It is certainly productive of no common feelings, when, in travelling into the interior of the country, you find these beautiful songs, so much despised in the metropolis! of the nation, still lingering in their native vallies, and shedding their retiring sweetness over those scenes to which they owed their birth.
How much is it to be desired that some man of genius, some lover of the real glory of his country, would collect, with religious hand, these scattered flowers, which are so fast sinking into decay, and again raise into general estimation the beautiful and forgotten music of his native land.
In a discussion upon French manners, and the present condition of French society, it is impossible but that one great and leading observation must almost immediately present itself, and the truth of which, on whatever side, or to whatever class of society you may turn, becomes only the more apparent as you take the longer time to consider it; this is, that the French carry on every thing in public. That every thing, whether it is connected with business or with pleasure, whether it concerns the more serious affair of political government, or the pursuit of science, or the cultivation of art, or whether it is allied only to a taste for society, to the gratification of individual enjoyment, to the passing occupations of the day, or the pleasures of the evening—all, in short, either of serious, or of lighter nature, is open and public. It is carried on abroad, where every eye may see, and every ear may listen. Every one who has visited France since the revolution must make this remark. The first thing that strikes a stranger is, that a Frenchman has no home: He lives in the middle of the public; he breakfasts at a caffé; his wife and family generally do the same. During the day, he perhaps debates in the Corps Legislatif, or sleeps over the essays in the Academie des Sciences, or takes snuff under the Apollo, or talks of the fashions of the Nouvelle Cour, at the side of the Venus de Medicis, or varies the scene by feeding the bears in the Jardin des Plantes. He then dines abroad at a restaurateur's. His wife either is there with him, or perhaps she prefers a different house, and frequents it alone. His sons and daughters are left to manage matters as they best can. The sons, therefore, frequent their favourite caffés, whilst the daughters remain confined under the care of their bonnes or duennas. In the evening he strolls about the Palais, joins some friend or another, with whom he takes his caffé, and sips his liqueurs in the Salon de Paix or Milles Colonnes; he then adjourns to the opera, where, for two hours, he will twist himself into all the appropriate contortions of admiration, and vent his joy, in the strangest curses of delight, the moment that Bigottini makes her appearance upon the stage; and, having thus played those many parts which compose his motley day, he will return at night to his own lodging, perfectly happy with the manner he has employed it, and ready, next morning, to recommence, with recruited alacrity, the same round of heterogeneous enjoyment. Such is, in fact, an epitome of the life of all Frenchmen, who are not either bourgeoise, employed constantly in their shops during the day, or engaged in the civil or military avocations—of those who are in the same situation in France, as our gentlemen of independent fortune in England. Another peculiarity is, that the Frenchmen of the present day are not only always abroad, in the midst of the public, but that they invariably flock from the interior of the kingdom into Paris, and there engage in those public exhibitions, and bustle about in that endless routine of business or pleasure, which is passing in the capital. The French nobility, and the men of property who still remain in the kingdom, invariably spend their lives in Paris. Their whole joy consists la exhibiting themselves in public in the capital. Their magnificent chateaus, their parks, their woods and fields, and their ancient gardens, decorated by the taste, and often cultivated by the hands of their fathers, are allowed to fall into unpitied ruin. If they retire for a few weeks to their country seat, it is only to collect the rents from their neglected peasantry, to curse themselves for being condemned to the triste sejour of their paternal estate; and, after having thus replenished their coffers, to dive again from their native woods, with renewed strength, into all the publicity and dissipation of the capital. This was not always the state of things in France. Previous to, and during the reign of Henry IV. the manners, the society, and the mode of life of the nobility and gentlemen of the kingdom, were undoubtedly different The country was not then deserted for the town; the industry of the peasantry was exerted under the immediate eye of the proprietor; and his happiness formed, we may believe, no inferior object in the mind of his master; If we look at the domestic memoirs which describe the condition of France in these ancient days, we shall find that even from the early age of Francis I. till the commencement of the political administration of Richelieu, the situation of this country presented a very different picture; and that the lives of the country gentlemen were passed in a very opposite manner from that unnatural state of the kingdom to which we have above alluded. Even the condition of the interior of the kingdom, as it is now seen, points to this happier state of things. Their chateaus, which are now deserted,—their silent chambers, with tarnished gilding and decaying tapestry, remind us of the days when the old nobleman was proud to spend his income on the decoration and improvement of his property; the library, on whose walls we see the family pictures, in those hunting and shooting dresses which tell of the healthier exercises of a country retirement; whilst on the shelves, there sleeps undisturbed the forgotten literature of the Augustan age of France—all this evidently shows, that there was once, at least, to be found in the interior of the kingdom, another and a different state of things. In the essays of Montaigne, the private life of a French gentleman is admirably depicted. His days appear to have been divided between his family, his library, and his estate. A French nobleman lived then happy in the seat of his ancestors. His family grew up around him; and he probably visited the town as rarely as the present nobility do the country,—the education of his children,—the care of his peasantry,—the rural labours of planting and gardening,—the sports of the country,—the grandes chasses which he held in his park, surrounded by troops of servants who had been born on his estate, and who evinced their affection by initiating the young heir into all the mysteries of the chase, the enjoyment of the society of his friends and neighbours; all these varied occupations filled up the happy measure of his useful and enviable existence. The life of the country proprietor in these older days of France, assimilated, in short, in a great degree to the present manner of life amongst the same classes which is still observable in England.
