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PROPERTY OF THE
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I    -1                                              I.  -,,                                                                                                           1 ., 1.




















MODERN FRENCHMEN.
FIVE BIOGRAPHIES.
BY
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON,
AUTHOR OF  ROUND MY HOUSE,  " THE SYLVAN YEAR," ETC., ETC.


Quamz bene vivas refert, non quamdiu.
SENECA.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1878.




Copyrzht, I878,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
Cambridge:
Press of 7yohn Wilson &S Son.




PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.


TH   ERE are some curious passages in the Life of
Harriet Martineau, which may throw light on a
subject very closely connected with the present volume.
When Miss Martineau's reputation was established,
and she had given up novel-writing, Charlotte Bronte
persuaded her to try her hand once more upon a story
which was to be published anonymously by Smith &
Elder. The novel was begun, and the manuscript of
the first volume sent to Mr. George Smith, who received
it warmly, and predicted a great success; but, as the
work advanced a little further, he declined the publication altogether, on the ground that it was favorable to
Roman Catholics.  The story must be true, as the
biography which contains it was issued by the publishing firm in question. There is also a story about Charles
Dickens of a very similar character. Miss Martineau
had written a tale for " Household Words," but Dickens
declined it on the ground that one of the characters was
a priest and yet a good man, a combination which he considered inadmissible, because it might help the influence
of Romanism.




iv      Preface to the American Edition.


I suppose neither Mr. George Smith nor Charles
Dickens would have published the present volume.
They acted upon a principle which is often tacitly
accepted as a rule of conduct, but very seldom avowed
openly, -the principle that it is an error in policy to
recognize in any way the merits of those who differ
from us.
If mankind were really and hopelessly in a state of
war, in which all justice, truth, and honor were permanently suspended, and life had but a single purpose,
to do the enemy as little good and as much injury as
possible, then, of course, in a conflict where the pen is
the best weapon, it would be the error of a dupe to use
it to the enemy's advantage. The proper course in such
a warfare would be to avoid with the greatest care any
recognition of an opponent's merits, to exhibit his errors
and failings in a light at once odious and absurd, to give
him credit for no motive that could do him honor, to
ascribe his actions to the basest self-interest, and to
deface whatever beauty might adorn his character.
This is constantly and habitually done in the ruthless
antagonism of low controversy, where justice is avoided
as carefully as generosity, and the object of the speaker
or the writer is to injure, by fair means or by foul, all
sects and parties but his own.
Such a temper and such conduct as those which I have
just been describing are not at all repugnant to the ordinary instincts of mankind: they are, indeed, only too perfectly human. The natural instinct of a man is to do
what harm he can to his opponent, even when the op



Preface to tMe Americanz Edilion.


v


position is simply religious, political, or intellectual, and
is free from the antipathies of race. The notion of
justice is quite foreign to this primitive human instinct:
the idea of sympathy with those who differ from us is
of still later growth; and yet, without sympathy, justice
itself must be cold and incomplete. Imagine an attempt
to give an account, without sympathy, of such a character
as that of Henri Perreyve! He lived habitually in a
condition of very pure and elevated sentiment; and, if
you refuse your sympathy to the sentiment, you cannot
describe the man, you cannot even understand him. I
may be asked how I can feel sympathy with sentiments
not my own. The answer is easy. The sentiments, if
not exactly my own, may be much nearer to mine than
the intellectual condition which accompanied them.
Perreyve and I would heartily agree in the love of
truth, in the sense of satisfaction in the performance
of duty, in the feeling of dissatisfaction when falling short
of its full performance, in the admiration for an ideal
elevation of character, and the humble desire to gain a
little of such elevation for ourselves. We should heartily
agree in an unfeigned contempt for all worldly advantages
in comparison with the far higher pleasure of fulfilling
our own vocation, we should be equally willing to do
loyal service when the claim upon our time and effort
was undeniable. If, after this, we went further, to the
application of these general principles, we should immediately encounter those differences which are the
result of circumstances and of intellectual situations.
Though at one in the love of truth, we should not be




vi       Preface to lhe American Edition.


of the same opinion as to what was historically true;
though, agreed in the desire to do our duty, we should
differ about the question, In what does duty consist?
We should alike have a reverence for the ideal, but should
discover on comparison that our ideals were not identical. To take a single example, our opinions about the
mother of Jesus. For Perreyve, she was the queen of
the Sciences, a supernaturally lucid intelligence, to whom
science and art were open without an effort; for me, she
possessed whatever science and art may have been accessible to the popular mind in her time and country.
No reliable information has reached me about any exceptional scientific knowledge in the wife of Joseph the
carpenter; and, in my complete ignorance on the subject, I conclude that she probably knew very much what
was known to others of her sex and country and class.
Again, Perreyve speaks elsewhere of her extraordinary
beauty. I know nothing about this except from Raphael,
and I know that Raphael drew from Roman models
whom he deliberately idealized. Am I, then, to apply
to Perreyve that familiar alternative of "knave or fool"
which men apply so easily to those who think differently
from themselves? Certainly not. Perreyve's idealization of Mary is nothing but an extreme instance of
what we see every day, -the common tendency of human
nature to attribute all imaginable merits to an object of
admiration; and the less men really know about the
object, the more liberally will their imaginations adorn
it. Such an idealization is compatible not only with
soundness of mind, but with brilliant intellectual power:




Preface to the American Editioz.


vii


indeed, it is probable that there is hardly a single intellectual man now living in the world who has not in
this way idealized some woman, more or less, by attributing to her a degree of intelligence and a range of
information considerably beyond her real capacity and
acquirements. This is what I desire to insist upon. We
are all idealists more or less in some corner of our brains,
and we ought to be able to bear with the idealisms of
others. Compare the real Queen Victoria with the ideal!
The real person, in this instance, is a lady of high culture
and irreproachable character, anxious to do what is right;
but there are many other ladies in England of whom
this may be said, and whose characters excite no enthusiasm whatever. The enthusiasm inspired by Queen
Victoria, and by all good and many bad sovereigns in
monarchical countries, is due to the idealizing tendency
of the human mind, and to nothing whatever else. Nay,
it is not even necessary that there should be, or have
been, a living human being to be clothed with the splendors of the ideal. A mere mental conception has often
done equally well. The gods of Greece were simply
mental conceptions, and yet the Greek enthusiasm about
them was so very much in earnest that it went ill with
those who spoke lightly of these imaginary beings and
their attributes, and to incur the suspicion of scepticism
about the reality of these popular conceptions exposed a
Greek to the terrible accusation of impiety. Even in our
own day, we see many Frenchmen renounce the monarchical ideal, which transfigures a crowned human being, for
the idealization of a mere mental conception called la




viii    Preface to the Americana Edition.


