Paris and the Parisians in 1835 - Volume I: Volume I

Paris and the Parisians in 1835 by Frances Milton Trollope

Volume I of II

Frances Milton Trollope was born on March 10th, 1779 at Stapleton in Bristol. 

The mother of the world famed Anthony Trollope, and his brother Thomas Adolphus Trollope, she was a late entrant to the ranks of authors being fifty when she embarked upon this new career, and even then more by necessity for income than by design.

Her first book, in 1832, Domestic Manners of the Americans, gained her immediate notice. Although it was a one sided view of the failings of Americans, it was also witty and acerbic.   

But much of the attention she received was for her strong novels of social protest. Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw, published in 1836, was the first anti-slavery novel, and was a great influence on the American writer Harriet Beecher Stowe and her more famous Uncle Tom's Cabin in 1852. Michael Armstrong: Factory Boy began publication in 1840 and was the first industrial novel to be published in Britain.

These were followed by three volumes of The Vicar of Wrexhill, which examined the corruption in the Church of England and evangelical circles. 

However her greatest work is more often considered to be the Widow Barnaby trilogy (published between 1839–1843).

In later years Frances Milton Trollope continued to write novels and books on wide, varied and miscellaneous subjects, writing in all in excess of a quite incredible 100 volumes. 

Frances Milton Trollope died on October 6th, 1863.

Index of Contents

LETTER I.

Difficulty of Giving a Systematic Account of What is Doing in France—Pleasure of Revisiting Paris After Long Absence—What is Changed; What Remains the Same.   

LETTER II.

Absence of the English Embassy—Trial of the Lyons Prisoners—Church of the Madeleine—Statue of Napoleon.

LETTER III.

Slang—Les Jeunes Gens de Paris—La Jeune France—Rococo—Décousu. 

LETTER IV.

Théâtre Français—Mademoiselle Mars—Elmire—'Charlotte Brown.'—Extract from a Sermon. 

LETTER V.

Exhibition of Living Artists at the Louvre—The Deluge—Poussin and Martin—Portraits—Appearance of the Company.

LETTER VI.

Society—Morality—False Impressions and False Reports—Observations from a Frenchman on a Recent Publication.

LETTER VII.

Alarm Created by the Trial of the Lyons Prisoners—Visits from a Republican and from a Doctrinaire: Reassured by the Promises of Safety and Protection Received from the Latter. 

LETTER VIII.

Eloquence of the Pulpit—L'Abbé Coeur—Sermon at St. Roch—Elegant Congregation—Costume of the Younger Clergy.

LETTER IX.

Literature of the Revolutionary School—Its Low Estimation in France.    

LETTER X.

Lonchamps—The Three Hours' Agony at St. Roch—Sermonson the Gospel of Good Friday—Prospects of the Catholics—O'Connell.  

LETTER XI.

Trial Chamber at the Luxembourg—Institute—M. Mignet—Concert Musard.   

LETTER XII.

Easter Sunday at Notre Dame—Archbishop—View of Paris—Victor Hugo—Hôtel Dieu—Mr. Jefferson. 

LETTER XIII.

Le Monomane.

LETTER XIV.

The Gardens of the Tuileries—Legitimatist—Republican—Doctrinaire—Children—Dress of the Ladies—Of the Gentlemen—Black Hair—Unrestricted Admission—Anecdote.  

LETTER XV.

Street Police—Cleaning Beds—Tinning Kettles—Building Houses—Loading Carts—Preparing for the Scavenger—Want of Drains—Bad Pavement—Darkness. 

LETTER XVI.

Preparations for the Fête du Roi—Arrival of Troops—Champs Elysées—Concert in the Garden of the Tuileries—Silence of the People—Fireworks.

LETTER XVII.

Political Chances—Visit from a Republican—His High Spirits at the Prospects Before Him—His Advice to Me Respecting My Name—Removal of the Prisoners from Ste. Pélagie—Review—Garde de Paris—The National Guard. 

LETTER XVIII.

First Day of the Trials—Much Blustering, but No Riot—All Alarm Subsided—Proposal for Inviting Lord B—m to Plead at the Trial—Society—Charm of Idle Conversation—The Whisperer of Good Stories.

