generation on this land question, and in recent years they have
secured some friendly legislation. A court can now fix the rent rate
on appeal—but the English government names the court. So far as
Englishmen of the present day are concerned they would be glad to get
out of the Irish problem and let the Irish have their land, but of
course that can’t be done. The present parliament provided a plan for
the eventual purchase of land by tenant, at a price to be fixed by the
court if the two parties cannot agree. This is a step in the right
direction and the Irish are glad of it, but as my Glengariff friend
said, “It will not do any good in this generation.” And the exodus to
America continues.
[Illustration]
The Irish are very intelligent. I do not think the poor people of any
other country are naturally so bright and so full of perception and
understanding. They are kind and gentle. They are affectionate and
patriotic. The English say they are “lazy,” but under the circumstances
you could hardly expect them to be yearning for work, when more work
means more valuable holdings, and that only means more rent for the
landlord. The Irish have a reputation among the English for honesty.
They are religious, and I thought at first they gave too much to the
church and did not keep enough for themselves, when I saw the large
and rich cathedrals. But, as an Irishman told me, “We’d rather give to
the Lord than the landlord.” Public schools are providing education
for the rising generation, and in the public school the boys and girls
are being taught the Irish language and prepared for the coming fight
which the Irish must make to capture Ireland—not probably for an
independent government, but for actual ownership of the Irish soil.
[Illustration]
Taxes are heavy. The burden of taxation is the income tax. “That falls
on the landlord,” the thoughtless might say. Not on your life. The tax
is simply added to the rent. There are fine public roads in Ireland,
as good in the country districts as Main street in Hutchinson will be
when it is paved. The only advantage a despotic government has over
a popular government is that it builds better roads. When the people
elect their own road bosses and levy their own road taxes I notice the
roads are not so good as when some prince or cabinet minister who does
not care what the people think, levies the tax and orders the road
built right. The Irish statesmen are struggling for Irish ownership of
Irish soil and an Irish parliament to deal with Irish affairs. They are
“getting on,” and, as I said before, they make so much trouble in the
English Parliament that I know the English would be glad to get rid of
Irish local politics and give them back their parliament, if it were
not for pride,—and the next parliament may cut out the pride.
[Illustration]
I want to record one fact which I was surprised to find. The Irish are
very temperate. I have been in city, town and country for ten days,
have not been careful about keeping in the nice parts of town, and
I have seen only one man under the influence of liquor, and he was
an English sailor at Queenstown. This is in spite of the fact that
every inn and grocery sells “spirits” and nearly everybody seems to
drink them if he or she has the price. Perhaps the reason is that in
Ireland all the liquor-selling is done by women—barmaids. Perhaps the
influence of women behind the bar makes for temperance. I won’t state
that as my conclusion, but just submit it for what it is worth to those
who are trying to solve the liquor question in other countries.
[Illustration]
Dublin is a good deal like an American city. It is full of business and
not as Irish as the inland towns or Cork, although it has statues to
O’Connell, Curran and Grattan, and will have one to Parnell. The lord
lieutenant-governor, the representative of the king, resides at Dublin,
and a big garrison of soldiers gives it an English tone. There is a
fine university, which we visited. It was started by Queen Elizabeth,
and has only recently been opened to Catholics and to women. Dublin has
some great stores where Irish linen and Irish lace should naturally be
cheap. If Mrs. Morgan were writing this letter she could add a chapter.
I will only tell this little story: I was telling an Irish driver how
nice everybody had been to us in Ireland and how pleasant the Irish
were to Americans. “Yis,” he said. “Whin you go down the strate,
everybody sez: ‘There’s some Americans, God bless ’em: mark up the
prices on the linen and lace.’”
FRANCE.
THE CITY OF PLEASURE.
PARIS, FRANCE, June 19, 1905.
Since my last letter to The News we have been “going some,” and I will
leave a few ideas I may have gleaned about England until I get back
there on my return from the continent. We are pushing for a short visit
to Italy before the summer gets too far advanced.
