Chapter IX: Letter VIII

Burial of the victims--St. Cloud--The Chateau--The Cicerone--The
Chevalier d’Industrie--Grave of Mrs. Jordan--The Bois de
Boulogne--Amusements on Fête Days--Place Louis XV.--The King at the
Tuileries--The American Address--His Majesty’s Reply--The Princess
Amelia--The Queen and her Daughters--The Dukes of Orleans and
Némours--Madame Adelaide--Splendour of Ancient Courts--Manner of
governing the French--William the Fourth--Exhibition of the
Students at the University.

_Paris, August 24th, 1835._

I believe I have not described to you the burial of the “victims,”--which is no great matter, since you will see it all in the newspapers. I fell in, the other day, with an immense crowd passing in a long file through the door of a church, and became one of its number. Here was a furnace, or _chambre ardente_, as they call it, into which a concealed flame threw a red and lurid light, and exhibited the corpses of those who were murdered. From this place they were brought out, and carried about the streets in the most gorgeous of all funeral processions. It would have done credit to the best times of Babylon. No people of the world can get up a theatric display of this kind so prettily as the French; and on this occasion they outdid themselves. The day was appointed, four days ahead, when the general grief was to explode, and it did explode exactly as the Prefecture of Police had predicted. We all ran about the streets the whole day, and cried, “long live” Louis Philippe, and General Mortier--who was killed!

The Duke’s coffin was carried in front, by six horses, in all the solemnity of crape. The spokes of the wheels were silvered, and the rims glittered with a more precious metal. Overhead were flags,--I presume, taken from the enemy,--and groups of emblematic figures: France, with her tresses loose and streaming, and the Departments, all dressed in black frocks, mopping their eyes, and pouring out their little souls over the coffin. The others of the train, seven or eight, followed at long intervals, arrayed in nearly the same style, more or less elegant, according to the dignity of the corpses carried in them. In the midst was a chariot, as rich as the others in decoration, and forming a splendid contrast, of dazzling white; and young girls, in raiment whiter than the snow, following in a long train, chanted hymns to their departed sister. This procession had everything but funeral solemnity. I had expected muffled drums and dead marches, and all but the bell-clappers silent over the face of Paris. The music, on the contrary, was thrilling and military; and all the emblems, but the crape and coffin, would have served as well for an elegant jubilee. The last scene--the entrance into the Chapel of the Invalids, and the ceremony there--was the most solemn. The church was hung in its blackest mourning weeds, and priests, in a long row, said masses upon the dead, holding black torches in their hands. The floor opened, and the deceased were laid by the side of each other in a vault, which closed its marble jaws. All Paris spent the day in the procession, and in the evening went to the Opera Comique. But I don’t like funerals; I will write of something else.

I will tell you of my first excursion to the country. Every one who loves eating, and drinking, and dancing, went out yesterday to the fête at St. Cloud--_c’est si jolie, une fête de village!_ and I went along. The situation of this village is very picturesque, on the banks of the Seine, and commands a delightful prospect of the city and environs of Paris. If St. Cloud would not take it ill, I should like to stay here a month. There are the sweetest little hills, and glades, and cascades imaginable,--not, indeed, beautiful and poetical as your wild and native scenery of Pottsville; one does not wander by the mountain torrent, nor by the clear stream, such as gushes from the flanks of your craggy hills, nor by the “Tumbling Run” that winds its course through the intricate valley till it mingles and murmurs no more in the wizard Schuylkill; nor does one stray through forests of fragrant honeysuckles, or gather the wild flower from the solitary rock; but it is sweet, also, to see the little fishes cut with their golden oars the silvery lake, and to walk upon the fresh-mown turf, and scent the odour from the neighbouring hedge; the rose and woodbine, too, are sweet, when nourished by the agricultural ingenuity and care of man.

All that kind of beauty which the fertile earth can receive from the hand of a skilful cultivator is possessed by these little hills of St. Cloud in its most adorable perfection. I have listened here to the music of the bees, and in the calm and balmy evening to the last serenade of the thrush retiring to its rest. One forgets, in hearing this language of his native country, that he is wandering in a foreign land! St. Cloud has, also, an interest in its historical recollections. It was burnt once by the English; it was besieged and taken by Condé, in the religious wars; and Henry III. was assassinated here, by Jacques Clement. It was the favourite residence of Bonaparte. If he resided any where (for ambition has no home,) it was at St. Cloud. It was here he put himself at the head of the government, overthrowing the Directory, in 1799. The neighbourhood is adorned with magnificent villas. The French do not, like the English, plunge from the bustle and animation of their city into a lifeless solitude, or carry a multitude of guests with them to their country seats, to eat them out of house and home, as an antidote to the vapours. They select the vicinity of some frequented spot, as St. Cloud or Versailles, and secure the pleasures of society to their summer residences. I believe it is well for one who wishes to make the best of life, in all its circumstances, to study the French. I am glad that, in imitating England in many things (as we ought), we have not copied her absurd whim of living in the country at Christmas.

