Part 2

I met him once more, in the evening, at the hotel of the _Princesse_ ——. The party had been got together in a hurry, and was not large. Our hostess contrived to assemble some exceedingly clever people, however, among whom were one or two women, who are already historical, and whom I had fancied long since dead. All the female part of the company, with the silent delicacy that the French so well understand, appeared with ribbons, hats, or ornaments of some sort or other, of a Scottish stamp. Indeed, almost the only woman in the room that did not appear to be a Caledonian was Miss Scott. She was in half-mourning, and with her black eyes and jet-black hair, might very well have passed for a French woman, but for a slight peculiarity about the cheek bones. She looked exceedingly well, and was much admired. Having two or three more places to go to, they staid but an hour. As a matter of course, all the French women were exceedingly _empressées_ in their manner towards the Great Unknown, and as there were three or four that were very exaggerated on the score of romance, he was quite lucky if he escaped some absurdities. Nothing could be more patient than his manner, under it all, but as soon as he very well could, he got into a corner, where I went to speak to him. He said, laughingly, that he spoke French with so much difficulty he was embarrassed to answer the compliments. “I’m as good a lion as needs be, allowing my mane to be stroked as familiarly as they please, but I can’t growl for them, in French. How is it with you?” Disclaiming the necessity of being either a good or a bad lion, being very little troubled in that way, for his amusement I related to him an anecdote. Pointing out to him a _Comtesse de_ ——, who was present, I told him, this lady I had met once a week, for several months, and at every _soirée_ she invariably sailed up to me to say—“_Oh, Monsieur ——, quelles livres!—vos charmants livres—que vos livres sont charmants!_” and I had just made up my mind that she was, at least, a woman of taste, when she approached me with the utmost _sang froid_, and cried—“_Bon soir, Monsieur ——; je viens d’acheter tous vos livres et je compte profiter de la premiere occasion pour les lire!_”

I took leave of him, in the ante-chamber, as he went away, for he was to quit Paris the following evening.

Sir Walter Scott’s person and manner have been so often described, that you will not ask much of me, in this way, especially as I saw so little of him. His frame is large and muscular, his walk difficult, in appearance, though he boasted himself a vigorous mountaineer, and his action, in general, measured and heavy. His features and countenance were very Scottish, with the short thick nose, heavy lips, and massive cheeks. The superior or intellectual part of his head was neither deep nor broad, but perhaps the reverse, though singularly high. Indeed, it is quite uncommon to see a scull so round and tower-like in the formation, though I have met with them in individuals not at all distinguished for talents. I do not think a casual observer would find anything unusual in the exterior of Sir Walter Scott, beyond his physical force, which is great, without being at all extraordinary. His eye, however, is certainly remarkable. Gray, small, and without lustre, in his graver moments it appears to look inward, instead of regarding external objects, in a way, though the expression, more or less, belongs to abstraction, that I have never seen equalled. His smile is good-natured and social; and when he is in the mood, as happened to be the fact so often in our brief intercourse as to lead me to think it characteristic of the man, his eye would lighten with a great deal of latent fun. He spoke more freely of his private affairs than I had reason to expect, though our business introduced the subject naturally; and, at such times, I thought the expression changed to a sort of melancholy resolution, that was not wanting in sublimity.

The manner of Sir Walter Scott is that of a man accustomed to see much of the world without being exactly a man of the world himself. He has evidently great social tact, perfect self-possession, is quiet, and absolutely without pretension, and has much dignity; and yet it struck me that he wanted the ease and _àplomb_ of one accustomed to live with his equals. The fact of his being a lion, may produce some such effect, but I am mistaken if it be not more the influence of early habits and opinions than of any thing else.

Scott has been so much the mark of society, that it has evidently changed his natural manner, which is far less restrained, than it is his habit to be in the world. I do not mean by this, the mere restraint of decorum, but a drilled simplicity or demureness, like that of girls who are curbed in their tendency to fun and light-heartedness, by the dread of observation. I have seldom known a man of his years, whose manner was so different in a _tête-à-tête_, and in the presence of a third person. In Edinburgh the circle must be small, and he probably knows every one. If strangers do go there, they do not go all at once, and, of course, the old faces form the great majority; so that he finds himself always on familiar ground. I can readily imagine that in _Auld Reekie_, and among the proper set, warmed perhaps by a glass of mountain-dew, that Sir Walter Scott, in his peculiar way, is one of the pleasantest companions the world holds.