To use a classical expression, Paris is a bully sort of a town. If
there is anything you want and don’t know where it is, I am satisfied
you will find it in Paris. In England it was customary to close up and
go to bed sometime after midnight and to rest on Sunday. Nobody in
Paris thinks of either proposition. The only difference between Paris
at midnight and Paris at midday is that it is livelier at midnight. The
performance is continuous and it is worth the price of admission.
[Illustration]
Coming into a country where your language is not generally spoken is
always a little trying on the nerves. The French people have made it
as easy as possible, but the ways are strange and the helpless tourist
can only do as others do and trust to Providence and the power of a
little money distributed as well as possible. I do not know how much
Providence has had to do with it, but I do believe there are mighty few
doors in France which a piece of money will not unlock. When I came
into France I knew only two French expressions, one meaning “How much?”
and the other, “Thank you.” With that vocabulary we went through the
custom-house examination, a five-hour railroad journey, landed in a
big city station, got a carriage, reached the hotel and an interpreter
without any more trouble than we would have in Sterling. Of course
everybody from conductor to porter knew we were Americans and could
not speak French, knew what we ought to do next and showed the way,
and all we had to do was to look pleasant and hand out small change.
And it doesn’t cost much to be liberal in France. I gave the conductor
an equivalent to our 10 cents, and I know he thought I was rich. The
porter who took my baggage through the custom-house and brought me a
carriage was deeply impressed with my financial standing when I gave
him 6 cents worth of French coppers. The coachman who brought Mrs.
Morgan and myself with four big grips from the station to the hotel,
two miles, charged me the full price, 30 cents for everything, and
when I tossed him another dime like a millionaire he took his hat off
three times. The French people I have met have been very polite. They
always tip their hats and go out of their way to show me, and they are
never so discourteous as to refuse 2 cents. Imagine giving a Santa Fe
conductor 10 cents for showing you where to sit in the car!
[Illustration]
As a lesson in political economy I will put in my observation so far
as I have gone: Everything in Europe that is made or done by labor is
cheap. I was offered a tailor-made suit of clothes in London for $18
that would cost $30 in Hutchinson. A farm laborer in England gets about
50 cents a day and boards himself. The barber shaves you for 2 or 3
cents. Bread and meat are higher than in the United States. You can
see how the wage-earner gets it going and coming. I am learning a few
things from experience that I had been told before, but I want to visit
a few more places before I try to form my conclusions and put them into
print.
Paris is a beautiful city. In spite of the great business houses, the
manufactories and the banks which I have seen, it strikes me as a kind
of play town. Every day in the week in Paris looks like an American
town on the Fourth of July, and on Sunday it is Fourth of July and
Christmas together and then some. The men who are working at wages
that would make Americans vicious, are as light-hearted and pleasant
appearing as a Sunday school picnic. The women are as vivacious as a
lot of school ma’ams at institute. As soon as work is completed it
seems as if every Parisian only goes home to put on his good clothes
and then comes down town accompanied by his wife, or somebody’s wife.
Half the places of business along the principal streets are restaurants
and a good many of the others are also restaurants. The Frenchman
sits at a little table on the sidewalk in front of the café and puts
in the evening drinking one glass of wine or absinthe, chatting with
his neighbor and watching the women go by with their good clothes
and bright faces. Every French woman is an artist when it comes to
clothes. The goods may not cost much, but the gown is tastefully made,
and if the lady wants to she sticks on a bow or jabs a flower in her
hat, regardless of every rule except that it looks pretty there—and it
always does. Bright and light gowns, hats that are up-to-date or ahead,
hair to match the hat and hose to match the dress—and the artist’s
work is done. No wonder the men hurry down town and sit on the sidewalk!
[Illustration]
In the afternoon and evening the Paris streets look like a spring
millinery opening—also like a display of samples of fine hosiery.
