Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  I tell you the tale as I heard it; but I will not repeat much more that was said on the same subject, nor will I give any A..., B..., or C... hints as to the names so freely mentioned.

  Some degree of respectability ought certainly to attach to those from whom important information is sought respecting the morals and manners of a country, when it is the intention of the inquirer that his observations and statements upon it should become authority to the whole civilized world.

  The above conversation, however, was brought to a laughing conclusion by Madame C —— , who, addressing her husband as he was seconding the angry eloquence I have repeated, said, “Calmez-vous donc, mon ami: après tout, le tableau fait par M. le Voyageur des dames Anglaises n’a rien à nous faire mourir de jalousie.”

  I suspect that neither you nor any other lady of England will feel disposed to contradict her.

  Adieu!

  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.

  We have really had something very like a panic amongst us, from the rumours in circulation respecting this terrible trial, which is now rapidly approaching. Many people think that fearful scenes may be expected to take place in Paris when it begins.

  The newspapers of all parties are so full of the subject, that there is little else to be found in them; and all those, of whatever colour, which are opposed to the government, describe the manner in which the proceedings are to be managed, as the most tyrannical exercise of power ever practised in modern Europe.

  The legitimate royalists declare it to be illegal, inasmuch as the culprits have a right to be tried by a jury of their peers — the citizens of France; whereas it appears that this their chartered right is denied them, and that no other judge or jury is to be permitted in their case than the peers of France.

  Whether this accusation will be satisfactorily answered, I know not; but there certainly does appear to be something rather plausible, at least, in the objection. Nevertheless, it is not very difficult to see that the 28th Article of the Charter may be made to answer it, which says, —

  “The Chamber of Peers takes cognizance of high-treason, and

  of attempts against the safety of the state, which shall be

  defined by law.”

  Now, though this defining by law appears, by what I can learn, to be an operation not yet quite completed, there seems to be something so very like high-treason in some of the offences for which these prisoners are to be tried, that the first clause of the article may do indifferently well to cover it.

  The republican journals, pamphlets, and publications of all sorts, however, treat the whole business of their detention and trial as the most tremendous infringement of the newly-acquired rights of Young France; and they say — nay, they do swear, that crowned king, created peers, and placed ministers never dared to venture upon anything so tyrannical as this.

  All that the unfortunate Louis Seize ever did, or suffered to be done — all that the banished Charles Dix ever threatened to do — never “roared so loud, and thundered in the index,” as does this deed without a name about to be perpetrated by King Louis-Philippe the First.

  At last, however, the horrible thing has been christened, and PROCÈS MONSTRE is its name. This is a happy device, and will save a world of words. Before it received this expressive appellation, every paragraph concerning it began by a roundabout specification of the horrific business they were about to speak of; but since this lucky name has been hit upon, all prefatory eloquence is become unnecessary: Procès Monstre! simply Procès Monstre! expresses all it could say in two words; and whatever follows may safely become matter of news and narrative respecting it.

  This news, and these narratives, however, still vary considerably, and leave one in a very vacillating state of mind as to what may happen next. One account states that Paris is immediately to be put under martial law, and all foreigners, except those attached to the different embassies, civilly requested to depart. Another declares all this to be a weak invention of the enemy; but hints that it is probable a pretty strong cordon of troops will surround the city, to keep watch day and night, lest les jeunes gens of the metropolis, in their mettlesome mood, should seek to wash out in the blood of their fellow-citizens the stain which the illegitimate birth of the monster has brought upon France. Others announce that a devoted body of patriots have sworn to sacrifice a hecatomb of National Guards, to atone for an abomination which many believe to originate with them.

  Not a few declare that the trial will never take place; that the government, audacious as they say it is, dare do no more than hold up the effigy of the monster to frighten the people, and that a general amnesty will end the business. In truth, it would be a tedious task to record one half of the tales that are in circulation on this subject: but I do assure you, that listening to the awful note of preparation for all that is to be done at the Luxembourg is quite enough to make one nervous, and many English families have already thought it prudent to leave the city.

  At one moment we were really worked into a state very nearly approaching terror by the vehement eloquence of a fiery-hot republican who paid us a visit. I ventured to lead to the terrible subject by asking him if he thought the approaching political trials likely to produce any result beyond their disagreeable influence on the convenience of the parties concerned; but I really repented my temerity when I saw the cloud which gathered on his brow as he replied: —

  “Result! What do you call result, madam? Is the burning indignation of millions of Frenchmen a result? Are the execrations of the noble beings enslaved, imprisoned, tortured, trampled on by tyranny, a result? Are the groans of their wives and mothers — are the tears of their bereaved children — a result? — Yes, yes, there will be results enough! They are yet to come, but come they will; and when they do, think you that the next revolution will be one of three days? Do your countrymen think so? does Europe think so? There has been another revolution, to which it will more resemble.”