Repzpblique, a conception which the sculptors are set to
realize in colossal statues, and which already exists as
a mighty imaginary woman, from whom all good things
are to be expected, in the fanciful brain of the people.
I can imagine some very earnest Protestant telling me
that I am a dupe in praising a Roman Catholic priest,
because the Church of Rome is the sworn foe of that
which is dearest to a man of letters, -the liberty of
thought and expression.
The answer is that, by cultivating the love of justice
in the public mind, of justice towards all, including
priests of every denomination, a writer is in fact rendering the best service to liberty of thought, because that
condition of public opinion which has accepted the idea
of justice as the director of its influence is the best
of all possible safeguards against sacerdotal tyranny.
Again, it is only in complete ignorance of history that
we can look upon the Roman Catholic priesthood as
the one great danger to mental freedom. Some of the
most intolerant laws that ever disgraced a statutebook have been passed by Protestant parliaments. The
English Conventicle Act, which punished by fine, imprisonment, and transportation, all meetings of more
than five persons for any religious worship but that of
the prayer-book, was passed by a Parliament whose
Protestantism had been amply vindicated only twelve
months before by the banishment of all Roman Catholic
priests. This single instance may suffice; but the history of the last three hundred years abounds in evidence
that the spirit of intolerance has not been confined to




Preface to tMie American Edition.


ix


any particular sect. To be incessantly anxious about
the encroachments of one, and careless about the influence of all others, would be the mistake of a general
who thinks only of a single outpost when he is threatened
in flank and rear.
Surely, the world is old enough by this time to have
got over the first violent instinct of antagonism which a
difference of opinion would arouse to unreasoning animosity. Surely, people may now endure to hear the
simple truth, often the beautiful truth, about those who
are divided from them by the barriers of usage, nationality, and tradition!
A biography is like a painted picture: it ought not
to be a coarse, rough sketch, or a caricature. If the
painter feels some admiration for his subject, the result
will be the better for his admiration, provided that it
is not strong enough to overcome his judgment. He
should be able to recognize, and willing to represent,
whatever is really characteristic of his hero with the
simple clearness of a conscientious artist. He should
state opinions fairly, but it is not his business to controvert them; he should not pass in silence the errors or
failings of his subject, but it is not his business to excite
public odium against them. I have compared the work
of the biographer to that of the painter, but it may
frequently bear a nearer resemblance to the humbler
employment of the picture-cleaner. There may be cases
when his duty is not so much to paint a new picture as
to make one that has been already painted more clearly
visible, by removing what obscures it, whilst reverently




x       Preface to the American Edilion.


respecting and carefully preserving those delicacies of
tone and detail, those thin glazes of transparent or semitransparent color, on which both its beauty and its truth
depend. This is not to be done by scraping down to
the bare canvas, and it is not to be done by daubing
additions; but it may be accomplished by method and
patience, united to watchful care.
Of the men whose lives are narrated in this volume,
three died young, - one passed middle age, and one
reached old age in the plenitude of his faculties. The
old man, the sculptor Rude, is, in my opinion, by far the
greatest man of the five, and perhaps the only one to
whom greatness may be properly attributed, but all the
five are men of power and energy and of high character,
and they have all had influence on the present generation, which is more closely and immediately felt than that
of the distant immortals, and which is far from being
exhausted. In giving to Rude alone the epithet great,
in the highest sense, I ought to add that one or two
others of my subjects would probably have deserved
it, had they lived beyond middle age. Victor Jacquemont, with his indomitable energy and industry, and the
wonderful acuteness of his intellectual faculties, would
almost inevitably have attained to indisputable greatness.in science; and Henri Regnault, with his strong memory, keen observation, and evident manual power, might
have taken a great rank in art, equivalent, possibly, to the
rank of Eugene Delacroix. Perreyve was evidently not a
man of great intellect, and I do not see that he had the
greatness of religious power and leadership as Lacordaire




Preface lo tfe American Editio0.


xi


had it, for example, or even as John Henry Newman undoubtedly has it still; but the influence of his character,
with its remarkable purity and singleness of purpose,
may be wider than that of greatness. itself. It is doing
good still in two very different ways: it is detaching
many Roman Catholics from the political reaction and
making them more tolerant, both towards Protestantism
and towards free thought; whilst, on the other hand, it
has won the respect of many outside the Church, and
made them less indisposed to recognize what is really
good in her. Such characters, when they happily become influential, are like oil upon the tempestuous
waters of religious and political animosity, and, if they
were more numerous, we might reasonably hope for a
future in which the different religious communities might
pursue their various ideals in peace, alike protected by
the secular power, whilst those who are unable to attach
themselves conscientiously to any one of them might
lead lives unembittered by contumely, and devote themselves, like Rude, to the austere duties of home and
family; or, like Jacquemont, to science and humanity;
or, like Henri Regnault, to their country in her need.
P. G. H.
SEPT., I878.




I




PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.


IN selecting the subjects of these five short biographies, I have been guided chiefly by feelings of
personal interest, from a belief that when the writer is
interested there is always some probability that the
reader will be so too. I do not intend to convey an
indirect lesson against international injustice, being fully
persuaded that the old British scorn of Frenchmen, and
of all foreigners whatever, is now dying out of itself,
and giving place to an intelligent desire to know something accurately about them. Such men as those whose
lives are narrated here are certainly worth attention,
especially for one characteristic which is common to all
of them, and which gives a certain unity to my book, I
mean vigor and intensity of life. They may be sometimes misdirected, but they never become dull, languid,
or indifferent: they work with all their intelligence, they
love with all their hearts, and they keep their bodily
powers in full activity, not the activity of the athlete, but
of the gentleman. My five modern Frenchmen are, I
am well aware, superior to the average of their countrymen, and it is probable that no country or city which




xiv


Preface to the English Editioun.


ever existed has ever brought its average citizens up to
this level, or to any thing approaching it; but at the
same time I may add that my little list of five does not
by any means exhaust the catalogue of modern Frenchmen whose lives I would willingly write. It would be
easy to compose another volume about other modern
Frenchmen not inferior to these; and amongst living
men, too modest to look for any thing like notoriety, I
have very frequently recognized qualities which belong
to my present heroes, - the simplicity of Rude, the fire
of Henri Regnault, the industry of Ampere, the sociability of Victor Jacquemont, the purity of Perreyve.
These qualities may, I think, be increased to some extent in ourselves by the study of those lives in which
they shone with a more than ordinary lustre, and it may
be an acceptable service to make such'lives more generally known.
I may add, with regard to materials, that my biographies are founded, wherever possible, on letters; and,
when these were wanting, on accounts furnished by near
friends of the subject. In the cases of Jacquemont and
Ampere, the letters were delightfully abundant; in that
of Rude, they were unfortunately rare. In all cases alike,
I have been careful to sift and compare my materials,
and believe that the strict accuracy of the narratives
may be relied upon.