Perhaps I ought not to go into the subject, but it will not be a fair
description of Paris if I leave it out, and I must warn any other
Kansan who may venture this way. When a Parisian lady walks along a
sidewalk that is perfectly clear and clean she daintily lifts her dress
so as to display only the top of the shoe, maybe an inch or two more.
Sometimes she thoughtlessly raises the gown a little higher. When she
reaches the street-crossing—but I had better stop, for she doesn’t. I
have always been of the opinion that under such circumstances a plain,
respectful man should look the other way and I have a crick in my neck
from looking—the other way—since I came to Paris. Remember this is in
fine weather when the walks and crossings are clean. “They say” that
when the walks are muddy the result is even more startling to a staid
observer from Kansas. If the weather gets bad I don’t know what I will
do.
[Illustration: IN PARIS: LOOKING THE OTHER WAY.]
The philosophy in the above is that it gives you an idea of Paris
with its brilliantly lighted streets, the men eating and drinking,
sitting at the little tables along the walks, the well-dressed people,
the brilliant colors, the laughter, the bright and polite conduct of
men and women, the holiday appearance, the pleasure that everyone is
having, and the general gait at which Parisians travel. As another
example let me add, fully one-third of that part of Paris which in
any other city would be devoted to business, is given up to public
gardens, playgrounds for children, parks and drives,—not out in the
country or to one side, but right through the center of Paris. The
houses, business and residence, are none of them more than six stories
high, and I am told the law does not permit higher structures. It is
a good idea, for you get air and sunlight, which you often do not
in New York and Chicago, and you can occasionally see out over the
city. About every so often is a circle or square from which radiate
from six to a dozen avenues and boulevards. These streets divide into
others which reach forward to other squares, and are intersected at
every conceivable angle by cross-streets. The object of this plan was
to place artillery in the square and thus command the streets and
boulevards against the revolutionists, who have always been doing or
about to do something in Paris. The houses, five or six stories high,
are built right up from the sidewalk, and have inner courts. Usually
there are stores or shops in the downstairs rooms facing the street
and living-rooms back and above. And speaking of stores, most of them
are about ten by twelve feet, one-half display window. The interior
is lined with mirrors which make the room look large and two or three
customers like a crowd. The French use mirrors every chance—there are
three beautiful mirrors in our small bedroom. The shops are generally
decorated with flowers, pictures and statuary and a sign “English
spoken,” the latter being usually a delusion and a snare. Instead of
naming a street or avenue and then sticking to it, the names of the
streets frequently change. The boulevard our hotel is on begins as
the Madeleine, runs two blocks and then becomes the Capoucins, two
blocks more and it is the Italiens. We are on the Capoucins part,
and besides the Boulevard des Capoucins, there is street “Rue des
Capoucins,” and a square “Place des Capoucins,” each in a different
section. The necessity of a stranger in Paris keeping sober is very
apparent. The streets, squares and public buildings are adorned
with frequent statues—good ones. Almost any way you turn there is
something beautiful to look at. The French are artists and lovers of
art. If there were such a thing as a Kansas joint in Paris it would be
decorated like an art gallery. But the joints in Paris are open and run
twenty-four hours a day, seven days in the week, and the police never
interfere with anything that goes on except in case of a disturbance of
the peace or abuse of the government.
[Illustration]
The French like Americans and don’t like the English or the Germans.
But that does not mean they refuse anybody’s money. In our country when
a man gets a comfortable income he grows gray-haired and wrinkled
trying to make more. A Frenchman spoke to me of this trait, and said
that when one of his countrymen reached the point where he could live
nicely on what he had accumulated or the salary he was receiving, he
quit worrying and took to the cafés and boulevards to enjoy life.
Perhaps the French way is the best, at least the French look happier
over mighty little than we do over much more. They go in for “pleasure”
and they enjoy it as do no other people I have seen.
PARIS AND PARISIANS.
PARIS, June 20, 1905.
