intervals between. When I first saw it, fifty years ago, there were many
of Napoleon's old soldiers within its walls. On one occasion, one of
these old men showed us with some pride the toy fortifications which he
had built, guarded by toy soldiers. "There is the bridge of Lodi," he
said, and pointing to a little wooden figure, "there stands the
Emperor." At this time, the remains of the first Napoleon slumbered in
St. Helena.
I saw the monument complete in 1867. It had then been open long to the
public. The marble floor and steps around the tomb of the first Napoleon
were literally carpeted with wreaths and garlands. The brothers of the
great man lay around him, in sarcophagi of costliest marble, their names
recorded not as Bonapartes, but as Napoleons. A dreary echo may have
penetrated even to these dead ears in 1870, when the column of the Place
Vendome fell, with the well-known statue for which it was only a
pedestal, and when the third Napoleon took his flight, repudiated and
detested.
But to return. In 1851 I again saw Paris. The _coup d'état_ had not
then fallen. Louis Napoleon was still President, and already unpopular.
Murmurs were heard of his inevitable defeat in the election which was
already in men's minds. Louis Philippe was an exile in Scotland. While I
was yet in Paris, the ex-King died; but the announcement produced little
or no sensation in his ancient capital.
A process was then going on of substituting asphaltum pavements for the
broad, flat paving-stones which had proved so available in former
barricades. The President, perhaps, had coming exigencies in view. The
people looked on in rather sullen astonishment. Not long after this, I
found myself at Versailles on a day set apart for a visit from the
President and his suite. The great fountains were advertised to play in
honor of the occasion. From hall to hall of the immense palace we
followed, at a self-respecting distance, the sober _cortége_ of the
President. A middle-sized, middle-aged man, he appeared to us.
The tail of this comet was not then visible, and the star itself
exhibited but moderate dimensions. The corrupting influence of
absolutism had not yet penetrated the tissues of popular life. The
theatres were still loyal to decency and good taste. Manners and dress
were modest; intemperance was rarely seen.
A different Paris I saw in 1867. The dragon's teeth had been sown and
were ripening. The things which were Cæsar's had made little account of
the things which were God's. A blight had fallen upon men and women. The
generation seemed to have at once less self-respect and less politeness
than those which I had formerly known. The city had been greatly
modernized, perhaps embellished, but much of its historic interest had
disappeared. The theatres were licentious. Friends said: "Go, but do not
take your daughters." The drivers of public carriages were often
intoxicated.
The great Exposition of that year had drawn together an immense crowd
from all parts of the world. Among its marvels, my recollection dwells
most upon the gallery of French paintings, in which I stood more than
once before a full-length portrait of the then Emperor. I looked into
the face which seemed to say: "I have succeeded. What has any one to say
about it?" And I pondered the slow movements of that heavenly Justice
whose infallible decrees are not to be evaded. In this same gallery was
that sitting statue of the dying Napoleon which has since become so
familiar to the world of art. Crowns of immortelles always lay at the
feet of this statue. And I, in my mind, compared the statue and the
picture,--the great failure and the great success. But in Bismarck's
mind, even then, the despoiling of France was predetermined.
What lessons shall we learn from this imperfect sketch of Paris? What
other city has figured so largely in literature? None that I know of,
not even Rome and Athens. The young French writers of our time make a
sketch of some corner of Parisian life, and it becomes a novel.
French history in modern times is largely the history of Paris. The
modern saying has been that Paris was France. But we shall say: It is
not. Had Paris given a truer representation to France, she might have
avoided many long agonies and acute crises.
It is because Paris has forced her representation upon France that
Absolutism and Intelligence, the two deadly foes, have fought out their
fiercest battles on the genial soil which seems never to have been
allowed to bear its noblest fruits. The tendency to centralization, with
which the French have been so justly reproached, may or may not be
inveterate in them as a people. If it is so, the tendency of modern
times, which is mostly in the contrary direction, would lessen the
social and political importance of France as surely, if not as swiftly,
as Bismarck's mulcting and mutilation.
The organizations which result from centralization are naturally
despotic and, in so far, demoralizing. Individuals, having no recognized
representation, and being debarred the natural resource of legitimate
association, show their devotion to progress and their zeal for
improvement either in passionate and melancholy appeals or in secret
manoeuvrings. The tendency of these methods is to chronic fear on the
one hand and disaffection on the other, and to deep conspiracies and
sudden seditions which astonish the world, but which have in them
nothing astonishing for the student of human nature.
So those who love France should implore her to lay aside her quick
susceptibilities and irritable enthusiasms, and to study out the secret
of her own shortcomings. How is it that one of the most intelligent
nations of the world was, twenty years ago, one of the least instructed?