LETTER XIX.

Victor Hugo—Racine.    

LETTER XX.

Versailles—St. Cloud.  

LETTER XXI.

History of the Vicomte de B—. His opinions—State of France—Expediency.  

LETTER XXII.

Père Lachaise—Mourning in public—Defacing the Tomb of Abelard and Eloïsa—Baron Munchausen —Russian Monument—Statue of Manuel.   

LETTER XXIII.

Remarkable People—Distinguished People—Metaphysical Lady.  

LETTER XXIV.

Expedition to the Luxembourg—No Admittance for Females—Portraits of Henri—Republican Costume—Quai Voltaire—Mural Inscriptions—Anecdote of Marshal Lobau—Arrest.    

LETTER XXV.

Chapelle Expiatoire—Devotees Seen There—Tri-coloured Flag Out of Place There—Flower Market of the Madeleine—Petites Maîtresses.    

LETTER XXVI.

Delicacy in France and in England—Causes of the Difference Between Them. 

LETTER XXVII.

Objections to Quoting the Names of Private Individuals—Impossibility of Avoiding Politics—Parceque and Quoique—Soirée Antithestique.    

LETTER XXVIII.

New Publications—M. de Lamartine's Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensées, et Paysages.—Tocqueville and Beaumont—New American Regulation—M. Scribe—MadameTastu—Reception of Different Writers in Society.

LETTER XXIX.

Sunday in Paris—Family Groups—Popular Enjoyment—Polytechnic Students—Their Resemblance to the Figure of Napoleon—Enduring Attachment to the Emperor—Conservative Spirit of the English Schools—Sunday in the Gardens of the Tuileries—Religion of the Educated—Popular Opinion. 

LETTER XXX.

Madame Récamier—Her Morning Parties—Gérard's Picture of Corinne—Miniature of Madame de Staël—M.de Châteaubriand—Conversation on the Degree in Which the French Language is Understood by Foreigners—The Necessity of Speaking French.  

LETTER XXXI.

Exhibition of Sèvres China at the Louvre—Gobelins and Beauvais Tapestry—Legitimatist Father and Doctrinaire Son—Copies from the Medicean Gallery.    

LETTER XXXII.

Eglise Apostolique Française—Its Doctrine—L'Abbé Auzou—His Sermon on les Plaisirs Populaires. 

LETTER XXXIII.

Establishment for Insane Patients at Vanves—Description of the Arrangements—Englishman—His Religious Madness.    

LETTER XXXIV.

Riot at the Porte St. Martin—Prevented by a Shower of Rain—The Mob in Fine Weather—How to Stop Emeutes—Army of Italy—Théâtre Français—Mademoiselle Marsin Henriette—Disappearance of Comedy.    

LETTER XXXV.

Soirée dansante—Young Ladies—Old Ladies—Anecdote—The Consolations of Chaperones—Flirtations—Discussion Upon the Variations Between Young Married Women in France and in England—Making Love by deputy—Not Likely to Answer in England.

LETTER XXXVI.

Improvements of Paris—Introduction of Carpets and Trottoirs—Maisonnettes—Not Likely to Answer in Paris—The Necessity of a Porter and Porter's Lodge—Comparative Expenses of France and England—Increasing Wealth of the Bourgeoisie. 

LETTER XXXVII.

Horrible Murder—La Morgue—Suicides—Vanity—Anecdote—Influence of Modern Literature—Different Appearance of Poverty in France and England.

LETTER XXXVIII.

Opéra Comique—Cheval de Bronze—La Marquise.—Impossibility of playing Tragedy—Mrs. Siddons's Readings—Mademoiselle Mars has Equal Power—Laisseraller of the Female Performers—Decline of Theatrical Taste Among the Fashionable.   

LETTER XXXIX.

The Abbé de Lamennais—Cobbett—O'Connell—Napoleon—Robespierre.

LETTER XL.

Which Party is it Ranks Second in the Estimation of All?—No Caricatures against the Exiles—Horror of a Republic.    

LETTER XLI.