There was a certain _M. de_ —— at the _soirée_ of the _Princesse_ ——, who has obtained some notoriety as the writer of novels. I had the honour of being introduced to this person, and was much amused with one of his questions. You are to understand that the vaguest possible notions exist in France, on the subject of the United States. Empires, states, continents and islands, are blended in inextricable confusion, in the minds of a large majority of even the intelligent classes, and we sometimes hear the oddest ideas imaginable. This ignorance, quite pardonable in part, is not confined to France, by any means, but exists even in England, a country that ought to know us better. It would seem that _M. de_ ——, either because I was a shade or two whiter than himself, or because he did not conceive it possible that an American could write a book, (for in this quarter of the world, there is a strong tendency to believe that every man whose name crosses the ocean from America, is merely some European who has gone there,) or, from some cause that to me is inexplicable, took it into his head that I was an Englishman who had amused a leisure year or two in the Western Hemisphere. After asking me a few questions concerning the country, he very coolly continued—“_Et, combien de temps avez-vous passé, en Amérique, Monsieur?_” Comprehending his mistake, for a little practice here makes one quick in such matters, I answered—“_Monsieur, nous y sommes, dépuis deux siécles._” I question if M. de —— has yet recovered from his surprize!

The French, when their general cleverness is considered, are singularly ignorant of the habits, institutions, and civilization of other countries. This is in part owing to their being little addicted to travelling. Their commercial enterprize is not great; for though we occasionally see a Frenchman carrying with him into pursuits of this nature, the comprehensive views, and one might almost say, the philosophy, that distinguish the real intelligence of the country, such instances are rare, the prevailing character of their commerce being caution and close dealing. Like the people of all great nations, their attention is drawn more to themselves than to others, and then the want of a knowledge of foreign languages has greatly contributed to their ignorance. This want of knowledge of foreign languages, in a nation that has traversed Europe as conquerors, is owing to the fact that they have either carried their own language with them, or met it everywhere. It is a want, moreover, that belongs rather to the last generation, than to the present; the returned emigrants having brought back with them a taste for English, German, Italian and Spanish, which has communicated itself to all, or nearly all, the educated people of the country. English, in particular, is now very generally studied; and perhaps, relatively, more French, under thirty years of age, are to be found in Paris, who speak English, than Americans, of the same age, are to be found in New York, who speak French.

I think the limited powers of the language, and the rigid laws to which it has been subjected, contribute to render the French less acquainted with foreign nations, than they would otherwise be. In all their translations, there is an effort to render the word, however peculiar may be its meaning, into the French tongue. Thus, “township,” and “city,” met with in an American book, would probably be rendered by “_canton_,” or “_commune_,” or “_ville_;” neither of which conveys an accurate idea of the thing intended. In an English or American book, we should introduce the French word at once, which would induce the reader to inquire into the differences that exist between the minor territorial divisions of his own country, and those of the country of which he is reading. In this manner is the door opened for further information, until both writers and readers come to find it easier and more agreeable to borrow words from others, than to curtail their ideas by their national vocabularies. The French, however, are beginning to feel their poverty, in this respect, and some are already bold enough to resort to the natural cure.

The habit of thinking of other nations through their own customs, betrays the people of this country into many ridiculous mistakes. One hears, here, the queerest questions imaginable, every day; all of which, veiled by the good breeding and delicacy that characterize the nation, betray an innocent sense of superiority, that may be smiled at, and which creates no feeling of resentment. A _savan_ lately named to me the coasting tonnage of France, evidently with the expectation of exciting my admiration; and on my receiving the information coolly, he inquired, with a little sarcasm of manner—“without doubt, you have some coasting tonnage, also, in America?” “The coasting tonnage of the United States, Monsieur, is greater than the entire tonnage of France.” The man looked astonished, and I was covered with questions, as to the nature of the trade that required so much shipping, among a population numerically so small. It could not possibly be the consumption of a country—he did not say it, but he evidently thought it—so insignificant and poor? I told him, that, bread, wine, and every other article of the first necessity excepted, the other consumption of America, especially in luxuries, did not fall so much short of that of France as he imagined, owing to the great abundance in which the middling and lower classes lived. Unlike Europe, articles that were imported, were mere necessaries of life, in America, such as tea, coffee, sugar, &c., &c., the lowest labourer usually indulging in them. He left me evidently impressed with new notions, for there is a desire to learn mingled with all their vanity.

