"Nothing could be more difficult," replied Morris, "than to subjugate a nation composed of kings, and who, if looked upon contemptuously, would respond: 'I am a man; are you any thing more?'"
"Very well," said M. de Boufflers. "But how would you like it, if I should say to one of those citizen-kings: Monsieur, the king, make me a pair of boots!"
"My compatriot," said Morris, "would not hesitate to reply: 'With great pleasure, sir. It is my duty and my vocation to make boots, and I could wish that every one would do his duty in this world."'
M. de Boufflers looked up to the ceiling as if in search of a solution of this enigma, and Morris contemplated him, as much surprised as if, in the forests of the New World, he had heard a humming-bird reason of the affairs of the Republic. And it was thus with all that class of men—the same elegance—the same luxury—the same prattle—the same heedlessness. All these courtiers of the last hour resembled precisely M. de Boufflers. The same day, indeed, of the taking of the Bastile, Morris traced two lines upon the tablettes:
"It is very well that the court should appear to believe that all is tranquil; but to-morrow, perhaps, when the citadelle is in flames, they will agree that there has been some noise in Paris."
Some time before, the grave and gentle American had met Madame de Staël at Madame de Tesse's; the daughter of Necker conversed with him in another style than that of M. de Boufflers. However, quite serious as Corinne certainly was, the dignity of the compatriot of Washington surprised and diverted her.
"Monsieur," she said, after a moment's conversation, "you have a very imposing air."
"I know it, Madame," replied Morris.
The English literature constantly serves M. Chasles, to bring into relief the character of American literature. And thus, he opposes the peaceful inspirations of the work-girls of Lowell with the passionate dithyrambics of Ebenezer Elliott, the blacksmith of Sheffield—a chapter full of just remarks upon what Chasles calls the poetry of vengeance.
The girls of Lowell—the Lucindas, the Alleghanias, the Tancredas, the Velledas—who, after a day's labor, pass into the street in silken dresses, with gold watches shining at their zone, and their beautiful faces shaded by parasols—those Massachusetts weavers, who have even instituted an academy among themselves—do not in their innocent verses, invoke the vengeful muses. They know nothing of that terrible Nemesis, with cheeks hollow and ghastly, armed hands, and eyes red with poverty and weeping, to whom the poor workers of British factories send up the cry of famine and despair. If the female operatives of Lowell read the work of M. Philarète Chasles, they will find there an encouragement to cultivate the smiling thoughts of poetry. He, no more than George Sand, notwithstanding her sympathies for the working classes, either loves or encourages the irritable singers of social sufferings.