MAY, I878.




CONTENTS.
PAGE
VICTOR JACQUEMONT,
Traveller and Naturalist.......  I
HENRI PERREYVE,
Ecclesiastic and Orator.........  g09
FRANCOIS RUDE,
Sculptor............  I68
JEAN JACQUES AMPERE,
Historian, Archeologist, Traveller.....  234
HENRI REGNAULT,
Painter and Patriot..........  346




I




MODERN FRENCHMEN.
VICTOR JACQUEMONT.
IT is almost an indiscretion to read the letters of
Victor Jacquemont; for he wrote in the confidence
of private friendship, and was so far from anticipating
publicity that he even disapproved of quotation from
his correspondence, and endeavored to forget that his
friends exchanged his letters amongst themselves.
Even such a limited degree of publicity as that resulting from the circulation of a single manuscript amongst
those who knew and loved him would have been
enough, if he had allowed his mind to dwell upon it,
to put a drag upon his pen, and prevent it from running
along the paper with the careless felicity and the remarkable swiftness which distinguished it. If Jacquemont could have foreseen that a day would come when
hundreds of his most frank and intimate letters would
be in the hands of ten thousand readers, he would have
written with more reserve, and we should have lost one
of the few really perfect opportunities of studying the
nature of the man. It is fortunate that Jacquemont's
I




2


ilModern Frenchmen.


obscurity during life- obscurity, I mean, so far as the
European public was concerned - left him to the last
without the slightest suspicion that whilst hastily scribbling, often amidst circumstances the most adverse to
literary composition, he was writing what would be
afterwards one of the most famous books of autobiography in the world. In the cabin of a ship rolling and
pitching on the Atlantic, under a thin tent in the freezing air of the snowy Himalaya, and beneath' the pitiless
blaze of summer in the plains of Central India, he wrote
with the same vivacity, the same frankness and ease,
the same unfailing charm. Victor Jacquemont's literary facility would be a fortune to a professional man of
letters, and yet he never knew that he possessed any
literary talent or skill; he thought of himself simply as
a wandering savant writing to his friends to beguile his
loneliness, to cheat the sense of distance by turning his
thoughts to those he had left in Europe, and to keep
the friendships he valued alive until his return. The
energy of his literary faculty found a happy exercise in
letter-writing; and, when he sat down with a supply,of
paper before him, he covered sheet after sheet with a
rapidity which is surprising in itself, and is much more
surprising when we consider the admirable quality of
what he wrote, -the light and elegant yet perfectly constructed language, nimble and active as a gazelle; the
keen observations on men and things which follow each
other in such abundance; the profound yet genial philosophy which pervades both narrative and criticism; and
the delightful mixture of vigorous thinking with tender




Vzicor 7acquernonft.


3


feeling, or alternation from one to the other. One day,
being at sea, he felt an impulse to write to M. de Tracy,
and gave his pen its liberty: the letter now occupies
forty-two pages of print. On another occasion, being
on the bank of the Hydaspes, he covered fifty-eight
sheets in a day,-a wonderful feat of penmanship, if we
consider nothing but the swiftness of the hand. There
are hardly any corrections in his manuscripts, even in
his scientific journals; and, when letters and journals
went to the press, the only errors that had to be set right
were those of the printer. Here, then, is a natural gift
of writing, a natural communicativeness with the pen;
but the gift was not cultivated consciously. The inborn
talent was never developed into an art: it was simply
an intellectual activity which satisfied certain needs of
Jacquemont's richly endowed nature, after the physical
activity of travelling. He would ride for several hours,
and then sit down in his tent to relieve his mind by the
facile exercise of the pen. When weary of the dull
society on board ship, he had the same resource. Yet,
although literature was to him a mere play of the mind
after the fatigues of scientific labor and the hardships
of travel, his production in a few years was by no means
inconsiderable. Four volumes of his letters have been
published; and, besides these, there are six quarto volumes of his scientific journals. This is much indeed,
considering the kind of life the author was leading when
he wrote.
The personal appearance of Victor Jacquemont was
peculiar and remarkable, so that people who had once




4


Modern, Frenchmen.


seen him remembered him afterwards without difficulty.
His height was five feet ten inches, French measure,
which is equivalent to six feet four inches, English.
This fine stature was not, however, accompanied by any
corresponding development of the muscles, which in his
case were the reverse of athletic, yet wiry and capable
of surprising endurance. He loved the warm, tropical
air, and said that, although his long, thin body could
hardly be compared to a rosebud, he felt as if it made
him bloom. He amused himself, in his letters, by describing his meagre person in the flowing robes of the
East, surmounted by a pale face with spectacles and a
long moustache, shaded by a great, wide-brimmed straw
hat. The spectacles betray, what was really a misfortune for an ardent traveller and student, the defective
condition of his sight. He declared that seeing was
not to him a physical pleasure, but simply a satisfaction
of the mind; and his own imperfect experience led him
to the erroneous conclusion that sight was the most obtuse of all our senses. In other respects, he was better
gifted. His long limbs were not moulded like those of
a Greek statue, but they were good for use,-the proof
being that he could walk fifteen leagues a day without
fatigue. He could maintain health and strength on
short rations, -a most valuable accomplishment for a
traveller. To conciliate the good-will of strangers, Nature had endowed him with a singularly musical and
persuasive voice, to which few could listen without
yielding to the charm, and which was a means of conquest for him as beauty is for a woman. Besides these




Victor Yacquemnonlt.


