Eighty Years and More; Reminiscences 1815-1897
days, Englishmen were afraid to speak to each other for fear of
recognizing one not of their class, while to strangers and foreigners
they would not speak except in case of dire necessity. The Frenchman was
ready enough to talk, but, unfortunately, we were separated by different
languages. Thus the Englishman would not talk, the Frenchman could not,
and the intelligent, loquacious American driver, who discourses on
politics, religion, national institutions, and social gossip was unknown
on that side of the Atlantic. What the curious American traveler could
find out himself from observation and pertinacious seeking he was
welcome to, but the Briton would waste no breath to enlighten Yankees as
to the points of interest or customs of his country.
Our party consisted of Miss Pugh, Abby Kimber, Mr. Stanton, and myself.
I had many amusing experiences in making my wants known when alone,
having forgotten most of my French. For instance, traveling night and
day in the diligence to Paris, as the stops were short, one was
sometimes in need of something to eat. One night as my companions were
all asleep, I went out to get a piece of cake or a cracker, or whatever
of that sort I could obtain, but, owing to my clumsy use of the
language, I was misunderstood. Just as the diligence was about to start,
and the shout for us to get aboard was heard, the waiter came running
with a piping hot plate of sweetbreads nicely broiled. I had waited and
wondered why it took so long to get a simple piece of cake or biscuit,
and lo! a piece of hot meat was offered me. I could not take the
frizzling thing in my hand nor eat it without bread, knife, or fork, so
I hurried off to the coach, the man pursuing me to the very door. I was
vexed and disappointed, while the rest of the party were convulsed with
laughter at the parting salute and my attempt to make my way alone. It
was some time before I heard the last of the "sweetbreads."
When we reached Paris we secured a courier who could speak English, to
show us the sights of that wonderful city. Every morning early he was at
the door, rain or shine, to carry out our plans, which, with the aid of
our guidebook, we had made the evening before. In this way, going
steadily, day after day, we visited all points of interest for miles
round and sailed up and down the Seine. The Palace of the Tuileries,
with its many associations with a long line of more or less unhappy
kings and queens, was then in its glory, and its extensive and beautiful
grounds were always gay with crowds of happy people. These gardens were
a great resort for nurses and children and were furnished with all
manner of novel appliances for their amusement, including beautiful
little carriages drawn by four goats with girls or boys driving, boats
sailing in the air, seemingly propelled by oars, and hobby horses
flying round on whirligigs with boys vainly trying to catch each other.
No people have ever taken the trouble to invent so many amusements for
children as have the French. The people enjoyed being always in the open
air, night and day. The parks are crowded with amusement seekers, some
reading and playing games, some sewing, knitting, playing on musical
instruments, dancing, sitting around tables in bevies eating, drinking,
and gayly chatting. And yet, when they drive in carriages or go to their
homes at night, they will shut themselves in as tight as oysters in
their shells. They have a theory that night air is very injurious,--in
the house,--although they will sit outside until midnight. I found this
same superstition prevalent in France fifty years later.
We visited the Hôtel des Invalides just as they were preparing the
sarcophagus for the reception of the remains of Napoleon. We witnessed
the wild excitement of that enthusiastic people, and listened with deep
interest to the old soldiers' praises of their great general. The ladies
of our party chatted freely with them. They all had interesting
anecdotes to relate of their chief. They said he seldom slept over four
hours, was an abstemious eater, and rarely changed a servant, as he
hated a strange face about him. He was very fond of a game of chess, and
snuffed continuously; talked but little, was a light sleeper,--the
stirring of a mouse would awaken him,--and always on the watch-tower.
They said that, in his great campaigns, he seemed to be omnipresent. A
sentinel asleep at his post would sometimes waken to find Napoleon on
duty in his place.
The ship that brought back Napoleon's remains was the _Belle Poule_
(the beautiful hen!), which landed at Cherbourg, November 30, 1840. The
body was conveyed to the Church of the Invalides, which adjoins the
tomb. The Prince de Joinville brought the body from Saint Helena, and
Louis Philippe received it.
At that time each soldier had a little patch of land to decorate as he
pleased, in which many scenes from their great battles were illustrated.
One represented Napoleon crossing the Alps. There were the cannon, the
soldiers, Napoleon on horseback, all toiling up the steep ascent,
perfect in miniature. In another was Napoleon, flag in hand, leading the
charge across the bridge of Lodi. In still another was Napoleon in
Egypt, before the Pyramids, seated, impassive, on his horse, gazing at
the Sphinx, as if about to utter his immortal words to his soldiers:
"Here, forty centuries look down upon us." These object lessons of the
past are all gone now and the land used for more prosaic purposes.