It is impossible to conceive any thing more striking than the difference between this picture of a French chateau in these older days, and the condition in which you find them at the present moment. We once visited the chateau of one of the principal noblemen in Provence; and he himself had the politeness to accompany us. The situation of the castle was perfectly beautiful; but on coming nearer, every thing showed that it was completely neglected. The different rooms, which were once superb, were now bare and unfurnished. The walks through the park, the seats and temples in the woods, and the superb gardens, were speedily going to decay. The surface of his ponds, in the midst of which the fountains still played, were covered with weeds, and the rank grass was waving round the bases of the marble statues, which were placed at the termination of the green alleys; every thing showed the riches, the care, and the taste of a former generation, and the carelessness, and neglect of the present. On remonstrating with the proprietor, he defended himself by telling us how lonely he should feel at such a distance from Paris: "C'est toujours ici (said he), un triste sejour." A collation was served up, and after this, being in want of amusement, he opened a closet in the corner of the room, and discovered to us, in its recess, a vast variety of toys, which he began to exhibit to the ladies, telling us, "that when forced to live in the country, he diverted his solitary hours with these entertaining little affairs."
Nothing certainly can be more striking than this contrast between the modern and ancient life of a French proprietor or nobleman; and it is a question which must necessarily arise in the mind of every one, who has observed this remarkable difference, what are the causes to which so great a change is owing? Perhaps, if we look into it, this extraordinary change will be found to have arisen chiefly out of the vigorous, but dangerous policy of that age, when, under the administration of Richelieu, the power of the sovereign rose upon the ruins of the aristocracy—when the institution of standing armies first began to be systematically followed—and when, by the perfection of their police, and that vilest of all inventions, their espionage, the comfort, the security, and the confidence of society was destroyed, by the secret influence of these poisonous and pensioned menials of government. In the successful accomplishment of these three great objects, was involved the destruction of that older state of France, which was to be seen under Henry III. and IV. The schemes by which Richelieu succeeded in drawing the nobility from the interior of the country to Paris, the style of splendid living, sumptuous expences, and magnificent entertainments which he introduced, produced two unhappy effects; it removed them from their country seats, and forced them at the same time to drain their estates, in order to defray their increasing expences in the capital. It made them dependent in a great measure upon the crown; and thus tied them down to Paris. On the other hand, by what has been termed his admirable police, by his encouragement to all informers, by the jealousy of any thing like private intercourse, he rendered the retirement of their homes, the fire-side of their families, instead of that sacred spot, around which was once seated all the charities of life, the very center of all that was hollow, gloomy, and suspicious. It was in this manner that the French seem actually to have been driven from the society of their families, to seek a kind of desperate solitude in public; and that which was at first a necessity, has, in the progress of time, become an established habit. But I have to apologise for introducing, in a chapter of this light nature, and that perhaps in too strong language, these vague conjectures upon so serious a subject as this change in the condition of French society.
One necessary effect of the taste for publicity, formerly mentioned, is, that in France every thing is in some way or other attempted to be made a spectacle; and this favourite word itself has gradually grown into such universal usage, that it has acquired such power over the minds of all classes of the people, as to be hardly ever out of their mouths. Whatever they are describing, be it grave or gay, serious or ludicrous, a comedy or a tragedy, a scene in the city or in the country; in short, every thing, of whatever nature or character it may chance to be, which is seen in public, is included under this all-comprehensive term; and the very highest praise which can be given it, is, "Ah Monsieur, c'est un vrai spectacle. C'est un spectacle tout a fait superbe." It is this taste for spectacles, this inordinate passion for every thing producing effect, every thing which can add in this manner to what they conceive ought to be the necessary arrangement in all public exhibitions, which has, in many of these exhibitions, completely destroyed all the deeper feelings which they would otherwise naturally be calculated to produce. It is this taste which has created that dreadful and disgusting anomaly in national antiquities, the Museé des Monumens François, which has mangled and dilapidated the monuments of the greatest men, and the memorials of the proudest days of France, to produce in Paris a spectacle worthy of the grande nation. It is this same taste, which, in that solemn commemoration of the death of their king, the service solennel for Louis XVI. contrived to introduce a species of affected parade,—a detailed and theatrical sort of grief,—a kind of meretricious mummery of sorrow, which banished all the feelings, and almost completely destroyed the impression which such a scene in any other country would inevitably have produced. Any thing, it may be easily imagined, which gratifies this general taste for public exhibitions, and any thing which is fitted to increase their effect, is greeted by the French with the highest applause. One would have imagined, that the first appearance of Lord Wellington in the French opera, would, to most Frenchmen, have been a circumstance certainly not to make an exhibition of: Very far from it—The presence of Lord Wellington added greatly to the general effect of the spectacle. This was all the French thought of; and he was received, if possible, with more enthusiastic applause, and more reiterated greetings than the royal family of France. Would a French conqueror have met with the same reception in the opera at London?