But, I will relate a laughable blunder of a translator, by way of giving you a familiar example of the manner in which the French fall into error, concerning the condition of other nations, and to illustrate my meaning. In one of the recent American novels that have been circulated here, a character is made to betray confusion, by tracing lines on the table, after dinner, with some wine that had been spilt, a sort of idle occupation sufficiently common to allow the allusion to be understood by every American. The sentence was faithfully rendered; but, not satisfied with giving his original, the translator annexes a note, in which he says, “one sees by this little trait, that the use of table-cloths, at the time of the American Revolution, was unknown in America!” You will understand the train of reasoning that led him to this conclusion. In France the cover is laid, perhaps, on a coarse table of oak, or even of pine, and the cloth is never drawn; the men leaving the table with the women. In America, the table is of highly polished mahogany, the cloth is removed, and the men sit, as in England. Now the French custom was supposed to be the custom of mankind, and wine could not be traced on the wood had there been a cloth; America was a young and semi-civilized nation, and, _ergo_, in 1779, there could have been no table-cloths known in America! When men even visit a people of whom they have been accustomed to think in this way, they use their eyes through the medium of the imagination. I lately met a French traveller who affirmed that the use of carpets was hardly known among us.

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

In my last, I gave you a few examples of the instances in which the French have mistaken the relative civilization of their country and America, and I shall now give you some in which we have fallen into the same error, or the other side of the question.

There has lately been an exhibition of articles of French manufacture, at Paris; one of, I believe, the triennial collections of this character, that have been established here. The court of the Louvre was filled with temporary booths, for the occasion, and vast ranges of the unfinished apartments in that magnificent palace have been thrown open for the same purpose. The court of the Louvre, of itself, is an area rather more than four hundred feet square, and I should think fully a quarter of a mile of rooms in the building itself are to be added to the space occupied for this purpose.

The first idea, with which I was impressed, on walking through the booths and galleries, on this occasion, was the great disproportion between the objects purely of taste and luxury, and the objects of use. The former abounded, were very generally elegant and well imagined, while the latter betrayed the condition of a nation whose civilization has commenced with the summit, instead of the base of society.

In France, nearly every improvement in machinery is the result of scientific research; is unobjectionable in principles, profound in the adaptation of its parts to the end, and commonly beautiful in form. But it ends here, rarely penetrating the mass, and producing positive results. The _conservatoire des arts_, for instance, is full of beautiful and ingenious ploughs, while France is tilled with heavy, costly and cumbrous implements of this nature. One sees light mould turning up, here, under a sort of agricultural _diligences_, drawn by four, and even six heavy horses, which in America would be done quite as well, and much sooner, by two. You know I am farmer enough to understand what I say, on a point like this. In France, the cutlery, ironware, glass, door-fastenings, hinges, locks, fire-irons, axes, hatchets, carpenter’s tools, and, in short, almost every thing that is connected with homely industry and homely comfort, is inferior to the same thing in America. It is true, many of our articles are imported, but this produces no change in the habits of the respective people; our manufactories are merely in Birmingham, instead of being in Philadelphia.

I have now been long enough in France to understand that seeing an article in an exhibition like the one I am describing, is no proof that it enters at all into the comforts and civilization of the nation, although it may be an object as homely as a harrow or a spade. The scientific part of the country has little influence, in this way, on the operative. The chasm between knowledge and ignorance is so vast in France, that it requires a long time for the simplest idea to find its way across it.

Exhibitions are every where bad guides to the average civilization of a country, as it is usual to expose only the objects that have been wrought with the greatest care. In a popular sense, they are proofs of what _can_ be done, rather than of what _is_ done. The cloths that I saw in the booths, for instance, are not to be met with in the shops; the specimens of fire-arms, glass, cutlery, &c. &c., too, are all much superior to any thing one finds on sale. But this is the case every where, from the boarding-school to the military parade, men invariably putting the best foot foremost, when they are to be especially inspected. This is not the difference I mean. Familiar, as every American, at all accustomed to the usages of genteel life in his own country, must be, with the better manufactures of Great Britain, I think he would be struck by the inferiority of even the best specimens of the commoner articles that were here laid before the public. But when it came to the articles of elegance and luxury, as connected with forms, taste and execution, though not always in ingenuity and extent of comfort, I should think that no Englishman, let his rank in life be what it would, could pass through this wilderness of elegancies, without wonder.