5


gifts, he had all the courages: the courage of the nerves,
which can retain perfect self-possession in danger; moral
courage, which is not to be cowed by the ostentation of
splendor and power; and the courage of the intellect,
which will not be deterred by toil, and looks truth
straight in the face.
In I830, Victor Jacquemont's father was seventy-four
years old. He had all his life been a moderate liberal
in politics, and so incurred the suspicions of the police
during the despotism of Napoleon I. Fouche ordered
his house to be searched, took away his books and
papers, and put him into prison without trial, keeping
him closely confined in a dark and narrow room for the
space of eleven months. During these months, his son
Victor, then a child eight years old, went twice a week
to the prison, and there was taught to read and to write.
There were no grounds for suspicion against the prisoner except that he had been a liberal member of the
French parliament, and was the friend of some eminent
men whom Napoleon did not like. He was a man of
cultivated intelligence, gifted, like his son, with a remarkable facility as a writer. It is said that he never
made an erasure in the manuscripts of his voluminous
works. His scholarly accomplishments -for he. had
been Director of Public Instruction, and was a Corresponding Member of the Institute-enabled him to
give an effectual direction to the education of his son.
Victor afterwards studied medicine, but less with the intention of following it as a profession than as a part of
his extensive general education. He pursued chemistry




6


6M/odern Frenchmen.


in earnest, in the laboratory of the famous chemist
Thenard; and there an accident happened to him which
affected the course of his whole life. Whilst engaged
in an experiment with cyanogen, he was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of an idle visitor, and somehow
broke the vessel containing the deadly gas. The emanations produced such an effect upon the larynx that for
some time laryngean phthisis was apprehended; and, to
avert this, the patient went to stay in the country at La
Grange, the well-known residence of General Lafayette,
who was a friend of his family. His recovery was slow,
but satisfactory; and, in order that it might not be interfered with, he devoted himself chiefly to those scientific
studies which can be pursued in the open air, including
botany and agriculture. The early maturity of his
mind is proved by a letter addressed by him, at the age
of nineteen, to a friend of his, M. de Tracy, an agriculturist at Paray. He had been travelling in Picardy and
Artois, and had made it his business during this excursion to observe the farms and plantations. IHe gives a
resume of these observations in the letter to M. de
Tracy, which occupies thirteen pages of print, and is as
thoroughly business-like a document as if it had been a
report prepared for a Minister by an agent of twice his
years. Besides this excursion, he made many others in
the most picturesque regions of France and Switzerland, but much more in the spirit of a man of science
than with the feelings of an artist. There was an artistic element in his nature, but it had nothing to do
with the sense of sight: the artist in Jacquemon-t was




Victor 7acquemonzt.


7


altogether musical. He delighted in music, and understood it.
The poisonous cyanogen had driven Victor Jacquemont away from Paris; and now another evil, as dangerous to his moral well-being as the gas had been to his
bodily health, was to drive him away from France. No
details about this are known to the public; but it is
known that in the year 1826, at which date he was twentyfive years old, a hopeless passion took possession of him,
that he struggled against it with all the energy of his
will, and finally sought safety by placing the Atlantic
Ocean between himself and the lady who had enslaved
him. The indifferent reader may smile at this, for
strong passions are uncommon in these days, or at least
not often avowed, and those who suffer from them are
likely to incur more ridicule than sympathy; but when
the passion of love first takes possession of such a man
as Jacquemont, and the obstacles are not to be overcome, he must either conquer it by sheer strength of
will, or waste his manhood in the vainest of all longings
and regrets. Jacquemont, like all ardent and energetic
natures, had at the same time strong passions and a
strong will to govern them; but the inward battle was
not won without suffering.
Who the lady was, we have never been told; but
there is a passage in the correspondence which refers to
country rides on horseback, to wild gallopings on the
heather, in despair. He speaks, too, of a lady who galloped one foggy morning; but when they met their horses
went more quietly, and he noticed that there had been




8


Modernt French/men.


tears in her eyes. If this incident refers to the serious
and dangerous passion which Jacquemont was fighting
against in 1826, he must have met the lady in the country during a visit to some chateau in a wild and lonely
part of France,- a region of heather and rough roads.
Victor Jacquemont had two brothers, named Porphyre
and Frederic. Porphyre was ten years his senior, and
Frederic two. The eldest was an officer in the army, a
captain of artillery; the second was in business in the
West Indies. The captain had a warm fraternal affection for his youngest brother, which was heartily returned, with a perfect trust and confidence, and lasted,
unchilled by absence, until death put an end even to
epistolary intercourse. Towards Frederic the sentiment
of confidence and friendship was not so lively; nevertheless, when Victor determined to leave France, his
first thought was to visit his brother in the remote
West Indian island.  Porphyre accompanied him to
Havre, from  whence he sailed to New York on an
American vessel, and thence to St. Domingo. There
are some amusing letters about this first experience of
the sea, but I have not space for details of this kind.
Jacquemont, as a man of science, was rather taken
aback by the condition of the ship's medical stores.
There were twenty-four drugs, all in confusion, and no
scales to weigh doses. The system of administering
these medicines was not regulated by the malady to be
combated, but by the quantity of the drugs in store.
Whatever the ailment, the rule was to administer the
drug of which the stock was greatest; and the sailors




Victor 7acquzemont.


9


had the most perfect confidence in this system, which
seems to have answered admirably. Without presuming
too much upon his medical and surgical knowledge,
Jacquemont never hesitated to use it when he knew
more than any one else within call; so he acted as surgeon on the ship, and took care of a young sailor whose
arm was accidentally broken. Besides this occupation,
he had plenty to do in improving his knowledge of
English.
No one with so lively an intelligence as that of Victor
Jacquemont could land in a country entirely new to
him, and different in almost all respects from his own,
without receiving very strong impressions; but I think
it better to defer the consideration of these until I have
to consider his criticisms of other nations, which will
supply materials for a comparison. He landed at New
York on the eighth of December, 1826, stayed there
until the twentieth of January next year, and then sailed
for Port-au-Prince, where he arrived a month later, after
a slow but pleasant passage, during which he could
study quietly. He enjoyed the increasing warmth of
the voyage southwards, and felt himself in a state of
physical well-being highly favorable to the labors of the
mind. This physical serenity had probably also a beneficial influence in enabling him to bear more easily the
love-sorrow which had driven him to distant shores.
The tone of his letters from the West Indies is calm,
and their practical philosophy reminds one of Montaigne.
It was always rather a habit with Jacquemont to talk
about his bodily state in very intimate letters, not in the




IO


Modern Frenchmen.


least from any morbid tendency, but merely because he
was wise enough to know that little can be done in this
life without health, and that for great performance something even more than ordinary health is needed. He
always aspired to, and often enjoyed, that happy equilibrium of the organism in which the body obeys the
mind without effort, and the mind goes to its purposes
without hindrance. No sacrifice of mere pleasure appeared to him too high a price for such a condition as
this. "I bear life lightly," he wrote from the West
Indies. "The climate here is perfection, and I desire
no change. Every constitution has its own needs, and
mine are marvellously satisfied here."
Victor Jacquemont stayed three months at Hayti,
with his brother Frederic; and during this sojourn an
event occurred to him which had nothing to do with the
West Indian islands, but diverted his attention to the
East. A letter reached him from the administration
of the Jardin des Plantes at Paris, proposing that he
should undertake an expedition in India for the purpose
of studying its ethnology, geology, and botany, in the
interest of science in general and of the Jardin des
Plantes in particular. He had some doubts at first about
the sufficiency of his intellectual preparation for a task
requiring such a variety of knowledge; but a feeling of
confidence, if not in what he knew already, at least in
his powers of acquisition and determination to learn
more, at length carried the day. He wrote to accept
the offer, and by so doing sealed his own fate and
assured his fame, accepting, though he knew it not, an




Victor Jacquemont.