M. Dupré—His Drawings in Greece—L'Eglise des Carmes—M. Vinchon's Picture of the National Convention—Léopold Robert's Fishermen—Reported Cause of His Suicide—Roman Catholic Religion —Mr. Daniel O'Connell.    

LETTER XLII.

Old Maids—Rarely to be Found in France—The Reasons for This.    

FRANCES MILTON TROLLOPE – A SHORT BIOGRAPHY

FRANCES MILTON TROLLOPE – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

PREFACE.

From the very beginning of reading and writing—nay, doubtless from the very beginning of speaking,—TRUTH, immortal TRUTH has been the object of ostensible worship to all who read and to all who listen; and, in the abstract, it is unquestionably held in sincere veneration by all: yet, in the detail of every-day practice, the majority of mankind often hate it, and are seen to bear pain, disappointment, and sorrow more patiently than its honoured voice when it echoes not their own opinion.

Preconceived notions generally take a much firmer hold of the mind than can be obtained by any statement, however clear and plain, which tends to overthrow them; and if it happen that these are connected with an honest intention of being right, they are often mistaken for principles;—in which case the attempt to shake them is considered not merely as a folly, but a sin.

With this conviction strongly impressed upon my mind, it requires some moral courage to publish these volumes; for they are written in conformity to the opinions of ... perhaps none,—and, worse still, there is that in them which may be considered as contradictory to my own. Had I before my late visit to Paris written a book for the purpose of advocating the opinions I entertained on the state of the country, it certainly would have been composed in a spirit by no means according in all points with that manifested in the following pages: but while profiting by every occasion which permitted me to mix with distinguished people of all parties, I learnt much of which I was—in common, I suspect, with many others—very profoundly ignorant. I found good where I looked for mischief—strength where I anticipated weakness—and the watchful wisdom of cautious legislators, most usefully at work for the welfare of their country, instead of the crude vagaries of a revolutionary government, active only in leading blindfold the deluded populace who trusted to them.

The result of this was, first a wavering, and then a change of opinion,—not as to the immutable laws which should regulate hereditary succession, or the regret that it should ever have been deemed expedient to violate them—but as to the wisest way in which the French nation, situated as it actually is, can be governed, so as best to repair the grievous injuries left by former convulsions, and most effectually to guard against a recurrence of them in future.

That the present policy of France keeps these objects steadily in view, and that much wisdom and courage are at work to advance them, cannot be doubted; and those most anxious to advocate the sacred cause of well-ordered authority amongst all the nations of the earth should be the first to bear testimony to this truth.

London, December 1835.

LETTER I.

Difficulty of Giving a Systematic Account of What is Doing in France—Pleasure of Revisiting Paris After Long Absence—What  is Changed; What Remains the Same.

Paris, 11th April 1835.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

In visiting Paris it certainly was my intention to describe in print what I saw and heard there; and to do this as faithfully as possible, I proposed to continue my old habit of noting in my journal all things, great and small, in which I took an interest. But the task frightens me. I have been here but a few days, and I already find myself preaching and prosing at much greater length than I approve: I already feel that I am involved in such a mizmaze of interesting subjects, that to give anything like an orderly and well-arranged digest of them, would beguile me into attempting a work greatly beyond my power to execute.

The very most I can hope to do will be but to skim lightly over the surface of things; and in addressing myself to you, I shall feel less as if I were about to be guilty of the presumption of writing a work on France, than if I threw my notes into a less familiar form. I will then discourse to you, as well as I may, of such things as leave the deepest impression among the thousand sights and sounds in the midst of which I am now placed. Should it be our will hereafter that these letters pass from your hands into those of the public, I trust that nobody will be so unmerciful as to expect that they shall make them acquainted with everything past, present, and to come, respecting the destinies of this remarkable country.

It must indeed be a bold pen that attempts to write of Young France, as it is at present the fashion to call it, with anything like a reasonable degree of order and precision, while still surrounded by all the startling novelties she has to show. To reason of what she has done, what she is doing, and—more difficult still—of what she is about to do, would require a steadier head than most persons can command, while yet turning and twisting in all directions to see what this Young France looks like.

In truth, I am disposed to believe that whatever I write about it will be much in the style of the old conundrum—

I saw a comet rain down hail I saw a cloud &c.

