Part 5

To be frank with you, so great is the superiority of the French actors, in _vaudevilles_, the light opera, and genteel comedy, that I fear I have lost my taste for the English stage. Of tragedy I say nothing, for I cannot enter into the poetry of the country at all, but, in all below it, these people, to my taste, are immeasurably our superiors; and by _ours_, you know I include the English stage. The different lines here, are divided among the different theatres, so that if you wish to laugh, you can go to the _Variétés_; to weep, to the _Théâtre Français_; or, to gape, to the _Odeon_. At the _Porte St. Martin_, one finds vigorous touches of national character, and at the _Gymnase_, the fashionable place of resort, just at this moment, national traits polished by convention. Besides these, there are many other theatres, not one of which, in its way, can be called less than tolerable.

One can say but little in favour of the morals of too many of the pieces represented here. In this particular there is a strange obliquity of reason, arising out of habitual exaggeration of feeling, that really seems to disqualify most of the women, even, from perceiving what is monstrous, provided it be sentimental and touching. I was particularly advised, to go to the _Théâtre Madame_ to see a certain piece, by a _côterie_ of very amiable women, whom I met the following night at a house where we all regularly resorted, once a week. On entering, they eagerly inquired if “I had not been charmed, fascinated; if any thing could be better played, or more touching?” Better played it could not easily be, but I had been so shocked with the moral of the piece, that I could scarcely admire the acting. “The moral! This was the first time they had heard it questioned.” I was obliged to explain. A certain person had been left the protector of a friend’s daughter, then an infant. He had the child educated as his sister, and she grew to be a woman, ignorant of her real origin. In the mean time, she has offers of marriage, all of which she unaccountably refuses. In fine, she was secretly cherishing a passion for her guardian _and supposed brother_; an explanation is had, they marry, and the piece closes. I objected to the probability of a well educated young woman’s falling in love with a man old enough to be selected as her guardian, when she was an infant, and against whom there existed the trifling objection of his being her own brother. “But, he was _not_ her brother—not even a relative.” “True; but she _believed_ him to be her brother.” “And nature—do you count nature as nothing—a _secret sentiment_ told her he was not her brother.” “And use, and education, and an _open sentiment_, and all the world, told her he was. Such woman was guilty of a revolting indelicacy and a heinous crime, and no exaggerated representation of love, a passion of great purity in itself, can ever do away with the shocking realities of such a case.”

I found no one to agree with me. He was _not_ her brother, and though his tongue, and all around her, told her he was, her heart, that infallible guide, told her the truth. What more could any reasonable man ask?

It was _à propos_ of this play, and of my objection to this particular feature of it, that an exceedingly clever French woman laughingly told me she understood there was no such thing as love in America. That a people, of manners as artificial as the French, should suppose that others, under the influence of the cold formal exterior which the puritans have entailed on so large a portion of the republic, were without strong feeling, is not altogether as irrational as may at first appear. Art, in ordinary deportment, is both cause and effect. That which we habitually affect to be, gets, in the end, to be so incorporated with our natural propensities, as to form a part of the real man. We all know that by discipline we can get the mastery of our strongest passions, and, on the other hand, by yielding to them and encouraging them, that they soon get the mastery over us. Thus do a highly artificial people, fond of, and always seeking, high excitement, come, in time, to feel it, artificially, as it were, by natural impulses.

I have mentioned the anecdote of the play, because I think it characteristic of a tone of feeling that is quite prevalent among a large class of the French, though I am far from saying there is not a class who would, at once, see the grave sacrifice of principle that is involved, in building up the sentiments of a fiction on such a foundation of animal instinct. I find, on recollection, however, that Miss Lee, in one of her Canterbury Tales, has made the love of her plot hinge on a very similar incident. Surely, she must have been under the influence of some of the German monstrosities that were so much in vogue, about the time she wrote, for even Juvenal would scarcely have imagined any thing worse, as the subject of his satire.

You will get a better idea of the sentimentalism that more or less influences the tastes of this country, however, if I tell you that the ladies of the _côterie_, in which the remarks on the amorous sister were made, once gravely discussed, in my presence, the question whether Madame de Stael was right or wrong, in causing _Corinne_ to go through certain sentimental _experiences_, as our canters call it at home, on a clouded day, instead of choosing one on which the sun was bright; or, _vice versâ_; for I really forget whether it was on the “windy side” of sensibility, or not, that the daughter of Neckar was supposed to have erred.