The Chateau at St. Cloud is an irregular building; it has on its principal front four Corinthian columns; and Justice, and Prudence, and a naked Truth, and some other hieroglyphic ladies, are looking down from the balustrade. I had myself conducted through its apartments; the _salle de compagnie--d’audience--de toilet_, and the Queen’s bed-chamber. Only to think, here she used to sleep, the little queeny! They have made her bed just two feet high, lest she might fall out and break her majesty’s neck in the night. The King’s apartments are in a similar range. The _salon de Diane_ is fine, with the tapestry of the gobelins, and the _grand salon_ with Sêvres’ China vases. Its crimson velvet hangings cost twenty thousand dollars, and its four candelabra six thousand. The _galérie d’Apollon_ has paintings by the best masters. I admired all these things excessively.

Every one knows the genealogy of admiration. They certainly exceed very far our usual republican notions of magnificence. Thou most unclassical Blucher! Why the fellow slept here, booted and spurred, in the Emperor’s bed, and kennelled his hounds upon the sofas--both with an equal sense I presume, of the sumptuousness of their lodgings. If, at least, he had put his hounds into Diana’s saloon, the stupid Goth, he might have had some credit for his wit--he can have none for his brutality.

I was puzzled about the reward to be given to our Cicerone. To have all this service for nothing was unreasonable; and to offer money to a man with a cocked hat, and black velvet breeches--it was a painful feeling. I was in a situation exactly the reverse of Alexander the Great towards his schoolmaster.--What was enough for such a respectable gentleman to receive, was too much for me to give. I consulted a French lady; for French ladies know every thing, and they don’t knock you down when you ask them a question.--She told me a franc would be as much as he would expect. Think of giving a franc for an hour’s service, to as good a looking gentleman as General Washington!

Coming out from the Castle, I wandered through the Park, which contains some hundred acres, diversified with hills and valleys, and presenting from an eminence a delightful view of the surrounding country, including Paris. On this spot is a “Lantern of Demosthenes,” copied from the monument of that name at Athens. A great part of the park is a public promenade, and is chiefly remarkable for its _jets d’eaux_, which on a fête day throw up the water sportively in the air, and for its numerous cascades, one of which is one hundred and twenty-five feet above the level of the basin. I next went with a guide into the “_Petit Parc_,” made for Marie Antoinette. She bought this chateau (one of her sins) just before the Revolution. This park is beautiful, with bowers, groves, pieces of water, statuary, and every imaginable embellishment. In wandering about here, I got acquainted with a nobleman. He is of that order of knighthood which the French call “Chevaliers d’Industrie.”--“This, sir, I think, is by Pigale, and this Cupid by Depautre. Look especially at this Venus by Coustan.”--“_Point du tout, monsieur_, I make it a duty as you are a stranger.” He liked the Americans excessively.--“To be the countryman of Franklin, _c’est un titre_!” I seldom ever met a more polite and accomplished gentleman, and fashionable. I had a purse, containing in silver twenty francs, which, being incommodious to a waistcoat, I had put into an outside coat pocket. Late in the evening, you might have seen me returning homewards on foot, (the distance two leagues,) not having wherewith to hire a coach, and no money at my lodgings. If the devil had not been invented, I should have found him out on this occasion.

The verdure of this country is more fresh than ours under the dog star. There is a hazy atmosphere, which intercepts the rays of the sun and mitigates the heat. I don’t say a word here in favour of our summer climate from conscientious scruples. Indeed I have gained such a victory over my patriotism that I never find fault with these foreigners for having anything better than we have it ourselves; nor do I take any merit to myself because the Mississippi is two miles wide, or because the Niagara falls with such sublimity into Lake Ontario.

I was introduced by a mere accident to a Scotch lady of this village, who prevailed on my modesty to dine with her. She is a lady of experience and great affability, who has resided here and in Paris, eleven years. She is on a furlough from her husband, an Englishman. She shewed me the cathedral, the cemetery, and the grave of one who won princes by her smile, Mrs. Jordan. She asks a repetition of the visit, and is too amiable and accomplished to be refused. She is at least forty-five--in the “ambush of her younger days” the invitation would not have been safe for the visiter.