And here you will remember, that though the things seen are stated in the most simple and veracious manner, much of the meaning is occult, depending altogether upon the stopping or pointing of the narrative. This stopping or pointing I must leave to you, or any other readers I may happen to have, and confine myself to the plain statement of I saw; for though it is sufficiently easy to see and to hear, I feel extremely doubtful if I shall always be able to understand.

It is just seven years and seven months since I last visited the capital of the Great Nation. The interval is a long one, as a portion of human life; but how short does it appear when the events that it has brought forth are contemplated! I left the white banner of France floating gaily over her palaces, and I find it torn down and trampled in the dust. The renowned lilies, for so many ages the symbol of chivalric bravery, are everywhere erased; and it should seem that the once proud shield of St. Louis is soiled, broken, and reversed for ever.

But all this was old. France is grown young again; and I am assured that, according to the present condition of human judgment, everything is exactly as it should be. Knighthood, glory, shields, banners, faith, loyalty, and the like, are gone out of fashion; and they say it is only necessary to look about me a little, to perceive how remarkably well the present race of Frenchmen can do without them;—an occupation, it is added, which I shall find much more profitable and amusing than lamenting over the mouldering records of their ancient greatness.

The good sense of this remonstrance is so evident, that I am determined henceforth to profit by it; remembering, moreover, that, as an Englishwoman, I have certainly no particular call to mourn over the fading honours of my country's rival. So in future I shall turn my eyes as much as I can from the tri-coloured flag—(those three stripes are terribly false heraldry)—and only think of amusing myself; a business never performed anywhere with so much ease as at Paris.

Since I last saw it, I have journeyed half round the globe; but nothing I have met in all my wanderings has sufficed to damp the pleasure with which I enter again this gay, bright, noisy, restless city,—this city of the living, as beyond all others it may be justly called.

And where, in truth, can anything be found that shall make its air of ceaseless jubilee seem tame?—or its thousand depôts of all that is prettiest in art, lose by comparison with any other pretty things in the wide world? Where do all the externals of happiness meet the eye so readily?—or where can the heavy spirit so easily be roused to seek and find enjoyment? Cold, worn-out, and dead indeed must the heart be that does not awaken to some throb of pleasure when Paris, after long absence, comes again in sight! For though a throne has been overturned, the Tuileries still remain;—though the main stock of a right royal tree has been torn up, and a scion sprung from one of the roots, that had run, wildly enough, to a distance, has been barricaded in, and watered, and nurtured, and fostered into power and strength of growth to supply its place, the Boulevards, with their matchless aspect of eternal holiday, are still the same. No commotion, however violent, has yet been able to cause this light but precious essence of Parisian attractiveness to evaporate; and while the very foundations of society have been shaken round them, the old elms go on, throwing their flickering shadows upon a crowd that—allowing for some vagaries of the milliner and tailor—might be taken for the very same, and no other, which has gladdened the eye and enlivened the imagination since first their green boughs beckoned all that was fairest and gayest in Paris to meet together beneath them.

Whilst this is the case, and while sundry other enchantments that may be named in their turn continue to proclaim that Paris is Paris still, it would be silly quarrelling with something better than bread-and-butter, did we spend the time of our abode here in dreaming of what has been, instead of opening our eyes and endeavouring to be as much awake as possible to look upon all that is.

Farewell!

LETTER II.

Absence of the English Embassy—Trial of the Lyons Prisoners—Church of the Madeleine—Statue of Napoleon.

It may be doubtful, perhaps, whether the present period[1] be more favourable or unfavourable for the arrival of English travellers at Paris. The sort of interregnum which has taken place in our embassy here deprives us of the centre round which all that is most gay among the English residents usually revolves; but, on the other hand, the approaching trial of the Lyons prisoners and their Parisian accomplices is stirring up from the very bottom all the fermenting passions of the nation. Every principle, however quietly and unobtrusively treasured,—every feeling, however cautiously concealed,—is now afloat; and the most careless observer may expect to see, with little trouble, the genuine temper of the people.

The genuine temper of the people?—Nay, but this phrase must be mended ere it can convey to you any idea of what is indeed likely to be made visible; for, as it stands, it might intimate that the people were of one temper; and anything less like the truth than this cannot easily be imagined.

