Editor's Easy Chair.
Even yet the talk of Louis Napoleon, and of that audacious action which in a day transmuted our thriving sister republic, with her regularly-elected President, and her regularly-made—though somewhat tattered—Constitution, into a kind of anomalous empire, with only an army, and a Bonaparte to hold it together—is loud, in every corner of the country. It has seemed not a little strange, that the man, at whom, three years ago, every one thought it worth his while to fling a sneer, should have gathered into his hands, with such deft management, the reins of power, and absolutely out-manœuvred the bustling little Thiers, and the bold-acting Cavaignac.
Old travelers are recalling their recollection of the spruce looking gentleman, in white kids, and with unexceptionable beaver, who used to saunter with one or two mustached companions along Pall-Mall; and who, some three months after, in even more recherche costume, used to take his morning drive, with four-in-hand, upon the asphalte surface of the Paris avenues. There seemed really nothing under cover of his finesse in air and garb which could work out such long-reaching strategy as he has just now shown us.
Belabor him as we will, with our honest republican anathemas, there must yet have been no small degree of long-sightedness belonging to the man who could transform a government in a day; and who could have laid such finger to the pulse of a whole army of Frenchmen, as to know their heart-bound to a very fraction.
The truth is, the French, with the impulse of a quick-blooded race, admire audacity of any sort; and what will call a shout, will, in nine cases out of ten, call a welcome. It is not a little hard for a plain, matter-of-fact American to conceive of the readiness with which the French army, and all the myrmidons of that glowing republican power, shift their allegiance—as obedient as an opera chorus to the wink of the maestro.
We can ourselves recall the memory of a time when that Changarnier, who is now a lion in fetters, held such rule over Paris military and Paris constabulary, that a toss of his thumb would send half the representatives to prison; and now, there is not so much as a regiment who would venture a wail for his losses. This offers sad comment on the “thinking capacity” of bayonets!
What shall we suppose of these hundred thousand scene-shifters in the red pantaloons? Are they worked upon merely by the Napoleonic champagne to a change of views; or are they tired of a sham Republic, and willing to take instead a sham Empire; or have they grown political economists, with new appreciation of government stability, and a long-sighted eagerness to secure tranquillity? Or, is not the humbler truth too patent, that their opinions herd together by a kind of brute sympathy, and are acted upon by splendor—whether of crime or of munificence; and, moreover, is it not too clear that those five hundred thousand men who prop the new dynasty with bayonets, are without any sort of what we call moral education, and rush to every issue like herds of wild bison—guided solely by instinct?
And would not a little of that sort of education which sets up school-houses, and spreads newspapers, and books, and Harper's Magazines like dew over the length and the breadth of our land, do more toward the healing of that sick French nation, than the prettiest device of Constitution, or the hugest five-sous bath-house? Ah, well-a-day, we shall have little hope for la belle France, until her army shows intelligence, and her statesmen honesty.
We can hardly give this current topic the go-by, without bringing to our reader's eye a happy summing up of suppositions in the columns of Punch, and if our listener will only read Congressional for Parliamentary, and the Bentons and the Casses for the Grahames and the Gladstones, he may form a very accurate idea of a Napoleon-Mr.-Fillmore.
Suppose the head of the Executive, or the Minister for the time being, were to take it into his head one morning to abolish the Houses of Parliament.—Suppose some of the members elected by large constituencies were to think it a duty to go and take their seats, and were to be met at the doors by swords and bayonets, and were to be wounded and taken off to prison for the attempt.—Suppose the Minister, having been harassed by a few Parliamentary debates and discussions, were to send off to Newgate or the House of Correction a few of the most eminent members of the Opposition, such as the Disraelis, the Grahames, the Gladstones, the Barings, and a sprinkling of the Humes, the Wakleys, the Walmsleys, the Cobdens, and the Brights.—Suppose the press having been found not to agree with the policy of the Minister, he were to peremptorily stop the publication of the Times, Herald, Chronicle, Post, Advertiser, Daily News, Globe, &c., &c., and limit the organs of intelligence to the Government Gazette, or one or two other prints that would write or omit just what he, the Minister, might please.—Suppose, when it occurred to the public that these measures were not exactly in conformity with the law, the Minister were to go or send some soldiers down to Westminster Hall, shut up the Courts, send the Lord Chancellor about his business, and tell Lords Campbell, Cranworth, and all the rest of the high judicial authorities, to make the best of their way home.—Suppose a few Members of Parliament were to sign a protest against these proceedings; and suppose the documents were to be torn down by soldiers, and the persons signing them packed off to Coldbath Fields or Pentonville.—Suppose all these things were to happen with a Parliament elected by Universal Suffrage, and under a Republican form of Government[.]—And lastly—Suppose we were to be told that this sort of thing is liberty, and what we ought to endeavor to get for our own country;—Should we look upon the person telling us so, as a madman, or a knave, or both? and should we not be justified in putting him as speedily, and as unceremoniously as possible—outside our doors?
