The American in Paris; vol. 2 of 2

by John Sanderson

I was guilty (no easy matter in Paris), of an act of uncommon foolishness, in going to see this execution. The French way is so elegant and classic—it is none of your vulgar hangings on a gibbet, with a fellow creeping like a spider up the gallows, or the chopping off a head upon a block, as a butcher does a pig’s. The guillotine is itself a piece of ingenious mechanism, and the executioner a gentleman; he wears white gloves, and is called “Monsieur de Paris.” So, I went with other amateurs, and I have seen nothing but men without heads ever since.

For a change, I went this morning to the Chamber of Deputies. Don’t you want to know something of this great council of the nation? I shall be glad if you do, for I have nothing else of sufficient dignity to come after this paragraph.

This is the French House of Commons. It has been in session these two months, and holds its meetings in one of the great architectural monuments of the capital, the Palais Bourbon. At its entrance, you will see four colossal statues upon curule seats, Sully, Colbert, Hopital and d’Aguesseau. The chamber is lighted from above, and is semi-circular, having at the centre a tribune just in front of the President’s Chair, and over-head the reporters. The members are ranged according to their parties, on seats rising in amphitheatre. On the very left, or extreme gauche, are the Liberals; and on the right, or extreme droit, are the extreme Royalists; the hues of each party softening gradually, and blending as they recede from the extremes. On a gallery overhead are the spectators of both sexes.

The reading of speeches, which is common, and mounting the Tribune, even for a short remark, are precautions taken against eloquence. I have heard that attempts are often made by several persons to speak at once, or to preoccupy the tribune to the great disturbance of order. Persons are seen discoursing, generally with great animation, during the orator’s speech. When there is a little too much noise the president taps with his paper-knife on the desk, and when a little more, he rings a bell; when this fails, he puts on his hat. The constant assent or dissent expressed at nearly every sentence, seems to me to touch upon the ridiculous—it drives all one’s classic notions of a senate out of one’s head. It is, perhaps, a necessary safeguard against being talked to death by some stupid and loquacious member, as happens occasionally in other countries.

The great man of the chamber is, at present, Thiers, Minister of the Interior. He is seldom at a loss for sense, and never for words; but neither his face nor his manner has any thing of eloquence. He is merely a facetious talker, and is nearly as expert at a bon mot, as the old Prince Talleyrand himself—a kind of merit that makes its fortune more readily at Paris than elsewhere. He is said also to emulate the great diplomatist in the flexibility of his politics; having the same skill of being always of the strong party, without compromising his principles.

In society he is a good actor, and plays with grave diplomatists, or with little girls of fifteen, and pleases both. Not the least essential of his qualifications, is a revenue of two or three hundred thousand livres, which he has had the discretion to make, the gossiping world says, from his position of minister, by gambling in the stocks.

That censorial tribunal, which is called public opinion, and which forces a man in the United States sometimes to be honest against his will, is scarce known in this country. Indeed, I have not seen that any vice renders a man publicly infamous here, except it be giving bad dinners. On the other hand, they have one virtue, which I believe does not exist in the same degree amongst the statesmen of other countries—they are not so barefaced as to commend one another’s honesty. Every body cries up parts, and poor honesty has not a rag to her back. Guizot, who is also minister of something, made a speech ethical and pedagogical, about education. He is the opposite of Thiers, of a stern and inflexible nature, and has an air of solemnity in his face; you would think he had just arrived from the Holy Land. He decomposes and analyses till he is blinded in the smoke of his own furnace. He is the great type of the “Doctrinaires.” Though he does not throw his wisdom in every one’s face, he has few equals in facility. After translating Gibbon, and writing several volumes on the English Revolution, he may well claim some praise for this quality. He has been for several years a leader; but I have heard he is lately, for I know not which of his virtues, of less influence in the House. He and the Doctrinaires have the odium of the rigid censorships set up a few months since against the Press.

The other greatest men are De Broglie, Minister of Foreign Affairs; Barrot, Mauguin, and Dupin the President. The last is ranked amongst the most eloquent of the French speakers. I have not heard him in any thing but the ringing of the bell. But the great ornament of French eloquence, at the bar, and in the tribune, is Berryer. He has an exceedingly happy physiognomy; a broad and high brow, shaded with jet black hair; a bland and persuasive expression of the mouth, and his voice is grave and impressive. The French generally impair the strength and dignity of their oratory by too much action; Berryer in this is economical and prudent. Though leader en chef of the Legitimists, he defended strenuously Cambron and Marshal Ney. He spoke also against the American Indemnity, and gave us very little reason to be satisfied with his eloquence.

I must tell you that the great staple of conversation here at present, is abuse of America, and that every thing looks warlike.—I heard a member of the Deputies say: “There are not ten men in the chamber who believe in the justice of your claims; we have been inveigled into the acknowledgment by our king, and bullied into it by your President.” If you know any nice computer of national honesty you had better get him to tell you the difference between the notorious rogue who robs his neighbours, and the four hundred and fifty-nine rogues who refuse to make restitution of the robbery.

This chamber is composed of men all above the middle age—none being eligible below thirty. They have a venerable and decent appearance, and for learning, I believe they do not suffer in comparison with any of the legislative assemblies of Europe. They are chosen from thirty millions of people, by two hundred and fifty thousand electors, while the English House of Commons is selected by near a million of electors, from twenty-five millions. Their hours of sitting are from one to five o’clock. Spectators are admitted on the written order of a member.