The temper of the people of Paris upon the subject of this atrocious trial, as all parties not connected with the government are pleased to call it, varies according to their politics,—from rage and execration to ecstasy and delight—from indifference to enthusiasm—from triumph to despair.

It will be impossible, my friend, to ramble up and down Paris for eight or nine weeks, with a note-book in my hand, without recurring again and again to a theme that meets us in every salon, murmurs through the corridors of every theatre, glares from the eyes of the republican, sneers from the lip of the doctrinaire, and in some shape or other crosses our path, let it lead in what direction it may.

This being inevitable, the monster must be permitted to protrude its horns occasionally; nor must I bear the blame should it sometimes appear to you a very tedious and tiresome monster indeed. Having announced that its appearance may be frequently expected, I will leave you for the present in the same state of expectation respecting it that we are in ourselves; and, while we are still safe from its threatened violence, indulge in a little peaceable examination of the still-life part of the picture spread out before me.

The first objects that struck me as new on re-entering Paris, or rather as changed since I last saw them, were the Column of the Place Vendôme, and the finished Church of the Madeleine. Finished indeed! Did Greece ever show any combination of stones and mortar more graceful, more majestic than this? If she did, it was in the days of her youth; for, poetical association apart, and the unquestionably great pleasure of learned investigation set aside, no ruin can possibly meet the eye with such perfect symmetry of loveliness, or so completely fill and satisfy the mind, as does this modern temple.

Why might not our National Gallery have risen as noble, as simple, as beautiful as this?

As for the other novelty—the statue of the sometime Emperor of the French, I suspect that I looked up at it with rather more approbation than became an Englishwoman. But in truth, though the name of Napoleon brings with it reminiscences which call up many hostile feelings, I can never find myself in Paris without remembering his good, rather than his terrible actions. Perhaps, too, as one gazes on this brazen monument of his victories, there may be something soothing in the recollection that the bold standard he bore never for an instant wantoned on a British breeze.

However, putting sentiment and personal feeling of every kind apart, so much that is admirable in Paris owes its origin to him, that his ambition and his usurpations are involuntarily forgotten, and the use made of his ill-gotten power almost obliterates the lawless tyranny of the power itself. The appearance of his statue, therefore, on the top of the column formed of the cannon taken by the armies of France when fighting under his command, appeared to me to be the result of an arrangement founded upon perfect propriety and good taste.

When his effigy was torn down some twenty years ago by the avenging hands of the Allies, the act was one both of moral justice and of natural feeling; and that the rightful owners of the throne he had seized should never have replaced it, can hardly be matter of surprise: but that it should now again be permitted to look down upon the fitful fortunes of the French people, has something of historic propriety in it which pleases the imagination.

This statue of Napoleon offers the only instance I remember in which that most grotesque of European habiliments, a cocked-hat, has been immortalized in marble or in bronze with good effect. The original statue, with its flowing outline of Roman drapery, was erected by a feeling of pride; but this portrait of him has the every-day familiar look that could best satisfy affection. Instead of causing the eye to turn away as it does from some faithful portraitures of modern costume with positive disgust, this chapeau à trois cornes, and the well-known loose redingote, have that air of picturesque truth in them which is sure to please the taste even where it does not touch the heart.

To the French themselves this statue is little short of an idol. Fresh votive wreaths are perpetually hung about its pedestal; and little draperies of black crape, constantly renewed, show plainly how fondly his memory is still cherished.

While Napoleon was still among them, the halo of his military glory, bright as it was, could not so dazzle the eyes of the nation but that some portentous spots were discerned even in the very nucleus of that glory itself; but now that it shines upon them across his tomb, it is gazed at with an enthusiasm of devoted affection which mixes no memory of error with its regrets.

It would, I think, be very difficult to find a Frenchman, let his party be what it might, who would speak of Napoleon with disrespect.

I one day passed the foot of his gorgeous pedestal in company with a legitimate sans reproche, who, raising his eyes to the statue, said—Notre position, Madame Trollope, est bien dure: nous avons perdu le droit d'être fidèles, sans avoir plus celui d'être fiers.