In our last easy chat with our readers, we sketched in an off-hand way the current of the Kossuth talk; and we hinted that our enthusiasm had its fevers and chills; so far as the talk goes, a chilliness has come over the town since the date of our writing—an unworthy and ungracious chill—but yet the natural result of a little over-idolatry. As for Congressional action, no apology can be found, either in moderation or good sense, for the doubtful and halting welcome which has been shown the great Hungarian.
The question of Government interference in his national quarrel was one thing; but the question of a welcome to a distinguished and suffering stranger was quite another. The two, however, have been unfortunately mingled; and a rude and vulgar effort has been made to prejudge his mission, by affronting him as a guest. We may be strong enough to brave Russia, and its hordes of Cossacks; but no country is strong enough to trample on the laws of hospitality [pg 419] We see the hint thrown out in some paper of the day, that the slackened sympathy for Kossuth, in Washington, is attributable mainly to the influence of the diplomatic circles of that city. We fear there may be a great deal of truth in this hint: our enthusiasm finds volume in every-day chit-chat, and dinner-table talk; it lives by such fat feeding as gossip supplies; and gossip finds its direction in the salons of the most popular of entertainers.
Washington has a peculiar and shifting social character—made up in its winter elements of every variety of manner and of opinion. This manner and these opinions, however, are very apt to revolve agreeably to what is fixed at the metropolis; and since the diplomatic circles of the capital are almost the only permanent social foci of habit and gossip, it is but natural there should be a convergence toward their action. The fact is by no means flattering; but we greatly fear that it is pointed with a great deal of truth.
Our readers will observe, however, that we account in this way only for the slackened tone of talk, and of salon enthusiasm; nor do we imagine that any parlor influences whatever of the capital can modify to any considerable degree, either legislative, or moral action.
Of Paris, now that she has fallen again into one, of her political paroxysms, there is little gayety to be noted. And yet it is most surprising how that swift-blooded people will play the fiddle on the barricades! Never—the papers tell us—were the receptions at the Elysée more numerously attended, and never were the dresses richer, or the jewels more ostentatiously displayed.
Some half dozen brilliant soirées were, it seems, on the tapis at the date of Louis Napoleon's manœuvre; the invitations had been sent, and upon the evenings appointed—a week or more subsequent to the turn of the magic lantern—the guests presented themselves before closed doors. The occupants and intended hosts were, it seems, of that timid class living along the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Faubourg St. Germain, who imagined themselves, their titles, and their wealth, safer under the wing of King Leopold of Belgium, than under the shadow of the new-feathered eagle. A thriving romance or two, they say, belonged to the quiet movements of the Republic. Thus, the papers make us a pleasant story out of Cavaignac and his prospective bride, Mademoiselle Odier. And if we furbish up for the reading of our country clients, we venture to say that we shall keep as near the truth as one half of the letter-writers.
For two or three years, it seems that General Cavaignac has been a constant visitor at the house of the rich banker, M. Odier, He was regarded as a friend of the family, and wore the honors of a friend; that is to say, he had such opportunities of conversation, and for attention in respect to the daughter of the house, as is rarely accorded to Paris ladies in their teens. The General looks a man of fifty—he may be less; but he has a noble carriage, a fine face, and a manner full of dignity and gentleness. The pretty blonde (for Mlle. Odier is so described), was not slow to appreciate the captivating qualities of the General. Moreover, there belonged to her character a romantic tinge, which was lighted up by the story of the General's bravery, and of the dauntless way in which he bore himself through the murderous days of June. In short, she liked him better than she thought.
The General, on the other hand, somewhat fixed in his bachelor habitude, and counting himself only a fatherly friend, who could not hope, if he dared, to quicken any livelier interest—wore imperturbably the dignity and familiarity of his first manner.
