
likely that before we shall again find ourselves on its simple and
severe, but very graceful threshold, it will have again changed its
vocation, and be restored to the use of the Christian church.--Ainsi
soit-il!
LETTER LVII.
Little Suppers.--Great Dinners.--Affectation of
Gourmandise.--Evil effects of "dining out."--Evening
Parties.--Dinners in private under the name of
Luncheons.--Late Hours.
How I mourn for the departed petits soupers of Paris!... and how far
are her pompous dinners from being able to atone for their loss! For
those people, and I am afraid there are many of them, who really and
literally live to eat, I know that the word "dinner" is the signal and
symbol of earth's best, and, perhaps, only bliss. For them the
steaming vapour, the tedious long array, the slow and solemn progress
of a dîner de quatre services, offers nothing but joy and gladness;
but what is it to those who only eat to live?
I know no case in which injustice and tyranny are so often practised
as at the dinner-table. Perhaps twenty people sit down to dinner, of
whom sixteen would give the world to eat just no more than they like
and have done with it: but it is known to the Amphitryon that there
are four heavy persons present whose souls hover over his ragoûts like
harpies over the feast of Phinæus, and they must not be disturbed, or
revilings instead of admiration will repay the outlay and the turmoil
of the banquet.
A tedious, dull play, followed by a long, noisy, and gunpowder-scented
pantomime, upon the last scene of which your party is determined to
see the curtain fall; a heavy sermon of an hour long, your pew being
exactly in front of the preacher; a morning visit from a lady who
sends her carriage to fetch her boys from school at Wimbleton, and
comes to entertain you with friendly talk about her servants till it
comes back;--each of these is hard to bear and difficult to escape;
but which of them can compare in suffering to a full-blown, stiff,
stately dinner of three hours long, where the talk is of food, and the
only relief from this talk is to eat it?... How can you get away? How
is it possible to find or invent any device that can save you from
enduring to the end? With cheeks burning from steam and vexation, can
you plead a sudden faintness? Still less can you dare to tell the real
truth, and confess that you are dying of disgust and ennui. The match
is so unfair between the different parties at such a meeting as
this--the victims so utterly helpless!... And, after all, there is no
occasion for it. In London there are the clubs and the Clarendon; in
Paris are Périgord's and Véry's, and a score beside, any one of whom
could furnish a more perfect dinner than can be found at any private
mansion whatever, where sufferings are often inflicted on the wretched
lookers-on very nearly approaching to those necessary for the
production of the _foie gras_.
Think not, however, that I am inclined in the least degree to affect
indifference or dislike to an elegant, well-spread table: on the
contrary, I am disposed to believe that the hours when mortals meet
together, all equally disposed to enjoy themselves by refreshing the
spirits, recruiting the strength, and inspiring the wit, with the
cates and the cups most pleasing to the palate of each, may be
reckoned, without any degradation to human pride, among the happiest
hours of life. But this no more resembles the endless crammings of a
_repas de quatre services_, than a work in four volumes on political
economy to an epigram in four lines upon the author of it.
In fact, to give you a valuable hint upon the subject, I am persuaded
that some of the most distinguished gourmets of the age have plunged
themselves and their disciples into a most lamentable error in this
matter. They have overdone the thing altogether. Their object is to
excite the appetite as much as possible, in order to satisfy it as
largely as possible; and this end is utterly defeated by the means
used. But I will not dwell on this; neither you nor I are very
particularly interested in the success either of the French or English
eaters by profession; we will leave them to study their own business
and manage it as well as they can.
For the more philosophical enjoyers of the goods the gods provide I
feel more interest, and I really lament the weakness which leads so
many of them to follow a fashion which must be so contrary to all
their ideas of real enjoyment; but, unhappily, it is daily becoming
more necessary for every man who sits down at a fashionable table to
begin talking like a cook. They surely mistake the thing altogether.
This is not the most effectual way of proving the keenness of their
gourmandise.
In nine cases out of ten, I believe this inordinate passion for good
eating is pure affectation; and I suspect that many a man, especially
many a young man, both in Paris and London, would often be glad to eat
a reasonably good dinner, and then change the air, instead of sitting
hour after hour, while dishes are brought to his elbow till his head
aches in shaking it as a negative to the offer of them, were it not
that it would be so dreadfully bourgeois to confess it.
If, however, on the other hand, an incessant and pertinacious
"diner-out" should take up the business in good earnest, and console
himself for the long sessions he endures by really eating on from soup
to ice, what a heavy penalty does he speedily pay for it! I have lived
long enough to watch more than one svelte, graceful, elegant young
man, the glory of the drawing-room, the pride of the Park, the hero of
Almack's, growing every year rounder and redder; the clear,
well-opened eye becoming dull and leaden--the brilliant white teeth
looking "not what they were, but quite the reverse," till the
noble-looking, animated being, that one half the world was ready to
love, and the other to envy, sank down into a heavy, clumsy,
middle-aged gentleman, before half his youth was fairly past; and this
solely for the satisfaction of continuing to eat every day for some
hours after he had ceased to be hungry.
It is really a pity that every one beginning this career does not set
the balance of what he will gain and what he will lose by it fairly
before him. If this were done, we should probably have much fewer
theoretical cooks and practical crammers, but many more lively,
animated table-companions, who might oftener be witty themselves, and
less often the cause of wit in others.