How is it that a warm-blooded, affectionate race generates such
atrocious social heartlessness? How was it that the nation which was the
apostle of freedom in 1848 kept Rome for twenty years in bondage? How is
it that the Jesuit, after long exile, has been reenstalled in its midst
with prestige and power? How is it, in so brilliant and liberal a
society, that the successors of Henri IV. and Sully are yet to be found?
Perhaps the reason for some of these things lay in the treason of this
same Henri IV. He was a Protestant at heart, and put on the Catholic
cloak in order to wear the crown. "The kingdom of France," said he, or
one of his admirers, "is well worth hearing a mass or two." "The kingdom
of the world," said Christ, "is a small thing for a man to gain in
exchange for the kingdom of his own honest soul." Henri IV. made this
bad bargain for himself and for France. He did it, doubtless, in view of
the good his reign might bring to the distracted country. But he had
better have given her the example, sole and illustrious, of the most
brilliant man of the time putting by its most brilliant temptation, and
taking his seat low on the ground with those whose hard-earned glory it
is to perish for conscience's sake.
But the great King is dead, long since, and his true legacy--his
wonderful scheme of European liberation and pacification--has only been
represented by a little newspaper, edited in Paris, but published in
Geneva, and called _The United States of Europe_.
So our word to France is: Try to solve the problem of modern Europe with
the great word which Henri IV. said, in a whisper, to his other self,
the minister Sully. Learn that social forces are balanced first by being
allowed to exist. Mutilation is useless in a world in which God
continues to be the Creator. Every babe that he sends into the world
brings with it a protest against absolutism. The babe, the nation, may
be robbed of its birthright; but God sends the protest still. And France
did terrible wrong to the protest of her own humanity when she suffered
her Protestant right hand to be cut off, and a great part of her most
valuable population to submit to the alternative of exile or apostasy.
So mad an act as this does not stand on the record of modern times. The
apostate has no spiritual country; the exile has no geographical
country. The men who are faithful to their religious convictions are
faithful to their patriotic duties. What a premium was set upon
falsehood, what a price upon faith, when all who held the supremacy of
conscience a higher fact than the supremacy of Rome were told to
renounce this confession or to depart!
* * * * *
If Paris gives to our mind some of the most brilliant pictures
imaginable, she also gives us some of the most dismal. While her
drawing-rooms were light and elegant, her streets were dark and wicked.
Among her hungry and ignorant populace, Crime planted its bitter seeds
and ripened its bloody crop. Police annals show us that Eugène Sue has
not exaggerated the truth in his portraits of the vicious population of
the great city. London has its hideous dens of vice, but Paris has, too,
its wicked institutions.
Its greatest offences, upon which I can only touch, regard the relations
between men and women. Its police regulations bearing upon this point
are dishonoring to any Christian community. Its social tone in this
respect is scarcely better. Men who have the dress and appearance of
gentlemen will show great insolence to a lady who dares to walk alone,
however modestly. Marriage is still a matter of bargain and interest,
and the modes of conduct which set its obligations at naught are more
open and recognized here than elsewhere. The city would seem, indeed, to
be the great market for that host of elegant rebels against virtue who
are willing to be admired without being respected, and who, with
splendid clothes and poor and mean characteristics, are technically
called the _demi-monde_, the half-world of Paris.
The corruption of young men and young women which this state of things
at once recognizes and fosters is such as no state can endure without
grievous loss of its manhood and womanhood. The Turks knew their power
when they could compel from the Greeks the tribute of their children, to
be trained as Turks, not as Christians. Must not the Spirit of evil in
like manner exult at his hold upon the French nation, when it allows him
to enslave its youth so largely, consoling itself for the same with a
shrug at the inevitable nature of human folly, or with some witty saying
which will be at once acknowledgment of and excuse for what cannot be
justified?
Gambling has been one of the crying vices of the French metropolis, and
the "hells" of Paris were familiarly spoken of in my youth. These were
the gambling-houses, in that day among the most brilliant and ruinous of
their kind. Government has since then interfered to abolish them. Still,
I suppose that much money is lost and won at play in Paris. From this
and other irregularities, many suicides result. One sees in numerous
places in Paris, particularly near the river, placards announcing "help
to the drowned and asphyxiated," a plunge into the Seine, and a sitting
with a pan of charcoal being the favorite methods of self-destruction.
All have heard of the Morgue, a building in which, every day, the
lifeless bodies found in the river are exposed upon marble slabs, in
order that the friends of the dead--if they have any--may recognize and
claim them. I believe that this sad place is rarely without its
appropriate occupants.
* * * * *
Through the kindness of our minister, I was able, some years since, to
attend more than one session of the French Parliament. This body, like
our own Congress, consists of two houses. An outsider does not see any
difference of demeanor between these two. An American visiting either
the French Senate or the Chamber of Deputies will be surprised at the
noise and excitement which prevail. The presiding officer agitates his
bell again and again, to no purpose. He constantly cries, in a piteous
tone: "Gentlemen, a little silence, if you please." In the Senate, one
of the ushers with great pride pointed out to me Victor Hugo in his
seat.