II


early death and that posthumous celebrity which men
vainly call immortality.
After a second sojourn in New York and some excursions in the Northern States, Victor Jacquemont
returned to France in the autumn of 1827, and at once
set about preparing for his Indian expedition. The day
of departure came at last; and the separation from his
father and his brother Porphyre has been minutely described by an eye-witness, M. Prosper Merimee. There
was a striking resemblance, on one or two points, between Jacquemont's character and what we are accustomed to consider the typical English character. Like
the English, he was energetic and ready to go anywhere;
like the English, he was stoical, and had a great dislike
to the betrayal of tender emotion. " The last day that
he spent at Paris," says M. Prosper Merimee, "I dined
with him and with his father and his brother Porphyre.
The repast was any thing but gay, and yet a stranger
would not have suspected that this united family was on
the eve of a long separation. When the hour of departure had come, Victor embraced his father, and said:
'I hope you will take care of your health. Avoid taking
cold.' 'Don't be anxious. Send us news of yourself
when you can,' the father answered, as he removed his
spectacles, and took a volume of Walter Scott, which he
read alternately with some metaphysical book. An old
servant burst into tears. Victor went down the stair
rather faster than was his wont. When he had taken
his place in the mail for Brest, he took my hand and
said, in as firm a voice as he could command, ' You will




12


Modern Frenchmen.


go to see him often.' He was so young, his health
seemed so robust, there was in him such a happy mixture of resolution and prudence, that no evil presentiment occurred to me."
The traveller sailed from Brest at the end of August
in the year 1828, he being then twenty-seven years old.
The ship, La Zelee, was a man-of-war, bound for Bengal,
with the new governor of Pondicherry on board, M. de
Meslay; and our hero had his berth in the same ship,
on account of his official capacity as a naturalist with
a mission from the government. The Ze7ee had most
respectable qualities, but she was slow, and the voyage
before her was very long; for her first destination was
Brazil, after which she was to recross the Atlantic from
Brazil to the Cape of Good Hope, and then sail up the
Indian Ocean to the Bay of Bengal, -rather a roundabout way of getting from France to Pondicherry,
especially if we compare it with modern steam locomotion through the Isthmus of Suez and across the Indian
Peninsula. Having so much sea-life before him, Jacquemont quietly took up his residence on board ship, and
set to work at his studies with great energy. " Not
much work (of a studious.kind) is done on board, yet
more than I should have believed. I am seldom alone
in reading and writing of an evening, when a pretty
lamp hanging from the ceiling sheds its light on our
great, green-covered dining-table, and our room seems
like the prettiest of studies. Here I make long sittings,
and always feel some satisfaction after them, for I work
easily and pleasantly. I mix my readings so as to rest




Viclor 7acqzlemonzl.


I 3


myself by change, and they are all of them like a light
embroidery on the grave business of learning Persian."
In another letter, he compares the uniformity of life at
sea to that of the cloister, -a uniformity which would
harmonize well with a studious life, if sailors could be
studious, - but " the day drags on, wasted in idle talk."
Besides this inconvenience, Jacquemont complains that
a ship-of-war is far noisier than a merchantman. Horribly shrill whistles are used instead of words of command; even the drum is used, and on fine afternoons
the cannons thunder during the artillery exercise, or one
is disturbed by volleys of musketry. At first, all these
noises put out our Oriental student considerably; but
he soon got accustomed to them, and such is the effect
of habit that after a while he hardly noticed them at all.
Worse than whistles, drums, cannon, and musketry, was
the intolerable affliction of universal singing, from
which the only escape was to jump into the sea. It
gives one a strange notion of the discipline on board a
French man-of-war, but Jacquemont affirms that on the
Zedee, without respect for the presence of the governor
of Pondicherry, about fifty voices of officers and men
were perpetually singing tie songs of Beranger, each
vocalist in his own key, and without even keeping to his
key. Most studious persons would have found this hard
to bear; but imagine the effect of it on Jacquemont,
who was not only a student, but a musician with a fastidious and cultivated taste! After a while, he began to
long for better-informed society than that of the officers,
whose ignorance, by his account of it, was something




I4


Mloderm  Frenchmen.


wonderful.  Taken out of the naval school at sixteen, and put on board ship without having had even
time to visit their families, they had been sailing about
ever since, with only a few months' leave. They were all
good enough sailors, and could work the routine business of their profession; but they had not "even the
most superficial ideas of astronomy, mechanics, or
natural philosophy generally." No one on board knew
accurately the difference between the barometer and the
thermometer; and, notwithstanding their voyages in the
Mediterranean and elsewhere, not one of them knew
a word of English or Italian.  In short, Jacquemont
affirmed that these officers knew nothing but their
trade. They had, however, one very great recommendation: they lived together in the most perfect fellowship
and good humor, and admitted Jacquemont into their
society with a cordiality which he appreciated.
At Rio, his feelings of humanity, always very sensitive, were outraged by the arrival of several slave-ships,
with crowded and miserable cargoes covered with horrible maladies; whilst in the city on the shore, by way of
contrast, glittered the wealth and luxury which call
themselves civilization. Moral evil afflicted and irritated Jacquemont, though he did not weakly shrink
from the contemplation of it; and, if the kidnapped
negroes excited his pity, he felt both contempt and disgust for their masters, "with their external European
varnish of elegance and politeness, their gold lace, their
diamond stars, their ribands, their titles, their ignorance,




Victor 7aczuczmont.