Even the manufactures in which we, or rather the English (for I now refer more to use than to production) ordinarily excel, such as carpets, rugs, porcelain, plate, and all the higher articles of personal comfort, _as exceptions_, surpass those of which we have any notion. I say, _as exceptions_, not in the sense by which we distinguish the extraordinary efforts of the ordinary manufacturer, in order to make a figure at an exhibition, but certain objects produced in certain exclusive establishments, that are chiefly the property of the crown, as they have been the offspring of regal taste and magnificence.

Of this latter character is the _Sêvres_ china. There are manufactures of this name, of a quality that brings them within the reach of moderate fortunes, it is true, but one obtains no idea of the length to which luxury and taste have been pushed in this branch of art, without examining the objects made especially for the king, who is in the habit of distributing them as presents among the crowned heads and his personal favourites. After the ware has been made, with the greatest care, and of the best materials, artists of celebrity are employed to paint it. You can easily imagine the value of these articles, when you remember that each plate has a design of its own, beautifully executed in colours, and presenting a landscape or an historical subject, that is fit to be framed and suspended in a gallery. One or two of the artists employed in this manner have great reputations, and it is no uncommon thing to see miniatures, in gilded frames, which, on examination, prove to be on porcelain. Of course the painting has been subject to the action of heat, in the baking. As respects the miniatures, there is not much to be said in their favour. They are well drawn and well enough coloured, but the process and the material together, give them a glossy, unnatural appearance, which must prevent them from ever being considered as more than so many _tours de force_ in the arts. But on vases, dinner setts, and all ornamental furniture of this nature, in which we look for the peculiarities of the material, they produce a magnificence of effect, that I cannot describe. Vases of the value of ten or fifteen thousand francs, or even of more money, are not uncommon, and at the exhibition there was a little table, the price of which I believe was two thousand dollars, that was a perfect treasure in its way.

Busts, and even statues, I believe, have been attempted in this branch of art. This, of course, is enlisting the statuary as well as the painter in its service. I remember to have seen, when at _Sêvres_, many busts of the late _Duc de Berri_, in the process of drying, previously to being put into the oven. Our _cicerone_, on that occasion, made us laugh, by the routine with which he went through his catalogue of wonders. He had pointed out to us the unbaked busts, in a particular room, and, on entering another apartment, where the baked busts were standing, he exclaimed—“_Ah! voilà son Altesse Royal tout cuit._” This is just the amount of the criticism I should hazard on this branch of the _Sêvres_ art, or on that which exceeds its legitimate limits—“Behold his Royal Highness, ready cooked.”

The value of some of the single plates must be very considerable, and the king, frequently, in presenting a solitary vase, or ornament of the _Sêvres_ porcelain, presents thousands.

The tapestry is another of the costly works, that it has suited the policy of France to keep up, while her ploughs, and axes, and carts, and other ordinary implements are still so primitive and awkward. The exhibition contained many specimens from the _Gobelins_, that greatly surpassed my expectations. They were chiefly historical subjects, with the figures larger than life, and might very well have passed, with a novice, at a little distance, for oil paintings. The dimensions of the apartment are taken, and the subject is designed, of course, on a scale suited to the room. The effect of this species of ornament is very noble and imposing, and the tapestries have the additional merit of warmth and comfort. Hangings in cloth are very common in Paris, but the tapestry of the _Gobelins_ is chiefly confined to the royal palaces. Our neighbour the _duc de_ ——, has some of it, however, in his hotel, a present from the king, but the colours are much faded, and the work is otherwise the worse for time. I have heard him say, that one piece he has, even in its dilapidated state, is valued at seven thousand francs. Occasionally a little of this tapestry is found, in this manner, in the great hotels; but, as a rule, its use is strictly royal.

The paper for hangings, is another article in which the French excel. We get very pretty specimens of their skill in this manufacture in America, but, with occasional exceptions, nothing that is strictly magnificent finds its way into our markets. I was much struck with some of these hangings that were made to imitate velvet. The cloth appeared to be actually incorporated with the paper, and by no ingenuity of which I was master, could I detect the means. The style of paper is common enough, every where, but this exhibition had qualities far surpassing any thing of the sort I had ever before seen. Curiosity has since led me to the paper-maker, in order to penetrate the secrets of his art, and there, like the affair of Columbus and the egg, I found the whole thing as simple as heart could wish. You will probably smile, when you learn the process by which paper is converted into velvet, which is briefly this.