# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Adieu to France

ADIEU TO FRANCE.
Adieu to sunny France! I call it so,
 Because my betters have. Yet for my part
I have been all but perished in her clime,
 Frost-stricken to the bone, and to the heart;
The Seine in one night turned to ice! I own
I'd not expected this, short of the Arctic zone.
Wood by the pound! 'T was an astonishment,
 Next to the shock of water sold by measure,
Each tiny stem and stalk so strictly weighed,
 Each little grape-vine faggot such a treasure!
Oh! for the coal of England, glowing bright,
Or even my slighted friend, the homelier anthracite.
I came in Autumn, when the vines had shrunk
 From prop and trellis; yet the verdant trees
Danced to the gale that swept the Elysian fields,
 And rose and pansy dared the chilling breeze;
I leave in Winter, and so cannot say,
How her beau ciel may smile 'neath happier seasons' sway.
Yet is her courtesy forever bright,
 For still to princely halls and paintings gay
She, with glad heart and liberal hand, doth lead
 The stranger in, and cast his dole away,
Bidding him share, unvexed by venal guide,
Whate'er she counts most rare of elegance or pride.
Hence have I roamed at will her haunts of taste,
 Within her glorious Louvre sate me down,
Day after day, or when the spirit moved,
 Lingered mid lettered tomes, nor feared a frown,
Or sought the palace domes, which crown so high
This city of her boast, the apple of her eye.
Here too, I found, where fashion holds her court,
 With wealth and grace and intellect combined,
A form of beauty thrilled by impulse high,
 To warm and sleepless energy of mind,
A friend to cheer me on my stranger-way,
Whom grateful Memory loves, but never can repay.
Farewell, enchanting City, which doth hold
 Both eye and heart in strong Circean sway,
Bidding the buoyant spirit ne'er grow old,
 Though wintry years may turn the temples grey,
But seek for pleasure, till the funeral bell
Doth summon it to take of time a long farewell.
Fair France, adieu! 'T will not be mine again,
 Amid the allurements of thy realm to tread,
Yet with me still, across the Atlantic main,
 Kind thoughts of thee shall wend, by kindness bred,
And at my fireside 't will be sweet to say,
That I have seen thy face and listened to thy lay.
For many a charm thou hast, the heart to win,
 Blest filial love luxuriates in thy clime,
Nor doth the parent by such solace cheered
 Tire of the feast of life before his time,
Nor the white-haired on childhood's gladness frown,
And to the gulph of years unlovingly go down.
Thou hast not blotted out the love of song
 For love of money, nor the enthusiast damped
With the chill dogma, that a hoard of wealth
 Is man's chief end on earth, for thou art stamped
And marked with chivalry of antique mould,
And still dost genius prize, apart from gain of gold.
I do remember me, that thou didst lend
 Thy hand to help my country in her need,
And Lafayette in youthful fervor send
 With us to struggle and for us to bleed;
And still shall glow amid our annal bright
Thy friendship for our sires, who battled for the right.
Yet, memories sad thou hast of things that were;—
 The pang of revolution, and the cry
That rent the old foundations of thy throne,
 And sent a guiltless monarch forth to die;
And of the iron yoke that crushed thy pride,
When he the sceptre snatched, who at Helena died.
Thou hast a dread, perchance, of things to be,
 I cannot say, indeed, that this is so,
But well I know, I was afraid in thee,
 As if some mine beneath my feet did glow;
For thou didst aim, though with an erring might,
Shafts at his royal head, who rules thy realm aright.
Thou hast a longing for the things that tend
 Unto thy hurt, and lovest all too well
The war-shout and the long-embattled line,
 And pomp and fane, that martial triumphs swell,
Although thy life-blood cast its crimson stain,
Profuse o'er Russia's snows, and Egypt's desert plain.