FOOTNOTE: [1] April 1835.

LETTER III.

Slang—Les Jeunes Gens de Paris—La Jeune France—Rococo—Décousu.

I suppose that, among all people and at all times, a certain portion of what we call slang will insinuate itself into familiar colloquial intercourse, and sometimes even dare to make its unsanctioned accents heard from the tribune and the stage. It appears to me, I confess, that France is at present taking considerable liberties with her mother-tongue. But this is a subject which requires for its grave discussion a native critic, and a learned one too. I therefore can only venture distantly and doubtingly to allude to it, as one of the points at which it appears to me that innovation is visibly and audibly at work.

I know it may be said that every additional word, whether fabricated or borrowed, adds something to the riches of the language; and no doubt it does so. But there is a polished grace, a finished elegance in the language of France, as registered in the writings of her Augustan age, which may well atone for the want of greater copiousness, with which it has been sometimes reproached. To increase its strength, by giving it coarseness, would be like exchanging a high-mettled racer for a dray-horse. A brewer would tell you, that you gained in power what you lost in grace: it may be so; but there are many, I think, even in this age of operatives and utilitarians, who would regret the change.

This is a theme, however, as I have said before, on which I should not feel myself justified in saying much. None should pretend to examine, or at any rate to discuss critically, the niceties of idiom in a language that is not native to them. But, distinct from any such presumptuous examination, there are words and phrases lawfully within the reach of foreign observation, which strike me as remarkable at the present day, either from their frequent recurrence, or for something of unusual emphasis in the manner in which they are employed.

Les jeunes gens de Paris appears to me to be one of these. Translate it, and you find nothing but the young men of Paris; which should seem to have no more imposing meaning than the young men of London, or of any other metropolis. But hear it spoken at Paris—Mercy on me! it sounds like a thunderbolt. It is not only loud and blustering, however; you feel that there is something awful—nay, mystical, implied by the phrase. It appears solemnly to typify the power, the authority, the learning—ay, and the wisdom too, of the whole nation.

La Jeune France is another of these cabalistic forms of speech, by which everybody seems expected to understand something great, terrible, volcanic, and sublime. At present, I confess that both of these, pronounced as they always are with a sort of mysterious emphasis, which seems to say that more is meant than meets the ear, produce rather a paralysing effect upon me. I am conscious that I do not clearly comprehend all the meaning with which they are pregnant, and yet I am afraid to ask, lest the explanation should prove either more unintelligible or more alarming than even the words themselves. I hope, however, that ere long I shall grow more intelligent or less timid; and whenever this happens, and I conceive that I fully comprehend their occult meaning, I will not fail to transmit it faithfully to you.

Besides these phrases, and some others that I may perhaps mention hereafter as difficult to understand, I have learned a word quite new to me, and which I suspect has but very recently been introduced into the French language; at least, it is not to be found in the dictionaries, and I therefore presume it to be one of those happy inventions which are permitted from time to time to enrich the power of expression. How the Academy of former days might have treated it, I know not; but it seems to me to express a great deal, and might at this time, I think, be introduced very conveniently into our own language: at any rate, it may often help me, I think, as a very useful adjective. This new-born word is rococo, and appears to me to be applied by the young and innovating to everything which bears the stamp of the taste, principles, or feelings of time past. That part of the French population to whom the epithet of rococo is thus applied, may be understood to contain all varieties of old-fashionism, from the gentle advocate for laced coats and diamond sword-knots, up to the high-minded venerable loyalist, who only loves his rightful king the better because he has no means left to requite his love. Such is the interpretation of rococo in the mouth of a doctrinaire: but if a republican speaks it, he means that it should include also every gradation of orderly obedience, even to the powers that be; and, in fact, whatever else may be considered as essentially connected either with law or gospel.

There is another adjective which appears also to recur so frequently as fully to merit, in the same manner, the distinction of being considered as fashionable. It is, however, a good old legitimate word, admirably expressive too, and at present of more than ordinary utility. This is décousu; and it seems to be the epithet now given by the sober-minded to all that smacks of the rambling nonsense of the new school of literature, and of all those fragments of opinions which hang so loosely about the minds of