Part 1

GLEANINGS IN EUROPE. BY AN AMERICAN.

IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II.

PHILADELPHIA: CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD.

1837.

Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

FRANCE.

LETTER I. TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE.

We have not only had Mr. Canning in Paris, but Sir Walter Scott has suddenly appeared among us. The arrival of the Great Unknown, or, indeed, of any little Unknown from England, would be an event to throw all the reading clubs at home, into a state of high moral and poetical excitement. We are true village _lionizers_. As the professors of the Catholic religion are notoriously more addicted to yielding faith to miraculous interventions, in the remoter dioceses, than in Rome itself; as loyalty is always more zealous in a colony, than in a court; as fashions are more exaggerated in a province, than in a capital, and men are more prodigious to every one else, than their own valets, so do we throw the haloes of a vast ocean around the honoured heads of the celebrated men of this eastern hemisphere. This, perhaps, is the natural course of things, and is as unavoidable as that the sun shall hold the earth within the influence of its attraction, until matters shall be reversed by the earth’s becoming the larger and more glorious orb of the two. Not so in Paris. Here men of every gradation of celebrity, from Napoleon down to the Psalmanazar of the day, are so very common, that one scarcely turns round in the streets, to look at them. Delicate and polite attentions, however, fall as much to the share of reputation, here, as in any other country, and perhaps more so, as respects literary men, though there is so little _wonder-mongering_. It would be quite impossible that the presence of Sir Walter Scott should not excite a sensation. He was frequently named in the journals, received a good deal of private, and some public notice, but, on the whole, much less of both, I think, than one would have a right to expect for him, in a place like Paris. I account for the fact, by the French distrusting the forthcoming work on Napoleon, and by a little dissatisfaction which prevails on the subject of the tone of “Paul’s Letters to his Kinsfolk.” This feeling may surprise you, as coming from a nation as old and as great as France, but, alas! we are all human.

The King spoke to him, in going to his chapel, Sir Walter being in waiting for that purpose, but beyond this I believe he met with no civilities from the court.

As for myself, circumstances that it is needless to recount, had brought me, to a slight degree, within the notice of Sir Walter Scott, though we had never met, nor had I ever seen him, even in public, so as to know his person. Still I was not without hopes of being more fortunate now, while I felt a delicacy about obtruding myself any further on his time and attention. Several days after his arrival went by, however, without my good luck bringing me in his way, and I began to give the matter up, though the _Princesse_ ——, with whom I had the advantage of being on friendly terms, flattered me with an opportunity of seeing the great writer at her house, for she had a fixed resolution of making his acquaintance before he left Paris, _coute qui coute_.

It might have been ten days after the arrival of Sir Walter Scott, that I had ordered a carriage, one morning, with an intention of driving over to the other side of the river, and had got as far as the lower flight of steps, on my way to enter it, when, by the tramping of horses in the court, I found that another coach was driving in. It was raining, and, as my own carriage drove from the door, to make way for the new comer, I stopped where I was, until it could return. The carriage-steps rattled, and presently a large, heavy-moulded man appeared in the door of the hotel. He was gray, and limped a little, walking with a cane. His carriage immediately drove round, and was succeeded by mine, again; so I descended. We passed each other on the stairs, bowing as a matter of course. I had got to the door, and was about to enter the carriage, when it flashed on my mind that the visit might be to myself. The two lower floors of the hotel were occupied as a girl’s boarding-school; the reason of our dwelling in it, for our own daughters were in the establishment; _au seconde_, there was nothing but our own _appartement_, and above us, again, dwelt a family whose visitors never came in carriages. The door of the boarding-school was below, and men seldom came to it, at all. Strangers, moreover, sometimes did honour me with calls. Under these impressions I paused, to see if the visitor went as far as our flight of steps. All this time, I had not the slightest suspicion of who he was, though I fancied both the face and form were known to me.