The first feeling is that of surprise at finding a people so artificial in their ordinary deportment, so chaste and free from exaggeration in their scenic representations of life. But reflection will show us that all finish has the effect of bringing us within the compass of severe laws, and that the high taste which results from cultivation repudiates all excess of mere manner. The simple fact is, that an educated Frenchman is a great actor all the while, and that when he goes on the stage, he has much less to do, to be perfect, than an Englishman who has drilled himself into coldness, or an American who looks upon strong expressions of feeling as affectation. When the two latter commence the business of playing assumed parts, they consider it as a new occupation, and go at it so much in earnest, that every body sees they are acting.[5]

Footnote 5:

Mr. Mathews and Mr. Power were the nearest to the neat acting of France of any male English performers the writer ever saw. The first sometimes permitted himself to be led astray, by the caricatures he was required to represent, and by the tastes of his audience; but the latter, so far as the writer has seen him, appears determined to be chaste, come what, come will.

You will remember, I say nothing in favour of the French tragic representations. When a great and an intellectual nation, like France, unites to applaud images and sentiments, that are communicated through their own peculiar forms of speech, it becomes a stranger to distrust his own knowledge, rather than their taste. I dare say that were I more accustomed to the language, I might enjoy Corneille and Racine, and even Voltaire, for I can now greatly enjoy Molière; but, to be honest in the matter, all reciters of heroic French poetry appear to me to depend on a pompous declamation, to compensate for the poverty of the idioms, and the want of nobleness in the expressions. I never heard any one, poet or actor, he who read his own verses, or he who repeated those of others, who did not appear to mouth, and all their tragic playing has had the air of being on stilts. Napoleon has said from the sublime to the ridiculous it is but a step. This is much truer in France than in most other countries, for the sublime is commonly so sublimated, that it will admit of no great increase. Racine, in a most touching scene, makes one of his heroic characters offer to wipe off the tears of a heroine lest they should discolour her _rouge_! I had a classmate at college, who was so very ultra courtly in his language, that he never forgot to say Mr. Julius Cæsar, and Mr. Homer.

There exists a perfect mania for letters throughout Europe, in this “piping time of peace.” Statesmen, soldiers, peers, princes and kings, hardly think themselves _illustrated_, until each has produced his book. The world never before saw a tithe of the names of people of condition, figuring in the catalogues of its writers. “Some thinks he writes Cinna; he owns to Panurge,” applies to half the people one meets in society. I was at dinner lately, given by the Marquis de ——, when the table was filled with peers, generals, ex-ministers, ex-ambassadors, naturalists, philosophers and statesmen of all degrees. Casting my eyes round the circle, I was struck with the singular prevalence of the _cacœthes scribendi_, among so many men of different educations, antecedents, and pursuits. There was a soldier present who had written on taste, a politician on the art of war, a _diplomate_ who had dabbled in poetry, and a jurist who pretended to enlighten the world in ethics. It was the drollest assemblage in the world, and suggested many queer associations, for, I believe, the only man at table, who had not dealt in ink, was an old Lieutenant-General, who sat by me, and who, when I alluded to the circumstance, strongly felicitated himself that he had escaped the mania of the age, as it was an _illustration_ of itself. Among the _convives_ were Cuvier, Villemain, Daru, and several others who are almost as well known to science and letters.

Half the voluntary visits I receive, are preceded by a volume of some sort or other, as a token of my new acquaintance being a regularly initiated member of the fraternity of the quill. In two or three instances, I have been surprised at subsequently discovering that the regular profession of the writer is arms, or some other pursuit, in which one would scarcely anticipate so strong a devotion to letters. In short, such is the actual state of opinion in Europe, that one is hardly satisfied with any amount, or any quality of glory, until it is consummated by that of having written a book. Napoleon closed his career with the quill, and his successor was hardly on his throne, before he began to publish. The principal officers of the Empire, and _emigrés_ without number, have fairly set to work as so many disinterested historians, and even a lady, who, by way of abbreviation, is called “The Widow of the Grand Army,” is giving us regularly volumes, whose eccentricities and periodicity, as the astronomers say, can be reduced to known laws, by the use of figures.