Would it were better with thee! It would cheer
 Me in my home, amid my household care,
To think that all was prosperous in thy clime,
 All sound at heart, that to the eye is fair;
But now the fresh breeze curls the ocean blue,
And rocks the expecting boat. Delightful France, adieu!
Boulogne, Saturday, Jan. 16, 1841.
"A friend to cheer me on my stranger-way."
To her kind attentions, whose house was my home during a great part of my stay in Paris, and whose only motive for such hospitality must have been the generous one of imparting happiness to a stranger, I am indebted for some of my most agreeable impressions of that city, and of its inhabitants. Courtesy and deference to the feelings of others throw a charm over the higher grades of society, and in some measure modify every class; and if fine manners do not exactly belong to the family of the virtues, they surely help to beautify them. Among the ancient noblesse was one, whose expressive countenance and unalloyed delight in social intercourse made it difficult to believe, that more than fourscore years had passed over him. His details of the revolution of 1790, of the secret springs that produced it, and of some terrific scenes which he personally witnessed, and which by a deliberate utterance he politely accommodated to a foreign ear, were to me more graphic than the pages of the historian. The pleasantness with which Age adapts itself to a new generation, and the affectionate manner in which it is welcomed among them, are delightful traits in the character of the French people. The children and descendants of Lafayette are naturally sought with interest by Americans, and their hearts still reciprocate every expression of such regard to their illustrious ancestor. La Grange is consecrated ​ground to those, who, in the words of one of our most elegant writers, the lamented author of Hadad, remember the deeds of the chieftain, who "came to us during our life-struggle in his own ship, freighted with munitions of war, which he gratuitously distributed to our army; clothed and put shoes on the feet of the naked, suffering soldiers; equipped and armed a regiment at his own expense; received no pay, but expended in our service, from 1777 to 1783, the sum of 700,000 francs; and whose name, wherever the pulse of freedom beats, should be pronounced with benedictions."
Literary reputation as well as scientific attainment are highly appreciated in Paris. Intellect, and the labors of intellect, are passports to that temple of honor, which in some other countries must be entered with a key of gold. It is pleasing to see with what enthusiasm Lamartine and Arago are pointed out in their seats, amid the five hundred members of the Chamber of Deputies. The poet De la Vigne, notwithstanding his retiring modesty, is shown exultingly to strangers, and the pen of Guizot has won him more admirers than his political fame. It was gratifying to perceive that our talented countryman, Robert Walsh, Esq., was as highly and truly respected in the capital of France, as in the land of his birth. One of the most imposing audiences, that I remember to have seen while there, was convened in the Palace of the Institute, formerly the Mazarine College, to witness the ​admission of a new member, the Count Molé, into the Institute of France. The assembled academicians, in their becoming uniform, listened intently to his animated inaugural oration, and to the reply of the President Dupin, while, from their niches in the spacious hall, the marble brows of Massillon, Fenelon, and Bossuet, Sully, Descartes, and others, looked down with imperturbable dignity.
Taste for the fine arts forms an integral part of the character of the French. From the saloon of the noble to the shop of the petty marchand des modes, it is seen in every variety of adornment, from the costly painting or chiseled group of the ancient master, to the simple vase of artificial flowers under its glass shade, or the little fancy-clock, that hastens the movements of the needle. The very street-beggar feels a property and a pride, in the decorations of la belle Paris. To rifle a plant, or wound a tree, or deface a statue in the public squares or gardens, is held by the rudest boy an indelible disgrace. Would that it were so everywhere!
In the Louvre, amid that astonishing collection of 1500 arranged pictures, and probably as many more for which the walls of its sumptuous gallery have no space, were groups of artists, of both sexes, diligently employed in copying ad libitum. The department of statuary, notwithstanding the spoils of Italy have been abstracted and restored, is still very extensive. Our party often found themselves attracted towards a love​ly, pensive Polhymnia, and a fine infant Mercury, and imagined among the effigies of the Emperors of Rome some resemblance to their real character, especially in the philosophic features of Marcus Aurelius, the thoughtful brow of Antoninus Pius, and the varied lineaments of Trajan, Severus, and Nerva, Domitian, Nero, and Caracalla; though a youthful Commodus in his gentleness and grace displayed none of those latent evils, which gave the sharpest pang to the deathbed of his father.