I have seen this venerable man of letters several times,--once in his
own house, and once at a congress of literary people in Paris, where, as
president of the congress, he made the opening address. This he read
from a manuscript, in a sonorous voice, and with much dignity of manner.
He was heard with great interest, and was interrupted by frequent
applause.
A number of invitations were given for this first meeting of the
literary congress, which was held in one of the largest theatres of the
city. I had been fortunate enough to receive one of these cards, but
upon seeking for admission to the subsequent sittings of the congress, I
was told that no ladies were admitted to them. So you see that Lucy
Stone's favorite assertion that "women are people" does not hold good
everywhere.
An esteemed Parisian friend had offered me an introduction to Victor
Hugo, and the great man had signified his willingness to receive a visit
from me. On the evening appointed for this visit, I called at his house,
accompanied by my daughter. We were first shown into an anteroom, and
presently into a small drawing-room, of which the walls and furniture
were covered with a striped satin material, in whose colors red
predominated. The venerable viscount kissed my hand and that of my
young companion with the courtesy belonging to other times than the
present. He was of middle height, reasonably stout. His eyes were dark
and expressive, and his hair and beard snow-white. Several guests were
present,--among others, the widow of one of his sons, recently married
to a second husband.
Victor Hugo seated himself alone upon a sofa, and talked to no one.
While the rest of the company kept up a desultory conversation, a
servant announced M. Louis Blanc, and our expectations were raised only
to be immediately lowered, for at this announcement Victor Hugo arose
and withdrew into another room, from which we were able to hear the two
voices in earnest conversation, but from which neither gentleman
appeared. Was not this disappointment like one of those dreams in which,
just as you are about to attain some object of intense desire, the power
of sleep deserts you, and you awake to life's plain prose?
* * * * *
The shops of Paris are wonderfully well mounted and well served. The
display in the windows is not so large in proportion to the bulk of
merchandise as it is apt to be with us. Still, these windows do unfold a
catalogue of temptations longer than that of Don Giovanni's sins.
Among them all, the jewellers' shops attract most. The love of human
beings for jewelry is a feature almost universal. The savage will give
land for beads. The women of Christendom will do the same thing. I have
seen fine displays of this kind in London, Rome, and Geneva. But in
Paris, these exhibits seem to characterize a certain vivid passion for
adornment, which is kindled and kept alive in the minds of French women,
and is by them communicated to the feminine world at large.
The French woman of condition wears nothing which can be called _outré_.
She loves costly attire, but her taste, and that of her costumer, are
perfect. She wears the most delicate and harmonious shades, and the most
graceful forms. She never caricatures the fashion by exaggerating it.
English women of the same social position are more inclined to what is
tawdry, and have surely a less perfect sense of color and adaptation.
Parisians are very homesick people when obliged to forsake their
capital. Madame de Staël, in full view of the beautiful lake of Geneva,
said that she would much prefer a view of the gutter in the Rue de Bac,
which in her day had not the attractions of the Bon Marché emporium, so
powerful to-day.
* * * * *
I should deserve ill of my subject if I failed to say that the great
issues of progress are to-day dearly and soberly held to by the
intelligence of the French people, and the good faith of their
representatives. In the history of the present republic, the solid
interests of the nation have slowly and steadfastly gained ground.
The efforts which forward these seem to me to culminate in the measures
which are intended at once to establish popular education and to defend
it from ecclesiastical interference. The craze for military glory is
also yielding before the march of civilization, and the ambitions which
build up society are everywhere gaining upon the passions which destroy
it.
In the last forty-five years, the social relations of France to the
civilized world have undergone much alteration. The magnificent
traditions of ancient royalty have become entirely things of the past.
The genius of the first Napoleon has passed out of people's minds. The
social prestige of France is no longer appealed to, no longer felt.
We read French novels, because French novelists have an admirable style
of narrating, but we no longer go to them for powerful ideals of life
and character. The modern world has outgrown the Gallic theories of sex.
We are tired of hearing about the women whose merit consists in their
loving everything better than their husbands. In this light artillery of
fashion and fiction, France no longer holds the place which was hers of
old.
In losing these advantages, she has, I think, gained better things. The
struggle of the French people to establish and maintain a republic in
the face of and despite monarchical Europe is a heroic one, worthy of
all esteem and sympathy. In science, France has never lost her eminence.
In serious literature, in the practical philosophy of history, in
criticism of the highest order, the French are still masters in their
own way. Notwithstanding their evil legislation regarding women, their
medical authorities have been most generous to our women students of
medicine. Many of these have crossed the Atlantic to seek in France that
clinical study and observation from which they have been in great
measure debarred in our own country.