One day—so the story runs—conversation turned upon a recent marriage, in which the bridegroom was some thirty years the lady's senior. The General in round, honest way, inveighed against the man as a deceiver of innocence, and avowed strongly his belief that such inequality of age was not only preposterous, but wicked.
Poor Mademoiselle Odier!—her fond heart feeding so long blindly on hope, lighted by romance and love, could not bear the sudden shock. She grew pale—paler still, and, to the surprise of the few friends who were present—fainted.
Even yet the General lived in ignorance; and would perhaps have died in ignorance, had not some kind friend made known to him the state of Mlle[.] Odier's feelings. The General was too gallant a man to be conquered in loving; and the issue was, in a week, an acknowledged troth of the banker's daughter with the General Cavaignac.
Upon the evening preceding the change of the Republic, they were together—father, daughter, and lover—at the first presentation of a new play. The marriage was fixed for the week to come. But in view of the unsettled state of affairs, the General advised a postponement. The next morning he was a prisoner, on his way to Ham.
He wrote—the gossips tell us—a touching letter to Mademoiselle Odier, giving up all claim upon her, as a prisoner, which he had so proudly boasted while free, and assuring her of his unabated devotion.
She wrote—the gossips tell us—that he was dearer to her now than ever.
So the matter stands; with the exception that Cavaignac has been freed, and that the day of marriage is again a matter of consultation.
May they have a long life, and a happy one—longer and happier than the life of the Republic!
The drawing of the “Lottery of Gold” was the event of Paris which preceded the coup-d'état. Some seven millions of tickets had been sold at a franc each; and the highest prize was, if we mistake not, a sum equal to a hundred thousand dollars. Interest was of course intense; and the National Circus, where the lots were drawn, was crowded to its utmost capacity. The papers give varying accounts as to the fortunate holder of the ticket drawing the first prize, one account represents her as a poor washerwoman, and another, as a street porter. A story is told of one poor fellow who, by a mistaken reading of one figure, imagined himself the fortunate possessor of the fortune. He invited his friends to a feast, and indulged in all sorts of joyous folly. The quick revulsion of feeling, when the truth appeared, was too much for the poor fellow's brain, and he is now in the mad-house.
Another equally unfortunate issue is reported of a poor seamstress, who had spent the earnings of years, amounting to six or seven hundred francs, upon the chance of a prize, and drew—nothing. She, too, has lost both money and mind. The affair, however, has had the fortunate result of taming down wild expectancies, and of destroying the taste for such labor hating schemes of profit. It were devoutly to be hoped, that a little of the distaste for moneyed lotteries, would breed a distaste in the French mind for political lotteries.
As for affairs at home, they budge on in much the old fashion. The town is not over-gay—partly through fatigues of last winter, which are not yet wholly forgotten—partly through a little Wall-street depletion, [pg 420] and partly through the ugly weather, which has sown catarrhs and coughs with a very liberal hand.
Poor Jenny Lind—true to her native tenderness of heart, has yielded up the closing scenes of what would have been a glorious triumph, to the grief at a mother's death. She goes away from us mourning, and she leaves behind her a nation of mourners!
The opera is to tinkle in our ears again—with the symphony of Steffanone, Benedetti, and the rest. The town takes music quietly this winter, and the old fashion of listening has almost grown into a habit of appreciation. The town is building up into a Paris-sided company of streets; and the seven stories of freestone and marble will soon darken down Broadway into a European duskiness of hue. The street lights glimmer on such nights as the almanac tells no story of the moon; and on other nights we draggle as we may, between clouds and rain—consoling ourselves with the rich city economy, and hopeful of some future and freer dispensation—of gas.
For want of some piquancy, which our eye does not catch in the French journals, we sum up our chit-chat with this pleasant whim-wham of English flavor:
My man Davis is a bit of a character. If he's not up to a thing or two, I should like to know who is. I am often puzzled to know how a man who has seen so much of life as he has should condescend to have “no objection to the country,” and to take service with a retired linen-draper, which I am. I keep a dog-cart, and, not being much of a whip, Davis generally drives. He has some capital stories; at least I think so; but perhaps it is his manner of telling them; or perhaps I'm very easily pleased. However, here's one of them.
how mr. coper sold a horse.