Almost the first thing we did after we reached Paris was to go to
the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine did its bloody work
during the French Revolution. It is now a beautiful square adorned
with statues, and is the center of the pleasure-ground of Paris. After
tightly shutting our eyes so as to avoid seeing the gay Parisians
passing by, we recalled the terrible scenes which took place a little
more than a hundred years ago. Here Louis XVI., the unfortunate
king, paid the penalty for the crimes of his family and class. Here
Marie Antoinette was executed, and scores and hundreds of the French
nobility. Poor Marie Antoinette, who always did and said the wrong
thing, has been the recipient of the sympathy of the world. But in
addition to the sorrow for her I have never been able to get over my
sympathy for the thousands of women who marched to Versailles and
when the king and queen appeared to quiet them, cried, “Give us bread
for our children!” For France at that time was suffering as no other
nation has suffered from physical oppression and poverty resulting
from misgovernment and utter disregard of the lives and property of
the people. In order to carry on wars and build monuments and palaces
and indulge in personal dissipation and pleasure, the rulers of France
had sucked the life of the nation like the juice from an orange. The
French still make a great fuss over Louis XIV., “The grand monarch,”
who made France the leading nation of Europe. But it was the logical
outcome of his methods and grinding government that resulted in
the degradation of the people, their poverty and distress, and the
revolution which sent his great grandson to the block.
After the French Jacobins executed their king and queen they began
to fall out and “revolute” against each other, and so nearly all the
leaders of the revolution went to the guillotine and got it where Louis
and Antoinette did—in the neck. In a little more than two years over
2,800 persons perished here by the guillotine, and the place is very
appropriately called “de la Concorde.” Around the square are statues
representing eight of the cities of France, the one for Strassburg
still there, but draped in black and with emblems of mourning for the
city and province taken from France by Germany at the end of the last
war. Every Frenchman has in his heart the intent to lick the Germans
and recover Alsace.
[Illustration]
I will not attempt to describe in detail the great palaces of the
Tuileries and the magnificent gardens, the Louvre with its acres of
paintings and statuary, most of which I did not see because it was
like eating pie—there is a limit. These are historic grounds, for
back and forth among statues of peace and beautiful works of art
the French people have fought each other time and again, sometimes
destroying but always rebuilding. From Place de la Concorde extends the
Champs-Elysées (pronounced Shame-on-Lizzy, as near as I can get it).
This is a great avenue 400 yards wide and over a mile long, consisting
of parallel boulevards running through trees and flowers, playgrounds
and palaces here and there, and at all times of the day and night
filled with people and carriages.
The Champs-Elysées and the Bois de Boulogne, a park of over 2,000 acres
in which it terminates, are the fashionable drives of Paris. It cost
only 40 cents an hour for Mrs. Morgan and I to drive with the Parisian
élite, and we took advantage of the opportunity to see Paris society.
The carriages in the early evening extend in procession over miles of
boulevard, and are often six or eight abreast. The drives wind around
through woods, by good-sized lakes, along sides of cascades, and the
carriages are filled with the swellest lot of gowns and cutest little
dogs I have ever seen. Nearly every woman has a dog on her string
as well as a man. In all of this style there is a general lack of
formality which is appropriate to the scenery. It is not an uncommon
sight to see the ladies and gentlemen with their arms around each
other. It isn’t so bad when you get used to it, and the fashion is
considered strictly proper in France. I am no longer shocked when I
see a young man just ahead of me in the street put his arm around his
girl, and in the street cars and automobiles the sight is a frequent
one and never attracts comment or disapproval. At first Mrs. Morgan and
I nudged each other at such things, but in less than a week’s time the
novelty has disappeared.
I like the Champs-Elysées, for it looks a good deal as First avenue in
Hutchinson would if it were about ten times as wide and the city kept
up the parking.