The stranger got up the large stone steps slowly, leaning, with one hand, on the iron railing, and with the other, on his cane. He was on the first landing, as I stopped, and, turning towards the next flight, our eyes met. The idea that I might be the person he wanted, seemed then to strike him for the first time. “_Est-ce Mons. ——, que j’ai l’honneur de voir?_” he asked, in French, and with but an indifferent accent. “_Monsieur, je m’appele ——._” “_Eh bien, donc—je suis Walter Scott._”

I ran up to the landing, shook him by the hand, which he stood holding out to me cordially, and expressed my sense of the honour he was conferring. He told me, in substance, that the _Princesse_ —— had been as good as her word, and having succeeded herself in getting hold of him, she had good naturedly given him my address. By way of cutting short all ceremony he had driven from his hotel to my lodgings. All this time he was speaking French, while my answers and remarks were in English. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said—“Well, here have I been _parlez-vousing_ to you, in a way to surprise you, no doubt; but these Frenchmen have got my tongue so set to their lingo, that I have half forgotten my own language.” As we proceeded up the next flight of steps, he accepted my arm, and continued the conversation in English, walking with more difficulty than I had expected to see. You will excuse the vanity of my repeating the next observation he made, which I do in the hope that some of our own _exquisites_ in literature may learn in what manner a man of true sentiment and sound feeling regards a trait that they have seen fit to stigmatize as unbecoming. “I’ll tell you what I most like,” he added, abruptly; “and it is the manner in which you maintain the ascendancy of your own country on all proper occasions, without descending to vulgar abuse of ours. You are obliged to bring the two nations in collision, and I respect your liberal hostility.” This will probably be esteemed treason in our own self-constituted mentors of the press, one of whom, I observe, has quite lately had to apologize to his readers for exposing some of the sins of the English writers in reference to ourselves! But these people are not worth our attention, for they have neither the independence which belongs to masculine reason, nor manhood even to prize the quality in others. “I am afraid the mother has not always treated the daughter well,” he continued, “feeling a little jealous of her growth, perhaps; for, though we hope England has not yet begun to descend on the evil side, we have a presentiment that she has got to the top of the ladder.”

There were two entrances to our apartments; one, the principal, leading by an ante-chamber and _salle à manger_ into the _salon_, and thence through other rooms to a terrace; and the other, by a private _corridor_, to the same spot. The door of my _cabinet_ opened on this _corridor_, and though it was dark, crooked, and any thing but savoury, as it lead by the kitchen, I conducted Sir Walter through it, under an impression that he walked with pain, an idea, of which I could not divest myself, in the hurry of the moment. But for this awkwardness on my part, I believe I should have been the witness of a singular interview. General Lafayette had been with me a few minutes before, and he had gone away by the _salon_, in order to speak to Mrs. ——. Having a note to write, I had left him there, and I think his carriage could not have quitted the court when that of Sir Walter Scott entered. If so, the General must have passed out by the ante-chamber, about the time we came through the _corridor_.

There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the conversation was more general. You will remember that Sir Walter was still the _Unknown_,[1] and that he was believed to be in Paris, in search of facts for the Life of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the former circumstance, he spoke of his works with great frankness and simplicity, and without the parade of asking any promises of secrecy. In short, as he commenced in this style, his authorship was alluded to by us both, just as if it had never been called in question. He asked me if I had a copy of the —— by me, and on my confessing I did not own a single volume of anything I had written, he laughed, and said he believed that most authors had the same feeling on the subject: as for himself, he cared not if he never saw a Waverly novel again, as long as he lived. Curious to know whether a writer as great and as practised as he, felt the occasional despondency which invariably attends all my own little efforts of this nature, I remarked that I found the mere composition of a tale a source of pleasure; so much so, that I always invented twice as much as was committed to paper, in my walks, or in bed, and, in my own judgment, much the best parts of the composition never saw the light; for, what was written was usually written at set hours, and was a good deal a matter of chance; and that going over and over the same subject, in proofs, disgusted me so thoroughly with the book, that I supposed every one else would be disposed to view it with the same eyes. To this he answered, that he was spared much of the labour of proof-reading, Scotland, he presumed, being better off than America, in this respect; but, still, he said he “would as soon see his dinner again, after a hearty meal, as to read one of his own tales when he was fairly rid of it.”