“Mr. Coper, as kept the Red Lion Yard, in —— street, was the best to sell a horse I ever know'd, sir; and I know'd some good 'uns, I have; but he was the best. He'd look at you as tho' butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and his small wall-eyes seemed to have no more life in 'em than a dead whiting's. My master, Capt. ——, stood his hosses there, and, o' course, I saw a good deal of Mr. Coper. One day a gent came to look at the stable, and see if he could buy a hoss. Coper saw in a minute that he knew nothing about horseflesh, and so was uncommon civil. The first thing he showed him was a great gray coach-hoss, about seventeen hands and a inch, with a shoulder like a Erkilus.”
“I suppose you mean Hercules?”
“I suppose I do, sir. The gent was a little man so, o' course, the gray was taken in agen, and a Suffolk Punch cob, that 'ud a done for a bishop, was then run up the yard. But, lor! the little gent's legs 'ud never have been of any use to him; they'd a' stuck out on each side like a curricle-bar—so he wouldn't do. Coper showed him three or four others—good things in their way, but not at all suited to the gent. At last Coper says to him, with a sort of sigh, ‘Well, sir, I'm afear'd we shan't make a deal of it to-day, sir; you're very particular, as you've a right to be, and I'll look about, and if I can find one that I think 'll do, I'll call on you.’ By this time he had walked the gent down the stable to opposite a stall where was a brown hoss, fifteen hands or about, ‘Now there 'ud be the thing to suit you, sir,’ says he, ‘and I only wish I could find one like him.’ ‘Why can't I have him?’ says the gent. ‘Impossible,’ says Coper. ‘Why impossible?’ says the gent. ‘Because he's Mrs. Coper's hoss, and money wouldn't buy him of her; he's perfect, and she knows it.’ ‘Well,’ says the gent, getting his steam up, ‘I don't mind price’ ‘What's money to peace of mind?’ says Coper. ‘If I was to sell that hoss, my missis would worry my life out.’ Well, sir, the more Coper made a difficulty of selling the hoss, the more the gent wanted to buy, till at last Coper took him to a coach-hus, as tho' to be private, and said to him in a whisper, ‘Well, tell you what I'll do: I'll take ninety pounds for him; perhaps he's not worth that to every body, but I think he is to you, who wants a perfect thing, and ready-made for you.’ ‘You're very kind,’ said the gent, ‘and I'll give you a check at once.’ ‘But, mind,’ says Coper, ‘you must fetch him away at night; for if my missus saw him going out of the yard, I do believe she'd pull a life-guardsman off him. How I shall pacify her I don't know! Ninety pounds! why, ninety pounds won't pay me for the rows; leave alone the hoss!’
“The gent quite thought Coper was repenting of the bargain, and so walked away to the little countin'-house, and drew a check for the money. When he was gone, I burst out a-laughin'; because I know'd Mrs. Coper was as mild as a bran-mash, and 'ud never a' dared to blow up her husband; but Coper wouldn't have it—he looked as solemn as truth. Well, sir, the horse was fetched away that night.”
“But why at night, Davis?”
“Because they shouldn't see his good qualities all at once, I suppose, sir; for he'd got the Devonshire coat-of-arms on his off knee.”
“Devonshire coat-of-arms?”
“Yes, sir; you see Devonshire's a very hilly country, and most of the hosses down there has broken knees, so they calls a speck the Devonshire coat-of-arms. Well, sir, as Mrs. Coper's pet shied at every thing and nothing, and bolted when he warn't a-shieing, the gent came back in about a week to Coper.
“ ‘Mr. Coper,’ says he, ‘I can't get on with that hoss at all—perhaps I don't know how to manage him; he goes on so odd that I'am afraid to ride him; so I thought, as he was such a favorite with Mrs. Coper, you should have him back again.’
“ ‘Not if you'd give me ninety pounds to do it,’ says Coper, looking as tho' he was a-going to bite the gent.
“ ‘Why not?’ says the gent.
“ ‘I wouldn't go through what I have gone through,’ says Coper, hitting the stable-door with his fist enough to split it, ‘not for twice the money. Mrs. Coper never left off rowing for two days and nights, and how I should a' stopped her, I don't know, if luck hadn't stood my friend; but I happened to meet with a hoss the very moral of the one you've got, only perhaps just a leetle better, and Mrs. C. took to him wonderful. I wouldn't disturb our domestic harmony by having that hoss of yourn back again, not for half the Bank of England.’ Now the gent was a very tender-hearted man, and believed all that Coper told him, and kept the hoss; but what he did with him I can't think, for he was the wiciousest screw as ever put his nose in a manger.”