  He looked rather ashamed of himself, I thought, when he had concluded his tirade, — and well he might: but there was such a hideous tone of prophecy in this, that I actually trembled as I listened to him, and, all jesting apart, thoughts of passports to be signed and conveyances to be hired were arranging themselves very seriously in my brain. But before we went out for the evening, all these gloomy meditations were most agreeably dispersed by a visit from a staid old doctrinaire, who was not only a soberer politician, but one considerably more likely to know what he was talking about than the youth who had harangued us in the morning.

  Anxious to have my fears either confirmed or removed, I hastened to tell him, half in jest, half in earnest, that we were beginning to think of taking an abrupt leave of Paris. “And why?” said he.

  I stated very seriously my newly-awakened fears; at which he laughed heartily, and with an air of such unfeigned amusement, that I was cured at once.

  “Whom can you have been listening to?” said he.

  “I will not give up my authority,” I replied with proper diplomatic discretion; “but I will tell you exactly what a gentleman who has been here this morning has been saying to us.” And I did so precisely as I have repeated it to you; upon which he laughed more heartily than before, and rubbing his hands as if perfectly delighted, he exclaimed, “Delicious! And you really have been fortunate enough to fall in with one of these enfans perdus? I really wish you joy. But do not set off immediately: listen first to another view of the case.” I assured him that this was exactly what I wished to do, and very truly declared that he could do me no greater favour than to put me au fait of the real state of affairs.

  “Willingly will I do so,” said he; “and be assured I will not deceive you.” Whereupon I closed the croisée, that no rattling wheels might disturb us, and prepared to listen.

  “My good lady,” he began with great ki
ndness, “soyez tranquille. There is no more danger of revolution at this time in France than there is in Russia. Louis-Philippe is adored; the laws are respected; order is universally established; and if there be a sentiment of discontent or a feeling approaching to irritation among any deserving the name of Frenchmen, it is against these miserable vauriens, who still cherish the wild hope of disturbing our peace and our prosperity. But fear nothing: trust me, the number of these is too small to make it worth while to count them.”

  You will believe I heard this with sincere satisfaction; and I really felt very grateful, both for the information, and the friendly manner in which it was given.

  “I rejoice to hear this,” said I: “but may I, as a matter of curiosity, ask you what you think about this famous trial? How do you think it will end?”

  “As all trials ought to end,” he replied: “by bringing all such as are found guilty to punishment.”

  “Heaven grant it!” said I; “for the sake of mankind in general, and for that portion of it in particular which happen at the present moment to inhabit Paris. But do you not think that the irritation produced by these preparations at the Luxembourg is of considerable extent and violence?”

  “To whatever extent this irritation may have gone,” he answered gravely, “it is an undoubted fact, — undoubted in the quarter where most is known about the matter, — that the feeling which approves these preparations is not only of greater extent, but of infinitely deeper sincerity, than that which is opposed to it. What you have heard to-day is mere unmeaning bluster. The trial, I do assure you, is very popular. It is for the justification and protection of the National Guard; — and are we not all National Guards?”

  “But are all the National Guards true?”

  “Perhaps not. But be sure of this, that there are enough true to égorger without any difficulty those who are not.”

  “But is it not very probable,” said I, “that the republican feeling may be quite strong enough to produce another disturbance, though not another revolution? And the situation of strangers would probably become very embarrassing, should this eventually lead to any renewed outbreakings of public enthusiasm.”

  “Not the least in the world, I do assure you: for, at any rate, all the enthusiasm, as you civilly call it, would only elicit additional proof of the stability and power of the government which we are now so happy as to enjoy. The enthusiasm would be speedily calmed, depend upon it.”

  “A peaceable traveller,” said I, “can wish for no better news; and henceforward I shall endeavour to read and to listen with a tranquil spirit, let the prisoners or their partisans say what they may.”

  “You will do wisely, believe me. Rest in perfect confidence and security, and be assured that Louis-Philippe holds all the English as his right good friends. While this is the case, neither Windsor Castle nor the Tower of London itself could afford you a safer abode than Paris.”

  With this seasonable and very efficient encouragement, he left me; and as I really believe him to know more about the new-born politics of “Young France” than most people, I go on very tranquilly making engagements, with but few misgivings lest barricades should prevent my keeping them.

  LETTER VIII.

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

  There is one novelty, and to me a very agreeable one, which I have remarked since my return to this volatile France: this is the fashion and consideration which now attend the eloquence of her preachers.