I5


their cowardice, and their dishonesty."  He calls Brazil
"the abomination of desolation, with its hundreds of
viscounts and marquises, and no respectable middle
class."  He does not much respect the French colony
either, which consists of modistes, tailors, and hairdressers; and he speaks English in order not to be
confounded with them. Let us hope that Brazil has
improved since 1828, and is now better worthy of its
present manly and enlightened Emperor.
By way of varying his experience of sea-voyaging,
Jacquemont witnesses three things on the Zelee in
which few would much desire to participate; namely, a
collision, a naval engagement, and a good rattling tropical tempest. The collision took place, in a very lumbering fashion, in the port of Rio itself, where there is
abundance of sea-room. A merchant-ship was riding
quietly at anchor, when the Ziee boldly ran into her,
and smashed both spars and oaken ribs, but luckily no
bones. This kept the travellers a week longer at Rio,
during the repairs. The naval engagement took place
to the east of the Cape of Good Hope, and only amused
the crew of the Ze'e, though it might have been rather
serious for the other vessel, which was English. The
Zeiee, more zealous than the occasion warranted, delivered one broadside, and was ready to deliver another,
when the enemy, who had fired no guns at all, made
signals of submission. Jacquemont, being the only man
who could speak English, was sent to board her with a
party of sailors armed to the teeth, and with a collection
of loaded pistols in the boat beneath their feet. There




i6


Modern Frenchmen.


was no occasion for the pistols, however, as the enemy
turned out to be nothing but a most peaceful Liverpool
merchantman, with a cargo of goods and three passengers. The captain and crew were extremely civil, but
rather alarmed. The only harm done by the broadside
was a broken yard and a torn sail. Jacquemont pretended to scold the Liverpool skipper for having come
near another vessel in the night, and the skipper made
most humble apologies for the broadside that had been
directed against him. The passengers were prodigal of
friendliness, not desiring a second broadside, and made
Jacquemont drink some champagne. The worst of this
adventure was an accident that happened to one of the
French sailors, who broke his arm, which had to be amputated, and Jacquemont tied the arteries. He was
always cool and ready when any services were required
of him.
The Zedee went on so slowly that they called her a
wooden shoe. It had taken her sixty days to go from
Brest to Rio de Janeiro, and seventy-four days from Rio
to Bourbon Island. Here the Zeide would have rested
for some days after her great labors, but she was caught
in one of those fearful storms which demolish houses
and cover the coasts with wreck. The Zedee went out
to sea again, for more safety; lost some spars, all her
boats, an anchor, and part of her bulwarks; and shipped
so many seas that she had three feet of water between
decks, which flowed into the hold. However, not a life
was lost, though the only two officers on board remained sixty hours at a stretch on deck without sleep



Vic/or Yaciuemonl.


I 7


ing. Meanwhile, Victor Jacquemont, lucky fellow, was
comfortably established on shore as the guest of a
wealthy colonist, the only impediment to his happiness
being anxiety for his books and instruments on the ship,
which fortunately took no harm. The deliberate Ze/ee
occupied forty days from Bourbon to Pondicherry, making exactly one hundred and seventy-four days from
Brest to India. The almost intolerable tedium of so
long a voyage had been much alleviated by friendly
intercourse with M. de Meslay, the new Governor of
Pondicherry, and Jacquemont's fellow-passenger. With
this "King of Yvetot," as our hero called him, he
remained a guest for a time in the palace of that Indian
Yvetot, and thence sailed for Calcutta, always on board
the leisurely and inevitable Zee'e, arriving there on the
5th of May, 1829. She had started from Brest on the
26th of August in the preceding year!
In the interval between Jacquemont's return from
America and his departure for India, he had been to
London to make use of some introductions in order to
facilitate his future travels in our Eastern possessions.
He had been received in London with the greatest
kindness, and had brought away fresh letters of introduction, enough to open for him every palace and every
bungalow between Cape Comorin and the Himalaya.
During this stay in London, one of the East India
Directors had given Jacquemont a dozen letters, and
when the young traveller had returned to Paris he was
surprised to receive a thirteenth from the same person.
In the interval, this Director had been to see our hero's
2




I8


Modern Frenchmen.


friend, Mr. Sutton Sharpe, and had asked for his word
as a gentleman that Jacquemont was not a spy of the
French government. After this assurance, the additional letter had followed.  "The others," said the
Director, "are such as one gives sometimes, but now
he will have such a letter as is never given."
The time had now arrived, the Ze'ee having come to
the end of her wanderings, when these recommendations were to be used to the best advantage. Our hero
accordingly, like a true Frenchman, clothed his long
person from head to foot in ceremonious black, and set
foot on the soil of British India, after which he immediately got into a palanquin, and had himself carried to the
residence of Mr. Pearson, the Advocate-General. Here
he was suddenly introduced into an immense drawingroom, where sat three grandly dressed ladies and an
elderly gentleman in light clothing, all occupied in being fanned in a complicated manner. Unluckily, Jacquemont's mind had begun to occupy itself with the novelty
of what he saw, so that he could not retain his command
over his meagre colloquial English, and all the speech
he could make consisted of these few words:
" I spoke a few words of English formerly, sir; but I
perceive I have forgotten the all, so help me!"
Who could resist such a frank appeal? Both the
elderly gentleman and the three ladies helped, and so
effectually that immediately afterwards the foreign visitor "was swimming in English like a little fish in the
river," Let us pursue the narrative in his own words:" I delivered my letters of introduction, not counting




VicGor yacquemont.


19


upon them with much confidence; for they were secondhand or third-hand letters, yet they gained me an invitation at once. Then I was asked if these were the only
introductions I had brought to Calcutta; a question I
answered by exhibiting a monstrous parcel which made
a bulge in my pocket, and which, charged beforehand
like artfully prepared fireworks, opened with some
desultory squibs,-a doctor, or captain, or merchant;
then, becoming gradually more brilliant, came to a judge,
then to the chief justice, then to a member of council,
and finished by way of bouquet with the name of Lady
William Bentinck and the Governor-General, five times
repeated. Every chair came nearer to mine, and I was
overwhelmed with questions and kindly offers."
A note from Miss Pearson to Lady William Bentinck
was answered immediately by an invitation to call at
the vice-regal palace, where Jacquemont was received
with kindness, and kept to lunch and invited to dine the
same evening.  Lady William  soon discovered that
Jacquemont knew friends of hers in Paris, and from
that moment the ice was broken. The Governor-General came in after her ladyship had been talking an hour
and a half with Jacquemont, read the letters of introduction whilst they sat at lunch, and at once frankly
admitted the young foreigner to an acquaintance which
soon ripened into a warm friendship, notwithstanding
the great difference of age and the still greater disparity
in social rank and position. That first day at Calcutta
is interesting as an illustration of Victor Jacquemont's
character, of the ease and tact with which, in an embar



20


MIodern Frenchmen.