There is still much bigotry and intolerance, much shallow scepticism and
false philosophy; but there is also, underneath all this, the germ of
great and generous qualities which place the nation high in the scale of
humanity.
I should be glad to bind together these scattered statements into some
great, instructive lesson for France and for ourselves. Perhaps the best
thing that I can do in this direction will be to suggest to Americans
the careful study of French history and of French character. The great
divisions of the world to-day are invaded by travel, and the iron horse
carries civilization far and wide. Many of those who go abroad may,
however, be found to have less understanding regarding foreign
countries than those who have learned all that may be learned concerning
them from history and literature. To many Americans, Paris is little
more than the place of shops and of fashions. I have been mortified
sometimes at the familiarity which our travellers show with all that may
be bought and sold on the other side of the ocean, combined with an
arrant and arrogant ignorance concerning the French people and the
country in which they live.
Even to the most careful observer, the French are not easy to be
understood. The most opposite statements may be made about them. Some
call them noble; others, ignoble. To some, they appear turbulent and
ferocious; to others, slavish and cowardly. Great thinkers do not judge
them in this offhand way, and from such we may learn to make allowances
for the fact that monarchic and aristocratic rule create and foster
great inequalities of character and intelligence among the nations in
which they prevail. Limitations of mind and of opinion are inherited
from generations which have been dwarfed by political and spiritual
despotism; and in such countries, the success of liberal institutions,
even if emphatically assured, is but slowly achieved and established.
A last word of mine shall commend this Paris to those who are yet to
visit it. Let me pray such as may have this experience not to suppose
that they have read the wonderful riddle of this city's life when they
shall have seen a few of its shops, palaces, and picture-galleries. If
they wish to understand what the French people are, and why they are
what they are, they will have to study history, politics, and human
nature pretty deeply.
If they wish to have an idea of what the French may become, they must
keep their faith in all that America finds precious and invaluable,--in
free institutions, in popular education, and, above all, in the heart of
the people. Never let them believe that while freedom ennobles the
Anglo-Saxon, it brutalizes the Gaul. Despotism brutalizes for long
centuries, and freedom cannot ennoble in a moment. But give it time and
room, and it will ennoble. And let Americans who go to Paris remember
that they should there represent republican virtue and intelligence.
How far this is from being the case some of us may know, and others
guess. Americans who visit Paris very generally relax their rules of
decorum and indulge in practices which they would not venture to
introduce at home. Hence they are looked upon with some disfavor by the
more serious part of the French people, while the frivolous ridicule
them at will. But I could wish that, in visiting a nation to whom we
Americans owe so much, we could think of something besides our own
amusement and the buying of pretty things to adorn our persons and our
houses. I could wish that we might visit schools, prisons, Protestant
churches, and hear something of the charities and reforms of the place,
and of what the best thinkers are doing and saying. I blush to think of
the gold which Americans squander in Paris, and of the bales of
merchandise of all sorts which we carry away. Far better would it be if
we made friends with the best people, exchanging with them our best
thought and experience, helping and being helped by them in the good
works which redeem the world. Better than the full trunk and empty
purse, which usually mark a return from Paris, will be a full heart and
a hand clasping across the water another hand, pure and resolute as
itself,--the hand of progress, the hand of order, the hand of brotherly
kindness and charity.
Greece Revisited
I SPEAK of a country to which all civilized countries are deeply
indebted.
The common speech of Europe and America shows this. In whatever way the
languages of the western world have been woven and got together, they
all show here and there some golden gleam which carries us back to the
Hellenic tongue. Philosophy, science, and common thought alike borrow
their phraseology from this ancient source.
I need scarcely say by what a direct descent all arts may claim to have
been recreated by Greek genius, nor can I exaggerate the importance of
the Greek poets, philosophers, and historians in the history of
literature. Rules of correct thinking and writing, the nice balance of
rhetoric, the methods of oratory, the notions of polity, of the
correlations of social and national interests,--in all of these
departments the Greeks may claim to have been our masters, and may call
us their slow and blundering pupils.
A wide interval lies between these glories and the Greece of to-day.
Nations, like individuals, have their period of growth and decay, their
limit of life, which human devices seem unable to prolong. But while
systems of government and social organization change, race perseveres.
The Greeks, like the Hebrews, when scattered and powerless at home, have
been potent abroad. Deprived for centuries of political and national
existence, the spirit of their immortal literature, the power of their
subtle and ingenious mind, have leavened and fashioned the mind, not of
Europe only, but of the thinking world.
Let us recall the briefest outline of the story. The states of ancient
Greece, always divided among themselves, in time invited the protection
of the Roman Empire, hoping thereby to attain peace and tranquillity.
Rome of to-day shows how her officials of old plundered the temples and
galleries of the Greeks, while her literary men admired and imitated the
Hellenic authors.