On my return I walked through the Bois de Boulogne, where you and romantic Mary have so often assisted at a duel. It was in the glimmerings of the twilight, and now and then looking through a vista of the tangled forest, I could see distinctly, a ghost pulling a trigger at another ghost, or pushing _carte_ and _tierce_ at his ribs. This forest flanks the west side of the Faubourgs of Paris, and contains seventeen hundred acres of ground; in some parts an open wood, in others an intricate and impenetrable thicket. It is the fashionable drive for those who have coaches in the morning, and a solitary enough walk for one who has no coach of an evening. Young girls always find saddled at the east end a number of donkeys, upon which they take a wholesome exercise, and acquire the elements of equitation at three sous a ride. Some who have “witched the world with noble horsemanship,” have begun upon these little asses.

I had the light only of the gentle moonbeam to direct my footsteps through the latter part of this forest; and I walked speedily, recollecting I should not be the first man who was murdered here by a great many. I feared to meet some rogue ignorant that I was robbed already, so I went whistling along, (for men who have money don’t whistle,) till I arrived at the Champs Elysées--its lamps sparkling like the starry firmament.

An hour sooner I should have found it alive with all sorts of equipages; with all the landaus, tilburys, and other private vehicles, and footmen glittering in golden coats, with feathers waving on their empty heads, whilst the edges of the road would have been fringed with ten thousand pedestrians on their evening walks. Now there were a few only in attendance upon Franconi’s, or the concert. In the former of these places they exhibit melodramas, and equestrian feats, in which the riding ladies only outstrip what we see in our own country. In the latter there is a band of near a hundred musicians, who charm all the world at twenty sous a piece, playing the fashionable airs from six till nine every evening. Innumerable cafés around pour out the fragrant nectar to their guests.

For an image of this place you need not read Virgil’s sixth book, or refer to any of your classical associations. Fancy only, without a single inequality, a horizontal plain of an hundred or more acres, or rather a barren moor, a ball-alley, a baked and turfless common, or any most trodden spot upon the earth, and that is the French Elysium. Not a blade of grass, or shrub, or flower, dares grow upon its surface. The trees are straining and trying to grow but cannot. Yet it is precisely to this barren field that all the world comes, especially on fête days, to be perfectly delighted. It is surrounded by the city, and has an air of country in town. It is a kind of republican turn-out, where one may go as one pleases, without toilet or any troublesome respect to etiquette. It is a refuge always at hand from an uncomfortable home--from a scold or a creditor; it cures husbands of their wives, old bachelors of the vapours, and sometimes lovers of their sweethearts. On Sundays and holidays you will find here, of foolishness, all that you have ever seen, all that you have ever fancied, and if there is anything of this kind you have never seen or fancied, it is here. Besides the concert, and the circus, and fresco dances, here are all the jugglers and their tricks, mountebanks and their medicines, clowns and their fooleries, all the family of the punches, and all the apes in regimentals; not counting the voltigeurs without legs, and the blind girls, who see to walk over eggs without breaking them. You may have a stage if you love to play harlequin, or a greasy pole if you wish to climb for a prize at the top of it. You may sit down on a swing like a water wheel, which will toss you fifty feet in the air, where you may run from yourself and after yourself by the hour; or on another, which will whirl you about horizontally on hobby horses till you become invisible. If thirsty, you may have an ice cream; if studious, a chair and a newspaper; and if nervous, a shock of electricity worth two sous. Moreover, you can buy cakes reeking hot that were baked a week ago, and a stick of barley-sugar, only a little sucked by the woman’s baby, at half its value.

On the outskirts, towards night, you may find also an opportunity of exercising your charity, and other benevolent affections. One poor woman is getting a living here by the dropsy, and another by nine orphan children, and such like advantages; another has lost the use of her limbs and is running about with a certificate. In coming out by the side next the city you are at once upon the Place Louis XV., where you will see on their pedestals two superb and restive coursers, which tread on air, held in with difficulty by their two marble grooms. We are again upon St. Anne’s-street, and under the protection of her sainted wings I repose till to-morrow, bidding you an affectionate good night.