rassing position, he won valuable allies by the use of
his two great social arts, which were: first, the most
absolute abandonment of every thing like false pretension; and, secondly, courage in exercising his own
abilities whenever he felt it to be necessary. In a letter
to his father, he describes the vice-regal pomp and state,
the servants in long white robes with turbans of scarlet
and gold, the uncertain light amidst distant columns,
the brilliant splendor of the table with its magnificent
fruits and flowers, the unseen, remote orchestra, executing "with rare perfection" the sweetest symphonies of
Mozart, the lightest melodies of Rossini. Jacquemont
has the place of honor; but, instead of being confounded
by surroundings so new to him, he simply enjoys his
dinner, and the splendor, and the music, and especially
the conversation.  He thinks the time has come for
talking, and he talks easily and fluently in French, in
English to the best of his ability. From that evening,
Jacquemont was a frequent and favored guest at Government House. A fortnight later, the Governor-General went to the country, and Jacquemont was of the
party. At Barrackpoor, they gave him a pretty cottage
to work in; and Lady William would have him with her
on her elephant. "She seemed so well pleased with our
conversations on the summit of this walking mountain
that she would have no other companion in these outings during our stay at Barrackpoor." In the evening,
after dinner, the Viceroy had his turn with Jacquemont,
the two sitting together, not on an elephant, but on a
sofa, and talking about India and the United States.




Victor 7acquemozl.              21
There are some bits of English in the early letters
from England which prove that Jacquemont had not yet
mastered our language, but this did not prevent him
from soon becoming the fashion at Calcutta. Besides being the fashion, he was very strongly liked, - loved perhaps would be the more accurate word,-for the charm of
his manners and the fearless openness of his disposition.
The legal and judicial families, the Pearsons, the Ryans,
the Greys, received him more as a son than as a foreign
visitor; the officers treated him like a brother; and everybody tried to facilitate his studies and insure the success of his enterprise. But as I felt compelled to pass
hastily over Jacquemont's visits to New York, so I perceive it to be necessary to get quickly out of Calcutta.
We will return to some of these hospitable Anglo-Indians at a later period, when we shall have to speak of
Jacquemont's opinions and impressions about the English and other nations. I may mention one friendship
formed at Calcutta, not with an Englishman, but with a
Spanish refugee, Colonel Hezeta, an old companion in
arms of Lord William Bentinck during the Peninsular
war, and greatly esteemed by him. Notwithstanding
Jacquemont's hearty appreciation of English kindness,
it is evident that a closer sympathy existed between him
and Hezeta than between the French traveller and his
English friends. But this, again, is a part of my subject
which may be reserved for the present.
The reader will remember that our hero's commission
from the Jardin des Plantes was to study "the ethnology, geology, and botany of India." As to ethnology,




22


Modern Frenchmen.


all parts of India were equally interesting to an observer
fresh from Europe; but this was not the case with
regard to botany and geology. Jacquemont's studies in
these sciences, and his ardor for fresh discoveries, urged
him irresistibly to the mountains. His plans of work
included a complete exploration of the Himalayas,
"from the Indus to the Brahmapootra;" but this gigantic
project was judiciously divided into two parts. He intended first to explore the north-western portion of the
chain, and then, after travelling in the peninsula, to
resume if possible his mountain work at a later period,
and complete it from west to east. He enjoyed the
idea of concentrating his labors "on a space so magnificently marked out by Nature herself," and this
seemed to him far better than mere desultory wanderings in Asia; so he renounced a dream once entertained
of travels in Persia and Asia Minor, in order to give
his whole strength to h-is magnificent Indian enterprise.
He had health enough for the work, if only it would
last; and he was determined if possible to keep his
health by prudence: he had knowledge enough for the
acquisition of more knowledge; but had he money
enough? Of private fortune, he had none whatever,
and his allowance from the Jardin des Plantes was
absurdly inadequate. The learned professors who were
trustees of that museum had sent Jacquemont forth
upon his mission with an income of ~240 a year! He,
with his economical habits and absolute ignorance of
Indian life, had at first imagined that his work might be
done on this; but he had not been a fortnight at Cal



Victor 7acquemont.


23


cutta before the falsity of his position was made plain
to him. The expenses to be incurred arranged themselves under three heads: I. Personal; 2. Travelling;
3. Scientific. The allowance from Paris would cover
the first, with care; but whence was the money to come
for the two others? There was, however, no pressing
pecuniary anxiety for the immediate present, as the
traveller had been saving money on the slow Zdelc, and
had spent very little whilst enjoying English hospitality
at Calcutta. He therefore made up his mind to start
as soon as possible, and travel as economically as he
could; but, before setting out, he wrote a long letter to
the trustees who had appointed him, setting plainly
before them the difficulties of his position, - going into
minute detail like a man of business, which he was.
To show, for example, that scientific expenses might be
considerable, he mentions that a predecessor, M. Dussumier, spent ~360 on the preservation of nothing but
his Indian fishes. The idea that a traveller could explore all India for scientific purposes, and make collections for a national museum, on the beggarly pittance
of /~240 a year, is an idea which could only occur to a
council of French officials.
Jacquemont's first purchase was an old white horse,
which he got for ~40; but before his departure the
white horse fell, so he was sold, and replaced by a
vigorous little Persian stallion, of a red color, which
turned out to be most serviceable, and only cost,25.
The more Jacquemont knew this animal, the better he
liked him, and after long travel he said: " His walk is




24


2Modern Frenchmen.


remarkably rapid and easy to the rider, and he can
travel far at a gallop when necessary. I can throw the
rein on his neck and read a book, arriving without fail
at my journey's end as if I were a letter in a post-bag."
Both rider and horse were animals of great stamina
and endurance. Now and then they had little tiffs,
which generally ended in an empty saddle, but without
any diminution of mutual regard. However, notwith-.
standing these accidents, Jacquemont pleasantly affirmed
that he was too bad a horseman, too unclassical, to fall
often.
The pen of Cervantes would be needed for any
adequate description of our hero (who, in nobleness,
poverty, and bodily presence, was not unlike a sounderminded Don Quixote), as he rode forth from Calcutta on
those wanderings that were to make him famous. He
was clothed in a long, nankeen dressing-gown, over
which he wore a robe of coarse silk, as the old knights
wore silk over their armor; and his great straw hat was
covered with black silk also. He quitted Calcutta in
the evening (Nov. 20, I829), and a Friday evening,day of evil omen! After riding five leagues on the
Persian horse, he was already so-far in advance of his
cook that supper was not to be hoped for, so he supplied
its place with two biscuits, -a foretaste of the meagre
cheer that awaited him. These details of his beginning
interested him so much that we find them all in his letters. The first night, having reached a bungalow, he
slept in it, roughly arranging his camp furniture in the
empty room with a new feeling of admiration for Eu