Footnote 1:

He did not avow himself for several months afterwards.

He sat with me nearly an hour, and he manifested, during the time the conversation was not tied down to business, a strong propensity to humour. Having occasion to mention our common publisher in Paris, he quaintly termed him, with a sort of malicious fun, “our Gosling;”[2] adding, that he hoped he, at least, “laid golden eggs.”

Footnote 2:

His name was _Gosselin_.

I hoped that he had found the facilities he desired, in obtaining facts for the forthcoming history. He rather hesitated about admitting this.—“One can hear as much as he pleases, in the way of anecdote,” he said, “but then, as a gentleman, he is not always sure how much of it he can, with propriety, relate in a book—besides,” throwing all his latent humour into the expression of his small gray eyes, “one may even doubt how much of what he hears is fit for history, on another account.” He paused, and his face assumed an exquisite air of confiding simplicity, as he continued with perfect _bonne foi_ and strong Scottish feeling, “I have been to see _my countryman_ M‘Donald, and I rather think that will be about as much as I can do here, now.” This was uttered with so much _naïveté_ that I could hardly believe it was the same man, who, a moment before, had shown so much shrewd distrust of oral relations of facts.

I inquired when we might expect the work. “Some time in the course of the winter,” he replied, “though it is likely to prove larger than I, at first, intended. We have got several volumes printed, but I find I must add to the matter, considerably, in order to dispose of the subject. I thought I should get rid of it in seven volumes, which are already written, but it will reach, I think, to nine.” “If you have two still to write, I shall not expect to see the book before spring.” “You may. Let me once get back to Abbotsford, and I’ll soon knock off those two fellows.” To this I had nothing to say, although I thought such a _tour de force_ in writing might better suit invention than history.

When he rose to go, I begged him to step into the _salon_, that I might have the gratification of introducing my wife to him. To this he very good naturedly assented, and entering the room, after presenting Mrs. —— and my nephew W——, he took a seat. He sat some little time, and his fit of pleasantry returned, for he illustrated his discourse by one or two apt anecdotes, related with a slightly Scottish accent, that he seemed to drop and assume at will. Mrs. —— observed to him that the _bergère_ in which he was seated, had been twice honoured that morning, for General Lafayette had not left it more than half an hour. Sir Walter Scott looked surprised at this, and said, inquiringly, “I thought he had gone to America, to pass the rest of his days?” On my explaining the true state of the case, he merely observed, “he is a great man;” and yet, I thought the remark was made coldly, or in complaisance to us.

When Sir Walter left us, it was settled that I was to breakfast with him, the following day but one. I was punctual, of course, and found him in a new silk _douilliette_ that he had just purchased, trying “as hard as he could,” as he pleasantly observed, to make a Frenchman of himself; an undertaking as little likely to be successful, I should think, in the case of his Scottish exterior, and Scottish interior, too, as any experiment well could be. There were two or three visitors present, besides Miss Ann Scott, his daughter, who was his companion in the journey. He was just answering an invitation from the _Princesse_ ——, to an evening party, as I entered. “Here,” said he, “you are a friend of the lady, and _parlez-vous_ so much better than I, can you tell me whether this is for _jeudi_, or _lundi_, or _mardi_, or whether it means no day at all.” I told him the day of the week intended. “You get notes occasionally from the lady, or you could not read her scrawl so readily?” “She is very kind to us, and we often have occasion to read her writing.” “Well, it is worth a very good dinner to get through a page of it.” “I take my revenge in kind, and I fancy she has the worst of it.” “I don’t know, after all, that she will get much the better of me, with this _plume d’auberge_.” He was quite right, for, although Sir Walter writes a smooth even hand, and one that appears rather well than otherwise on a page, it is one of the most difficult to decipher I have ever met with. The i’s, u’s, m’s, n’s, a’s, e’s, t’s, &c., &c., for want of dots, crossings, and being fully rounded, looking all alike, and rendering the reading slow and difficult, without great familiarity with his mode of handling the pen; at least, I have found it so.