Like the Louvre, the Bibliotheque du Roi is fitted up with every accommodation of light, warmth, and silent recess for those who are desirous of profiting by its immense accumulation of 900,000 volumes, and 80,000 manuscripts. The books are in cases, protected by wire grating, and librarians are always in attendance, to reach such as are desired. Tables, with inkstands, are in readiness for those who desire to make extracts, and no conversation is allowed to disturb such as may be engaged in profound researches. It was pleasant to see so many of my own sex seated silently at these tables, and absorbed in the pursuit of knowledge.
The magnificence of the churches in Paris, and the multitude of their paintings, statues, and bas-relievos, are noticed by all. At Notre Dame and St. Roch, we saw the pompous service of the Romish ritual, and the appearance of deep devotion among the worshippers, especially those whose garb announced their ​poverty. But without the doors, and in all the streets, went on the accustomed movements of toil and of pleasure, the building of houses, the digging of trenches, the traffic of market people and tradesmen, the review of troops, the rush of throngs intent on amusement, as if the Almighty had not from the beginning set apart for himself a day of sacred rest. To one inured to the quietness and hallowed observance of a New England Sabbath, this desecration is peculiarly painful.
The pulpit eloquence of France is with much more gesticulation than in England, or our own country. Indeed, the vehement style marks most of the public speaking that we heard there; at the Bourse, where the merchants negotiate sales of stock, and transact other business, at the very top of their voices; in the tribunals, where the advocates plead with their whole bodily force; and in the Chamber of Deputies, where the exciting question of war with England was one morning discussed with such violence, as to excite apprehensions that it might end in actual combat.
The Pantheon, formerly the Church of Genevieve, is a splendid structure, and its dome, being the most elevated one in Paris, affords an extensive prospect. Beneath its pavement is a vast series of vaults, with roofs supported by Tuscan columns, and containing funeral urns, after the fashion of the Roman tombs at Pompeii. While following the dim lamp of our guide, we traversed this subterranean city of the dead, we ​were startled at a loud echo, which, by the construction of two circular passages in the centre of the vaulted area, gives singular force and perpetuity to the slightest sound.
The exterior of the Church of St. Denis, though less elaborate than many others, is striking and sufficiently ornate. The inhumed ashes of the monarchs of France, from Clovis to Louis the Eighteenth, give interest to the spot, and a lesson to human pride. During the madness of the revolution, their repose was violated, but the broken sepulchres and scattered relics were again gathered and reunited. Many of the monuments are exceedingly, costly, and some of their recumbent statues, by a strange perversion of taste, depict the distortions and agonies of death with fearful accuracy.
At the Porte St. Denis is the celebrated triumphal arch, erected to commemorate the victories of Louis the Fourteenth. Its proportions and sculpture are much admired, and surmounting the arch in bas relief, is the king on horseback, represented as crossing the Rhine, with only the inscription, "Ludovico Magno." But in no spot are his ambition and lavish expenditure so conspicuous as in the palace of Versailles, which cannot be explored without remembering its mournful influence on the fates of France, at the birth of the Revolution. A double row of colossal statues of the great of other days, receive the visitant at the gates. The paintings, the tapestry, the ​statues, the fountains, it would require volumes to describe. Gallery after gallery astonishes the sight. Here Ludovico Magno, as he was fond of being styled, is multiplied by the pencil in the most imposing forms of martial and regal state. The departments allotted to Napoleon are still blazing with the portraiture of his battles, and the trophies of his renown. Yet in such a place, even more it would seem than amid the tombs, the mind is led to reflect on the vanity of mortal glory. Descending a hundred marble steps, we visited the immense orangery, where amid throngs of these trees we were shown one said to be three hundred, and another four hundred years old, still vigorous and in healthful bearing. At our departure, surfeited with splendor, from this great Babylon, created for the pride and praise of men who are now but dust, we were beset at the gates by the saddest and lowest forms of mendicity, who in piteous accents supplicated for a single sous.