[Illustration]
And that leads me to repeat an observation which I have made before. It
takes a strong government to do big things. You couldn’t get the people
in America to put up money to construct palaces, widen boulevards, set
up statues in all directions and devote the main part of the city to
trees, flowers, walks and drives, playgrounds and art galleries. But
whether the government of France has been a monarchy or a republic
has made no difference in the fact that it exercised nearly absolute
power over such things. The government appoints the officials in all
cities and provinces and the government has the army. We talk about
“government ownership” as if it were something new. The government
of France has been in business more than a century. For example, the
government has the monopoly of the tobacco business—manufactures and
sells all the tobacco used in France, charges what it pleases and
puts out mighty poor stuff. The government has owned the Sèvres china
decorating factory for over a century, and the Gobelin tapestry, and I
don’t know how many more such things. Lack of knowledge of the language
has kept me from finding out all on these subjects I am going to before
I get home, but it seems to me that whenever the French government
sees some exceptionally profitable business, it just takes hold of
the proposition and passes a law forbidding anyone else competing.
The French are used to this sort of thing and accept it as the
inevitable. I wonder if Americans would stand for it and for all the
petty regulations that go with it. An army of workingmen is required
to maintain all these parks, palaces, art galleries, opera-houses and
government institutions, and I suspect the number is never reduced. A
friend was telling how in a short ride on a government railroad his
ticket was examined by five conductors. We reached the conclusion that
this work, which in America would have been done by one man, was strung
out for the good political reason—more jobs. Of course nothing like
that would happen in America.
[Illustration]
The workingmen still wear the long blouse outside the trousers, which
looks like a heavy night-shirt and reaches below the knees. At the
time of the great revolution the workingmen were so poor that they
could not afford to wear trousers and the long blouses were all that
covered them. Hence came the nickname “sanscullottes,” meaning “without
breeches,” and as all who have read the story of the revolution or
Victor Hugo’s books will remember, the Sansculottes, the men without
breeches, made up the mob which upset the throne and established the
republic.
[Illustration]
The French still worship Napoleon. They have forgiven the sacrifice of
blood and treasure which he forced from them, and remember the glory
and the greatness of the empire. And in spite of the fact that Napoleon
III. quit the emperor business under a cloud, having been removed
from office after his surrender to the Germans in 1870, he is well
thought of, for during his reign France and Paris prospered and times
were good. There is a large party in France that favors the return of
the present representative of the Napoleon family, Prince Victor, to
the throne. We went to the Church of Madeleine, the most beautiful and
fashionable church in Paris, and over the altar is a beautiful painting
of Napoleon receiving the crown from the pope, with Christ in the
background of the picture. That is just like the French.
[Illustration]
I made an effort to get into the meeting of the Chamber of Deputies,
the French congress, but failed. You have to have a ticket of
admission, and it must be applied for several days in advance. They
tell me the session is a good deal like an old-time Kansas Populist
convention, where everybody said what he wanted to and then everybody
was of the same opinion still. The meeting often gets so tumultuous
that the president of the body adjourns it. Such an assembly must be
guarded by careful and tactful leadership or it will end in a row. I
can’t understand French politics. There are really no parties such as
we have. A large majority favor the republic. The minority is composed
of Clericals, Bonapartists, Radicals, and Socialists. The government
party is divided into factions, and the issues are personal rather
than on economic questions. The minority is of course divided, and the
result is that the government wins somehow or other nearly every time.
If it should lose, a new cabinet would be formed; but that would be
taken from the same party as the old, and would be merely a different
lot of statesmen. The French republic is all right so long as there is
no serious trouble, but a Dreyfus incident, or a war, or hard times
might overturn the government, and nobody knows whether the monarchists
might not get on top again. The church is opposed to the policy of
the republic, which has been to decrease the power of the church,
cut off the parochial schools, and take education out of the hands
of the religious bodies. The men in France are not very religious,
leaving that part of life to the women and children. But a large and
respectable party is in opposition to the government on account of the
way it has confiscated church property and driven out the religious
orders.
[Illustration]