In the middle ages golden spurs were the object of every man’s ambition. Without them, neither wealth, nor birth, nor power was properly esteemed; and, at the present time, passing from the lance to the pen, from the casque and shield, to the inkpot and fool’s cap, we all seek a passport from the order of Letters. Does this augur good or evil, for the world? The public press of France is conducted with great spirit and talents, on all sides. It has few points in common with our own, beyond the mere fact of its general character. In America, a single literary man, putting the best face on it, enters into a compact with some person of practical knowledge, a printer, perhaps, and together they establish a newspaper, the mechanical part of which is confided to the care of the latter partner, and the intellectual to the former. In the country, half the time, the editor is no other than the printer himself, the division of labour not having yet reached even this important branch of industry. But looking to the papers that are published in the towns, one man of letters is a luxury about an American print. There are a few instances in which there are two, or three; but, generally, the subordinates are little more than scissor’s men. Now, it must be apparent, at a glance, that no one individual can keep up the character of a daily print, of any magnitude; the drain on his knowledge and other resources being too great. This, I take it, is the simple reason why the press of America ranks no higher than it does. The business is too much divided; too much is required, and this, too, in a country where matters of grave import are of rare occurrence, and in which the chief interests are centered in the vulgar concerns of mere party politics, with little or no connection with great measures, or great principles. You have only to fancy the superior importance that attaches to the views of powerful monarchs, the secret intrigues of courts, on whose results, perhaps, depend the fortunes of Christendom, and the serious and radical principles that are dependent on the great changes of systems that are silently working their way, in this part of the world, and which involve material alterations in the very structure of society, to get an idea of how much more interest a European journal, _ceteris paribus_, must be, compared to an American journal, by the nature of its facts alone. It is true that we get a portion of these facts, as light finally arrives from the remoter stars, but mutilated, and necessarily shorn of much of their interest, by their want of importance to our own country. I had been in Europe some time, before I could fully comprehend the reason why I was ignorant of so many minor points of its political history, for, from boyhood up, I had been an attentive reader of all that touched this part of the world, as it appeared in our prints. By dint of inquiry, however, I believe I have come at the fact. The winds are by no means as regular as the daily prints; and it frequently happens, especially in the winter and spring months, that five or six packets arrive nearly together, bringing with them the condensed intelligence of as many weeks. Now, newspaper finders notoriously seek the latest news, and in the hurry and confusion of reading and selecting, and bringing out, to meet the wants of the day, many of the connecting links are lost, readers get imperfect notions of men and things, and, from a want of a complete understanding of the matter, the mind gives up, without regret, the little and unsatisfactory knowledge it had so casually obtained. I take it, this is a principal cause of the many false notions that exist among us, on the subject of Europe and its events.

In France, a paper is established by a regular subscription of capital; a principal editor is selected, and he is commonly supported, in the case of a leading journal, by four or five paid assistants. In addition to this formidable corps, many of the most distinguished men of France are known to contribute freely to the columns of the prints in the interest of their cause.

The laws of France compel a journal that has admitted any statement involving facts, concerning an individual, to publish his reply, that the antidote may meet the poison. This is a regulation that we might adopt with great advantage to truth and the character of the country.

There is not, at this moment, within my knowledge, a single critical literary journal, of received authority, in all France. This is a species of literature to which the French pay but little attention, just now, although many of the leading daily prints contain articles on the principal works, as they appear.

By the little that has come under my observation, I should say the fraudulent and disgusting system of puffing and of abusing, as interest or pique dictates, is even carried to a greater length in France, than it is in either England or America. The following anecdote, which relates to myself, may give you some notion of the _modus operandi_.

All the works I had written previously to coming to Europe, had been taken from the English editions, and translated, appearing simultaneously with their originals. Having an intention to cause a new book to be printed in English, in Paris, for the sake of reading the proofs, the necessity was felt of getting some control over the translation, lest, profiting by the interval necessary to send the sheets home to be reprinted, it might appear as the original book. I knew that the sheets of previous books had been purchased in England, and I accordingly sent a proposition to the publishers, that the next bargain should be made with me. Under the impression that an author’s price would be asked, they took the alarm, and made difficulties. Finding me firm, and indisposed to yield to some threats of doing as they pleased, the matter was suspended for a few days. Just at this moment, I received, through the post, a single number of an obscure newspaper, whose existence, until then, was quite unknown to me. Surprised at such an attention, I was curious to know the contents. The journal contained an article on my merits and demerits as a writer, the latter being treated with a good deal of freedom. When one gets a paper, in this manner, containing abuse of himself, he is pretty safe in believing its opinions dishonest. But I had even better evidence than common, in this particular case, for I happened to be extolled for the manner in which I had treated the character of Franklin, a personage whose name even had never appeared in anything I had written. This, of course, settled the character of the critique, and the next time I saw the individual who had acted as agent in the negotiation just mentioned, I gave him the paper, and told him I was half disposed to raise my price on account of the pitiful manœuvre it contained. We had already come to terms, the publishers finding that the price was little more than nominal, and the answer was a virtual conclusion that the article was intended to affect my estimate of the value of the intended work in France, and to bring me under subjection to the critics.[6]