He had sealed the note, and was about writing the direction, when he seemed at a loss. “How do you address this lady—as ‘Her Highness’?” I was much surprised at this question from him, for it denoted a want of familiarity with the world, that one would not have expected in a man who had been so very much and so long courted by the great. But, after all, his life has been provincial, though, as his daughter remarked in the course of the morning, they had no occasion to quit Scotland, to see the world, all the world coming to see Scotland.

The next morning he was with me again, for near an hour, and we completed our little affair. After this, we had a conversation on the Law of Copy-Rights, in the two countries, which, as we possess a common language, is a subject of great national interest. I understood him to say that he had a double right, in England, to his works; one under a statute, and the other growing out of common law. Any one publishing a book, let it be written by whom it might, in England, duly complying with the law, can secure the right, whereas, none but a _citizen_ can do the same in America. I regret to say, that I misled him on the subject of our copy-right law, which, after all, is not so much more illiberal than that of England, as I had thought it.

I told Sir Walter Scott, that, in order to secure a copy-right in America, it was necessary the book should never have been published _anywhere else_. This was said under the popular notion of the matter; or that which is entertained among the booksellers. Reflection and examination have since convinced me of my error: the publication alluded to in the law, can only mean publication in America; for, as the object of doing certain acts previously to publication is merely to forewarn the _American_ public that the right is reserved, there can be no motive for having reference to any other publication. It is, moreover, in conformity with the spirit of all laws to limit the meaning of their phrases by their proper jurisdiction. Let us suppose a case. An American writes a book. He sends a copy to England, where it is published in March. Complying with the terms of our own Copy-Right Law, as to the entries and notices, the same work is published here in April. Now, will it be pretended that his right is lost, always providing that his own is the first _American_ publication? I do not see how it can be so, by either the letter or the spirit of the law. The intention is to encourage the citizen to write, and to give him a just property in the fruits of his labour; and the precautionary provisions of the law are merely to prevent others from being injured for want of proper information. It is of no moment to either of these objects that the author of a work has already reaped emolument, in a foreign country. The principle is to encourage literature, by giving it all the advantages it can obtain.

If these views are correct, why may not an English writer secure a right in this country, by selling it in season, to a citizen here? An equitable trust might not, probably would not be sufficient, but a _bonâ fide_ transfer for a valuable consideration, I begin to think, would. It seems to me that all the misconception which has existed on this point, has arisen from supposing that the term _publication_ refers to other than a publication in the country. But, when one remembers how rare it is to get lawyers to agree on a question like this, it becomes a layman to advance his opinion with great humility. I suppose, after all, a good way of getting an accurate notion of the meaning of the law, would be to toss a dollar into the air, and cry “heads,” or “tails.” Sir Walter Scott seemed fully aware of the great circulation of his books in America, as well as how much he lost by not being able to secure a copy-right. Still, he admitted they produced him something. Our conversation on this subject terminated by a frank offer, on his part, of aiding me with the publishers of his own country,[3] but, although grateful for the kindness, I was not so circumstanced as to be able to profit by it.

Footnote 3:

An offer that was twice renewed, after intervals of several years.

He did not appear to me to be pleased with Paris. His notions of the French were pretty accurate, though clearly not free from the old-fashioned prejudices. “After all,” he remarked, “I am a true Scot, never, except on this occasion, and the short visit I made to Paris in 1815, having been out of my own country, unless to visit England, and I have even done very little of the latter.” I understood him to say he had never been in Ireland, at all.