* * * * *

_August 25th._

I called a few days ago upon the king. We Yankees went to congratulate his Majesty for not being killed on the 28th. We were overwhelmed with sympathy--and the staircase which leads up to the royal apartments is very beautiful, and has two Ionic columns just on the summit. You first enter through a room of white and plain ground, then through a second, hung round with awful field marshals, and then you go through a room very large, and splendid with lustres, and other elegant furniture, which conducts into a fourth with a throne and velvet canopy. The king was very grateful, at least he made a great many bows, and we too were very grateful to Providence for more than a couple of hours. There was the queen, and the two little princesses--but I will write this so that by embroidering it a little you may put it in the newspapers.

The Chamber of Peers and Deputies, and other functionaries of the State, were pouring in to place at the foot of the throne the expression of their loyalty. This killing of the king has turned out very much to his advantage. There was nothing anywhere but laudatory speeches and protestations of affection--foreigners from all the countries of Europe uniting in sympathy with the natives. So we got ashamed of ourselves, we Americans, and held a meeting in the Rue Rivoli, where we got up a procession too, and waited upon his Majesty for the purpose above stated, and were received into the presence--the royal family being ranged around the room to get a sight of us.

Modesty forbids me to speak of the very eloquent manner in which we pronounced our address; to which the king made a very appropriate reply. “Gentlemen, you can better _guess_,” said he, “than I can express to you, the gratification,” &c.--I missed all the rest by looking at the Princess Amelia’s most beautiful of all faces, except the conclusion, which was as follows:--“And I am happy to embrace this occasion of expressing to you all, and through you to your countrymen, the deep gratitude I have ever felt for the kindness and hospitality I experienced in America, during my misfortunes.” The king spoke in English, and with an affectionate and animated expression, and we were pleased _all to pieces_. So was Louis Philippe, and so was _Marie Amelie_, princess of the two Sicilies, his wife; and so was _Marie-Christine-Caroline-Adelaide-Françoise-Leopoldine_, and _Marie-Clementine-Caroline-Leopoldine-Clotilde_, her two daughters, and the rest of the family.

A note from the king’s aide-de-camp required the presence of our consul at the head of the deputation, which our consul refused. He did not choose, he said, to see the Republic make a fool of herself, running about town, and tossing up her cap, because the king was not killed, and he would not go. “Then,” said the king (a demur being made by his officers,) “I will receive the Americans as they received me, without fuss or ceremony.” So we got in without any head, but not without a long attendance in the ante-chamber, very inconvenient to our legs.--How we strolled about during this time, looking over the nick-nacks, and how some of us took out our handkerchiefs and knocked the dust off our boots in the _salle des marechaux_, and how we reclined upon the royal cushions, and set one leg to ride impatiently on the other, I leave to be described by Major Downing, who was one of our party. I will bring up the rear of this paragraph, with an anecdote, which will make you laugh. One of our deputation had brought along a chubby little son of his, about sixteen. He returned, (for he had gone ahead to explore,) and said in a soft voice,--“Tommy, you can go in to the Throne, but don’t go too near.” And then Tommy set off with velvet steps, and approached, as you have seen timid old ladies to a blunderbuss,--he feared it might go off.

The king is a bluff old man, with more firmness of character, sense, and activity, than is indicated by his plump and rubicund features. The queen has a very unexceptionable face; her features are prominent, and have a sensible benevolent expression--a face not of the French cut, but such as you often meet amongst the best New England faces. Any gentleman would like to have such a woman for his mother. The eldest daughter is married to the King of Belgium; the second and third are grown up to _manhood_, but not yet married. They would be thought pretty girls even by your village beaux, and with your ladies, except two or three (how many are you?) they would be “stuck up things, no prettier than their neighbours.”

The Duke of Orleans is a handsome young man, and so spare and delicate as almost to call into question his mother’s reputation. He assumes more dignity of manner than is natural to a Frenchman at his age; he is not awkward, but a little stiff; his smile seems compulsory, and more akin to the lips than the heart. Any body else would have laughed out on this occasion. He has been with the army in Africa, and has returned moderately covered with laurels. The Duke of Némours is just struggling into manhood, and is shaving to get a beard as assiduously as his father to get rid of it. He also has fought valiantly somewhere--I believe in Holland. Among the ladies there is one who pleases me exceedingly; it is Madame Adelaide, the king’s sister. She has little beauty, but a most affable and happy expression of countenance. She was a pupil of Madame Genlis, who used to call her “_cette belle et bonne Princesse_.” She was married secretly to General Athelin, her brother’s secretary, during their residence in England. She revealed this marriage, with great fear of his displeasure, to her brother, after his accession to the throne, throwing herself on her knees.--After some pause, he said, embracing her tenderly,--“Domestic happiness is the main thing after all; and now that he is the king’s brother-in-law, we must make him a duke.” Madame Adelaide is now in the Indian summer of her charms.