  Political economists assert that the supply of every article follows the demand for it in a degree nicely proportioned to the wants of the population; and it is upon this principle, I presume, that we must account for the present affluence of a talent which some few years ago could hardly be said to exist in France, and might perhaps have been altogether denied to it, had not the pages both of Fenelon and his eloquent antagonist, Bossuet, rendered such an injustice impossible.

  It was, I think, about a dozen years ago that I took some trouble to discover if any traces of this glorious eloquence remained at Paris. I heard sermons at Notre Dame — at St. Roch — at St. Eustache; but never was a search after talent attended with worse success. The preachers were nought; they had the air, too, of being vulgar and uneducated men, — which I believe was, and indeed still is, very frequently the case. The churches were nearly empty; and the few persons scattered up and down their splendid aisles appeared, generally speaking, to be of the very lowest order of old women.

  How great is now the contrast! Nowhere are we so certain of seeing a crowd of elegantly-dressed and distinguished persons as in the principal churches of Paris. Nor is it a crowd that mocks the eye with any tinsel pretensions to a rank they do not possess. Inquire who it is that so meekly and devoutly kneels on one side of you — that so sedulously turns the pages of her prayer-book on the other, and you will be answered by the announcement of the noblest names remaining in France.

  Though the eloquence of the pulpit has always been an object of attention and interest to me in all countries, I hardly ventured on my first arrival here to inquire again if anything of the kind existed, lest I should once more be sent to listen to an inaudible mumbling preacher, and to look at the deaf and dozing old women who formed his congregation. But it has needed no inquiry to make us speedily acquainted with the fact, that the churches have become the favourite resort of the young, the beautiful, the high-born, and the instructed. Whence comes this change?

  “Have you heard l’Abbé Coeur?” was a question asked me before I had been here a week, by one who would not for worlds have been accounted rococo. When I replied that I had not even heard of him, I saw plainly that it was decided I could know very little indeed of what was going on in Paris. “That is really extraordinary! but I engage you to go without delay. He is, I assure you, quite as much the fashion as Taglioni.”

  As the conversation was continued on the subject of fashionable preachers, I soon found that I was indeed altogether benighted. Other celebrated names were cited: Lacordaire, Deguerry, and some others that I do not remember, were spoken of as if their fame must of necessity have reached from pole to pole, but of which, in truth, I knew no more than if the gentlemen had been private chaplains to the princes of Chili. However, I set down all their names with much docility; and the more I listened, the more I rejoiced that the Passion-week and Easter, those most Catholic seasons for preaching, were before us, being fully determined to profit by this opportunity of hearing in perfection what was so perfectly new to me as popular preaching in Paris.

  I have lost little time in putting this resolution into effect. The church of St. Roch is, I believe, the most fashionable in Paris; it was there, too, that we were sure of hearing this celebrated Abbé Coeur; and both these reasons together decided that it was at St. Roch our sermon-seeking should begin: I therefore immediately set about discovering the day and hour on which he would make his appearance in the pulpit.

  When inquiring these particulars in the church, we were informed, that if we intended to procure chairs, it would be necessary to come at least one good hour before the high mass which preceded the sermon should begin. This was rather alarming intelligence to a party of heretics who had an immense deal of business on their hands; but I was steadfast in my purpose, and, with a small detachment of my family, submitted to the preliminary penance of sitting the long silent hour in front of the pulpit of St. Roch. The precaution was, however, perfectly necessary, for the crowd was really tremendous; but, to console us, it was of the most elegant description; and, after all, the hour scarcely appeared much too long for the business of reviewing the vast multitude of graceful personages, waving plumes, and blooming flowers, that ceased not during every moment of the time to collect themselves closer and closer still about us.

  Nothing certainly could be more beautiful than this collection of bonnets, unless it were the collection of eyes under them. The proportion of ladies to
gentlemen was on the whole, we thought, not less than twelve to one.

  “Je désirerais savoir,” said a young man near me, addressing an extremely pretty woman who sat beside him,— “Je désirerais savoir si par hasard M. l’Abbé Coeur est jeune.”

  The lady answered not, but frowned most indignantly.

  A few minutes afterwards, his doubts upon this point, if he really had any, were removed. A man far from ill-looking, and farther still from being old, mounted the tribune, and some thousands of bright eyes were riveted upon him. The silent and profound attention which hung on every word he uttered, unbroken as it was by a single idle sound, or even glance, showed plainly that his influence upon the splendid and numerous congregation that surrounded him must be very great, or the power of his eloquence very strong: and it was an influence and a power that, though “of another parish,” I could well conceive must be generally felt, for he was in earnest. His voice, though weak and somewhat wirey, was distinct, and his enunciation clear: I did not lose a word.