I little thought, as I witnessed that great event in France in 1840,
that fifty-seven years later I should witness a similar pageant in the
American Republic, when our nation paid its last tributes to General
Grant. There are many points of similarity in these great events. As men
they were alike aggressive and self-reliant. In Napoleon's will he
expressed the wish that his last resting place might be in the land and
among the people he loved so well. His desire is fulfilled. He rests in
the chief city of the French republic, whose shores are washed by the
waters of the Seine. General Grant expressed the wish that he might be
interred in our metropolis and added: "Wherever I am buried, I desire
that there shall be room for my wife by my side." His wishes, too, are
fulfilled. He rests in the chief city of the American Republic, whose
shores are washed by the waters of the Hudson, and in his magnificent
mausoleum there is room for his wife by his side.
Several members of the Society of Friends from Boston and Philadelphia,
who had attended the World's Anti-slavery Convention in London, joined
our party for a trip on the Continent. Though opposed to war, they all
took a deep interest in the national excitement and in the pageants that
heralded the expected arrival of the hero from Saint Helena. As they all
wore military coats of the time of George Fox, the soldiers, supposing
they belonged to the army of some country, gave them the military salute
wherever we went, much to their annoyance and our amusement.
In going the rounds, Miss Pugh amused us by reading aloud the
description of what we were admiring and the historical events connected
with that particular building or locality. We urged her to spend the
time taking in all she could see and to read up afterward; but no, a
history of France and Galignani's guide she carried everywhere, and,
while the rest of us looked until we were fully satisfied, she took a
bird's-eye view and read the description. Dear little woman! She was a
fine scholar, a good historian, was well informed on all subjects and
countries, proved an invaluable traveling companion, and could tell more
of what we saw than all the rest of us together.
On several occasions we chanced to meet Louis Philippe dashing by in an
open barouche. We felt great satisfaction in remembering that at one
time he was an exile in our country, where he earned his living by
teaching school. What an honor for Yankee children to have been taught,
by a French king, the rudiments of his language.
Having been accustomed to the Puritan Sunday of restraint and solemnity,
I found that day in Paris gay and charming. The first time I entered
into some of the festivities, I really expected to be struck by
lightning. The libraries, art galleries, concert halls, and theaters
were all open to the people. Bands of music were playing in the parks,
where whole families, with their luncheons, spent the day--husbands,
wives, and children, on an excursion together. The boats on the Seine
and all public conveyances were crowded. Those who had but this one day
for pleasure seemed determined to make the most of it. A wonderful
contrast with that gloomy day in London, where all places of amusement
were closed and nothing open to the people but the churches and drinking
saloons. The streets and houses in which Voltaire, La Fayette, Mme. de
Staël, Mme. Roland, Charlotte Corday, and other famous men and women
lived and died, were pointed out to us. We little thought, then, of all
the terrible scenes to be enacted in Paris, nor that France would emerge
from the dangers that beset her on every side into a sister republic. It
has been a wonderful achievement, with kings and Popes all plotting
against her experiment, that she has succeeded in putting kingcraft
under her feet and proclaimed liberty, equality, fraternity for her
people.
After a few weeks in France, we returned to London, traveling through
England, Ireland, and Scotland for several months. We visited the scenes
that Shakespeare, Burns, and Dickens had made classic. We spent a few
days at Huntingdon, the home of Oliver Cromwell, and visited the estate
where he passed his early married life. While there, one of his great
admirers read aloud to us a splendid article in one of the reviews,
written by Carlyle, giving "The Protector," as his friend said, his true
place in history. It was long the fashion of England's historians to
represent Cromwell as a fanatic and hypocrite, but his character was
vindicated by later writers. "Never," says Macaulay, "was a ruler so
conspicuously born for sovereignty. The cup which has intoxicated almost
all others sobered him."
We saw the picturesque ruins of Kenilworth Castle, the birthplace of
Shakespeare, the homes of Byron and Mary Chaworth, wandered through
Newstead Abbey, saw the monument to the faithful dog, and the large
dining room where Byron and his boon companions used to shoot at a mark.
It was a desolate region. We stopped a day or two at Ayr and drove out
to the birthplace of Burns. The old house that had sheltered him was
still there, but its walls now echoed to other voices, and the fields
where he had toiled were plowed by other hands. We saw the stream and
banks where he and Mary sat together, the old stone church where the
witches held their midnight revels, the two dogs, and the bridge of Ayr.
With Burns, as with Sappho, it was love that awoke his heart to song. A
bonny lass who worked with him in the harvest field inspired his first
attempts at rhyme. Life, with Burns, was one long, hard struggle. With
his natural love for the beautiful, the terrible depression of spirits
he suffered from his dreary surroundings was inevitable. The interest
great men took in him, when they awoke to his genius, came too late for
his safety and encouragement. In a glass of whisky he found, at last,
the rest and cheer he never knew when sober. Poverty and ignorance are
the parents of intemperance, and that vice will never be suppressed
until the burdens of life are equally shared by all.
We saw Melrose by moonlight, spent several hours at Abbotsford, and
lingered in the little sanctum sanctorum where Scott wrote his immortal
works. It was so small that he could reach the bookshelves on every