One who knows royalty only from the old books, necessarily looks about for that motley gentleman, the king’s fool. The city of Troyes used to have a monopoly of supplying this article; but the other towns, I have heard, grew jealous of the privilege, and they have them now from all parts of the kingdom. Seriously, the splendour of ancient courts has faded away wonderfully in every respect. When Sully went to England, says the history, he was attended by two hundred gentlemen, and three hundred guns saluted him at the Tower. The pomp and luxury of drawing-rooms and levees were then most gorgeous.

The eye was dazzled with the glittering display; nothing but yeomen of the guards with halberds, and wearing hats of rich velvet, plumed like the peacock, with wreaths and rosettes in their shoes; and functionaries of the law, in black gowns, and full wigs; and bishops, and other church dignitaries, in aprons of black silk; and there were knights of the garter, the lord steward, the lord chancellor, and the Lord knows who. And the same grandeur and brilliancy in the French courts--_chambellans_, and _écuyers_, and _aumoniers_, all the way down to the _chauf-cire_, and keeper of the royal hounds; and one swam in a sea of gems and plumes, and sweet and honied ladies. Republicanism has set her irreverend foot upon all this regal splendour. I wish I had come over a hundred years ago. The king’s salary before the Revolution, though provisions were at half their present rate, was thirty millions; that of Charles X. was twenty-five; and the present king’s is only twelve millions, with one million to the Duke of Orleans.

_I_ and Louis Philippe do not agree altogether about the manner in which the French people ought to be governed. The censorship of the press, the espionage, the violation of private correspondence, the jail and the gibbet, will not arrest the hand of the regicide. I have read in a journal to-day, that 2,746 persons have already been imprisoned for having censured the acts of the present government, in the person of the king. The devil will get his Most Christian Majesty if he goes on at this rate. Why don’t he learn that the strength of kings, in these days, is in their weakness? Why don’t he set up M. Thiers, and then M. Guizot, and then M. Thiers again, as they do in England? Look at King William--does any body shoot him? and yet he rides out with four cream-coloured horses, with blue eyes, every day, and sometimes he walks into the Hungerford Market, and asks the price of shrimps. Louis plays a principal part in all his measures, even his high-handed measures. If he makes himself a target, he must expect to be shot at. In the beginning of his reign, he played the liberal too loosely. “Why talk of censorship?” said he--“_il n’y aura plus de délits de la presse_.”--“I am but a bridge to arrive at the Republic.”

With his present acts, this language is in almost ludicrous contrast. He is a Jacobin turned king, say his enemies; and we must expect he will run the career of all renegades. I have not described his disasters and dangers in a lamentable tone, because I don’t choose to affect a sympathy I do not feel. He had a quiet and delightful habitation at Neuilly; and since he has not preferred it to this “bare-picked bone of Majesty,” at the Tuileries, let him abide the consequences. However, I shall be one of those who will deplore his loss, from the good will I bear the French people, for I have not the least doubt that, with twenty years’ possession of the throne, he will bring them, in all that constitutes real comfort and rational liberty, to a degree of prosperity unknown to their history.

Remember, I am talking French, not American politics. To infer from the example of America, that the institutions of a Republic may be introduced into these old governments of Europe, requires yet the “experiment” of another century. If we can retain our democracy when our back woodlands are filled up, when New York and Philadelphia have become a London and Paris; when the land shall be covered with its multitudes, struggling for a scanty living, with passions excited by luxurious habits and appetites;--if we can then maintain our universal suffrage and our liberty, it will be fair and reasonable enough in us to set ourselves up for the imitation of others. Liberty, as far as we yet know her, is not fitted to the condition of these populous and luxurious countries. Her household gods are of clay, and her dwelling, where the icy gales of Alleghany sing through the crevices of her hut.

I have spent a day at the exhibition of the students of the University, which was conducted with great pomp. There was a _concour_ for prizes, and speeches in the learned languages; nothing but _clarissimi_ and _eruditissimi_, Thiers and Guizots. Don’t you love modern Latin? I read, the other day, an ode to “Hannæ Moræ,” and I intend to write one some of these days to Miss Kittæ J. Nellæ, of Pine Hill. A propos! what is doing at the Girard College? when are they to choose the professors? and who are the trustees? I must be recommended τοισι ανθροποισι μεγαλοισι. Please tell Mr. S---- I confide to him my interests, as a good catholic does his soul to the priest, without meddling himself in the matter. Good night.