Footnote 6:

The writer suffers this anecdote to stand as it was written nine years since; but since his return home, he has discovered that we are in no degree behind the French in the corruption and frauds that render the pursuits of a writer one of the most humiliating and revolting in which a man of any pride of character can engage, unless he resolutely maintains his independence, a temerity that is certain to be resented by all those, who, unequal to going alone in the paths of literature, seek their ends by clinging to those who can, either as pirates or robbers.

I apprehend that few books are brought before the public in France, dependent only on their intrinsic merits, and the system of intrigue, which predominates in every thing, is as active in this as in other interests.

In France, a book that penetrates to the provinces, may be said to be popular; and, as for a book coming _from_ the provinces, it is almost unheard of. The despotism of the trade, on this point, is unyielding. Paris appears to deem itself the arbiter in all matters of taste and literature, and it is almost as unlikely that a new fashion should come from Lyons, or Bordeaux, or Marseilles, as that a new work should be received with favour, that was published in either of those towns. The approbation of Paris is indispensable, and the publishers of the capital, assisted by their paid corps of puffers and detractors, are sufficiently powerful to prevent that potent public, to whom all affect to defer, from judging for itself.

We have lately had a proof, here, of the unwillingness of the Parisians to permit others to decide for them, in any thing relating to taste, in a case that refers to us Americans. Madame Malibran arrived from America a few months since. In Europe she was unknown, but the great name of her father stood her in stead. Unluckily, it was whispered that she had met with great success in America. America! and this, too, in conjunction with music and the opera! The poor woman was compelled to appear under the disadvantage of having brought an American reputation with her, and, seriously, this single fact went nigh to destroy her fortunes. Those wretches who, as Coleridge expresses it, are “animalculæ, who live by feeding on the body of genius,” affected to be displeased, and the public hesitated, at their suggestions, about accepting an artist from the “colonies,” as they still have the audacity to call the great Republic. I have no means of knowing what sacrifices were made to the petty tyrants of the press, before this woman, who has the talents necessary to raise her to the summit of her profession, was enabled to gain the favour of a “_generous and discerning public_.”!

LETTER V. TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQUIRE, ALBANY.

We have been the residents of a French village ever since the first of June, and it is now drawing to the close of October. We had already passed the greater part of a summer, an entire autumn, winter and spring, within the walls of Paris, and then we thought we might indulge our tastes a little, by retreating to the fields, to catch a glimpse of country life. You will smile when I add that we are only a league from the _Barrière de Clichy_. This is the reason I have not before spoken of the removal, for we are in town three or four times every week, and never miss an occasion, when there is any thing to be seen. I shall now proceed, however, to let you into the secret of our actual situation.

I passed the month of May examining the environs of the capital in quest of a house. As this was an agreeable occupation, we were in no hurry, but having set up my _cabriolet_, we killed two birds with one stone, by making ourselves familiarly acquainted with nearly every village, or hamlet, within three leagues of Paris, a distance beyond which I did not wish to go.

On the side of St. Cloud, which embraces Passy, Auteuil, and all the places that encircle the _Bois de Boulogne_, the Hyde Park of Paris, there are very many pleasant residences, but, from one cause or another, no one suited us, exactly, and we finally took a house in the village of St. Ouen, the Runnymeade of France. When Louis XVIII. came, in 1814, to his capital, in the rear of the allies, he stopped for a few days at St Ouen, a league from the barriers, where there was a small _château_ that was the property of the crown. Here he was met by M. de Talleyrand and others, and hence he issued the celebrated charter, that is to render France, forevermore, a constitutional country.