When the reviews of the Russian troops were daily occurring in the Champ de Mars, an anxiety to examine the state of their discipline, and the general condition of their army, induced us punctually to attend them. What was our astonishment, when we saw several barouches full of French ladies, seemingly taking the greatest delight in superintending the manœuvres of the very men who had conquered the armies, and occupied the capital of their country; and delighted with the attentions which were paid them by the different Russian officers who had led them to victory?
But there is yet another exhibition in Paris, which is at once the most singular in its nature, and which shows, in the very strongest light, this general deep-set passion in the French, for the creation of what they imagine the necessary effect which ought to be attended to in every thing which is displayed in public, I mean that extraordinary exhibition which they term the Catacombs. These catacombs are large subterraneous excavations, which stretch themselves to a great extent under Paris; and which were originally the quarries which furnished the stones for building the greater part of that capital. You arrive at them by descending, by torch light, a narrow winding stair, which strikes perpendicularly into the bosom of the earth; and which, although its height is not above 70 feet, leads you to a landing-place, so dark and dismal, that it might be as well in the centre of the earth as so near its surface. After walking for a considerable time through different obscure subterranean streets, you arrive at the great stone gate of the catacombs, above which you can read by the light of the torches, "The Habitation of the Dead." On entering, you find yourself in a dark wide hall, supported by broad stone pillars, with a low arched roof, the further end of which is hid in complete obscurity; but the walls of which, (as they are illuminated by the livid and feeble gleam of the torches), are discovered to be completely formed of human bones. All this, as far as I have yet described,—- the subterranean streets which you traverse,—the dark gate of the great hall, over which you read the simple but solemn inscription,—and the gloom and silence of the chambers, whose walls you discover to be furnished in this terrible manner, is fitted to produce a most deep and powerful effect. To find yourself the only living being, surrounded on every side by the dead; to be the only thing that possesses the consciousness of existence, while millions of those who have once been as you are—millions of all ages, from the infant who has just looked in upon this world, in its innocent road to heaven, to the aged, who has fallen in the fullness of years;—and the young, the gay, and the beautiful of former centuries, lie all cold and silent around you:—it is impossible that these deep and united feelings should not powerfully affect the mind,—should not lead it to rivet its thoughts upon that last scene, which all are to act alone, and where, in the cold and unconscious company of the dead, we are here destined to "end the strange, eventful history" of our nature: But unfortunately, the guide, who now approaches you, insists upon your examining the details, which he conceives it is his duty to point out; and it is then that you discover, that this prevailing taste for producing effect, this love of the arrangements necessary to complete the spectacle, has invaded even this sacred receptacle. The ornaments which he points out, and which are curiously framed of the whitest and most polished bones; little altars which are built of the same materials in the corners of the chambers, and crowned with what the artists have imagined the handsomest skulls; and the frequent poetical quotations, which, upon a nearer view, you discern upon the walls;—all this, in the very worst style of French taste, evinces, that the same unhallowed hands which had dared to violate the monuments of their heroes, have not scrupled to intrude their presumptuous and miserable efforts, even into the humbler sanctuary allotted to the dead.
I have above described the singular, and, to a stranger, most entertaining scenes which take place at the French balls. If, however, owing to this extraordinary state of manners, to the ludicrous ardour of the old ladies, and the very moderate proportion of the young ones, a French ball is more the scene of aged folly, than of youthful pleasure, it must be allowed, that in another style of society, their lesser parties, they far excel us. The conversation in these is easy, natural, and often even fascinating. The terms of polite familiarity with which you yourself are regarded, and with which you are encouraged to treat all around you; the absence of every thing like stiffness, or formality; the little interludes of music, in which, either in singing, or in performing on some instrument, most of those you meet are able to take a part; the round games which are often introduced, and where all forget themselves to be happy, and to make others so,—this species of party is certainly something far superior to those crowded assemblies, engrafted now, as it would appear, with general consent, upon English society; and which, with a ludicrous perversity, we have denominated by that sacred word of Home, which has so long connected itself with scenes of tranquil and unobtrusive enjoyment.
After having given such a picture of the general state of French society, as we have presented in this chapter, it would be highly unjust if we did not mention, that to the above descriptions of life and manners, we found many exceptions. That we met with many very intelligent men, of liberal education and gentlemanly conduct; and that in the town where we resided, and indeed generally during our travels, we experienced the greatest hospitality and kindness. The most amiable features in the French character are shewn in their conduct to strangers. But this is one of the few points in which we think they deserve the imitation of our countrymen; and we have been the more full in our observations upon their faults, because we trust that there may ever remain a marked difference between the two nations.