The two small palaces of Grand and Petit Trianon are within the gardens of Versailles. The first was erected by the Grand Monarque for Madame Maintenon, and we saw there the sedan-chair, rich with gilding and velvet, in which she used to be borne around the magnificent grounds. Among the pictures was one commemorating our national era of the "Surrender at Yorktown," in which Washington, in an antiquated uniform, makes rather a quaint appearance. Every apartment in this beautiful palace, especially ​the working rooms of the present queen and the sister of Louis Philippe, displays consummate taste in the arrangement and adaptation to each other, of the hangings, sofas, chairs, mirrors, and different articles of furniture.
Le Petit Trianon was built by Louis the Fifteenth for Madame Dubarri. Afterwards it was given by Louis the Sixteenth to Marie Antoinette, who beautified its grounds by her taste, and erected among them the imitation of a little Swiss village. It is surrounded by many fine trees, of which some are American. Here Louis the Fifteenth was called to render up his breath, and here the son of Napoleon was born. Among the tasteful articles exhibited, is a bed, draped with muslin, embroidered in gold, which formerly belonged to Maria Louisa. It is at present occupied by the Duke de Nemours and his beautiful bride. Both these fine structures have some exquisite pictures.
We were persevering in visiting the palaces of Paris and its environs, with other objects and institutions of interest, notwithstanding the severity of the winter. Having heard so much of the fine climate of France, we were surprised at being sometimes enveloped in those dense black fogs, which we flattered ourselves had been left behind in London. Snow frequently descended, and lay thickly upon the roofs for several weeks; the horses, not properly shod, fell upon the slippery pavements, and received no mercy from their drivers; and the sufferings of the improvident poor ​were terrible. The inhabitants asserted that a season of such intense and protracted cold had not been experienced for many years. The Seine froze in December, on the night after the ceremony of the reception of Bonaparte's remains. It was feared that the period of that grand pageant might be fixed on for some popular tumult, as symptoms of disaffection towards the government, especially of exasperation against the English, had for some time been revealing themselves. During the day the Marsellois Hymn, the ancient signal of outbreak, had been heard hoarsely uplifted, with here and there cries among the crowd of "a bas les traiteurs!" Some of us, nurtured in a peaceful land, were considerably alarmed, not so much for our own personal safety, as lest our eyes should be shocked by sights of conflict and bloodshed. But the extreme cold, benumbing nerve and muscle, and checking all effervescence of animal spirits, probably operated as a protection to the peace of the city; on the same principle that Marshal Soult once quelled the beginning of a formidable insurrection, by causing the engines to play plentifully upon the malcontents. Would that all distinguished commanders were equally ingenious and merciful in substituting water for blood.
Among the slighter traits of French character, we could not but notice that variety and fruitfulness of resource, by which a little was made sufficient for the necessities of life; and the respect which was shown ​to a just economy. No false shame was evinced at the confession, "I should like such a thing, but cannot afford it;" and a moderate expenditure seemed not only consistent with entire contentment, but counted more reputable than the appearance of wealth without its reality.
Another still more delightful trait is the sweet and affectionate deportment of children to their parents. This is discoverable among all ranks. It reveals itself in the zealous attentions and offices, which a younger hand can extend to those who are wearied with the cares of life, as well as in the marked and tender attentions, which are sometimes omitted by those whose filial virtue has still a deep root, and would be called into vigorous action by any emergency. Surely this is an affection which should beautify the intercourse of every day, yet continually humble itself for its inadequacy to repay that great love of a parent, which is the best earthly symbol of a Love Divine, in which we "live, and move, and have our being."