Viclor _7cazeemnon/2


25


ropean inns. After that, he discovered that his little
tent was much more snug and cosey than the four bare
walls of a bungalow; that it could be much better lighted with his single candle, and felt more cheerful and
homelike: so he remained faithful to the tent ever after.
A traveller may become attached to a tent, as a yachtsman to the cabin of his yacht; and it becomes a familiar
home to him, with a mute welcome of its own, after
every weary day. Besides this, to lodge in a bungalow
cost four shillings a night, with two for service; and our
hero was not sorry to economize this outlay. Notwithstanding this cheerful beginning of camp life, Jacquemont arrived later, like most travellers, at a strong
conviction that houses are an excellent invention, and
declared that he should prefer a shake-down on the
floor of an inn to his little mountain tent, shaken and
threatened by the freezing winds df the Himalaya.
Our traveller's establishment was, as nearly as he
could make it, in proportion to the smallness of his
means, though magnificent if compared with that of
Don Quixote; for Jacquemont had six servants, all
counted, which, as he facetiously remarked (comparing
small things with great), made exactly a thousandth
part of the vast travelling establishment which moved
with the Governor-General. A bamboo cart drawn by
oxen carried the baggage, with the exception of the
tent, which was borne on the back of a solitary ox. The
six servants, however, did not include the ox-drivers:
they were employed exclusively in the service of their
master and his steed; one carrying his gun, another his




26


Modern Frenchmen.


cooking apparatus, another a ration for the horse, and so
on. Of course, Jacquemont had never been served by
such a numerous establishment of domestics in his life;
yet such is the effect of comparison, that he felt himself
poorly provided because an English captain of infantry
would not travel in India with less than twenty-five
servants for his tent and palanquin and person. The
English officer's tent was also very different from
Jacquemont's, being heavy and comfortable and capacious, whilst our hero's canvas house was of such modest
dimensions that he called it "the smallest tent in India."
He laughs at its smallness more than once, and declares
that it is too little for him to go inside, and that the
best way to use it would be merely to fold it and sleep
on the folded canvas. He had no hammock, but possessed a substitute in a light frame with canvas stretched
upon it; and he often slept on nothing but a mat.
Jacquemont's daily habits when marching were as
follows. He breakfasted at four in the morning on half
a pound of.rice, boiled in milk and sugared. From that
time until dinner, he had nothing to eat, but drank a
cup of milk whenever an opportunity offered, his cook
having orders to seek for milk in every village on the
way. The tent was pitched every afternoon, and then
the cook prepared dinner, which invariably consisted of
a fowl or other bird (an old peacock, on one occasion)
in rice (en pilau) with plenty of rancid native butter, but
no bread, his drink being water, or water with a few
drops of brandy in it. Sometimes in the evening he
consoled himself with a cup of tea, either when the




Victor 7acquemont.


27


temperature fell too low, or when he had writing to do
and wanted to keep himself awake. In this way, Victor
Jacquemont expended no less than forty shillings a
month on the pleasures of the table, including the illicit
profits of his cook. The perfect novelty of this kind
of life, the complete severance from his own past, the
strange customs and speech around him, made the traveller sometimes doubt his own identity, and suspect
that, in the land of the transmigration of souls, some
other soul had taken possession of his body.
Whilst travelling northwards in this way, the little
caravan averaged more than eleven miles a day during
a period of four months, which is a very high average
for ox-travelling over so considerable a space of time.
The usual ride on travelling days was twelve or fifteen
miles, but this was sometimes much exceeded.   At
other times there were serious difficulties to overcome,
as in the two days' march preceding the arrival at
Rogonotpoor, in a sandy region, with fifty extra men to
help the oxen by main force, and after the sands a river
had to be crossed, and lo! beyond the river was no
road, nothing but bush!
On arriving at Agra, Jacquemont discovered that
there was a Roman Catholic bishop in the place, a
native of Tuscany, to whom our traveller sent a polite
note in Italian, requesting the honor of an audience.
The answer was courteous in the extreme: so Jacquemont went at once to the episcopal palace, a little
mosque in ruins, which the bishop dwelt in by permission of the Government, and here he found monseigneur,




28


Modern Frenchmen.


a magnificent man as tall as himself "with five times
his bulk," and the finest beard Jacquemont had ever
seen in his life. A Scotchman accompanied him; and
as the bishop lived in poverty and simplicity, like a prelate of the early Church, the consequence was that no
Briton in Agra would believe him to be a bishop at all.
Our countrymen called him only padri, a spoiled Portuguese word, used in India for priests of different denominations. The bishop was therefore rather pleased to be
called monsignore (the conversation was in Italian) before a British witness.  Notwithstanding his poverty
and his episcopal rank, he betrayed neither embarrassment nor pride, but hospitably invited his visitors to
pot-luck, and little luck there seems to have been in the
pot! They did not accept, so the bishop ate his dinner
in their presence, and the conversation turned on his
diocese. Jacquemont asked about the numbers of his
flock; and the prelate answered, " La caldaja e molto
grande; ma... la carne molto poca." *  Now it so
happened that, as the genial prelate was pronouncing
these words, he was pursuing at the same time with his
iron fork the remains of a meagre fricassge in an enormous pewter dish; and the accidental apropos of the
metaphor made Jacquemont laugh very heartily, the
bishop as heartily joining him. Meanwhile, the Scotchman, not understanding Italian, asked Jacquemont to
explain the joke; but when it was explained to him he
remained quite grave and solemn, and when they had
left the episcopal presence he expressed the opinion
* The pan is very big, but there is very little meat in it.




Victor 7acqziemonzt.


29


that it was very unbecoming, especially in a clergyman,
to speak thus of Christian souls. The story is very
like a bit out of Don Quixote, except that Cervantes
could never have invented the Scotchman.
At Delhi, Jacquemont was received by no less a personage than the Great Mogul, who had never seen a
Frenchman, and attentively studied the living specimen
before him, from which he probably arrived at the erroneous conclusion that all Frenchmen were six feet four
inches high. Jacquemont, being of a humorous disposition, had much ado to prevent himself from laughing at
the absurdity of his own appearance; for, as a Frenchman, he had put on his black trousers, and, being in the
East, he had been solemnly invested with a garment of
honor like a flowery muslin dressing-gown, whilst his
gray hat was turned into a turban by the vizier, and the
Great Mogul himself completed the beauty of it by adding two ornaments in false jewelry. Jacquemont was
conducted to the palace with great pomp, for in lieu of
his own single horse and three oxen he was supplied by
the English Resident with a regiment of infantry, a
strong escort of cavalry, and an army of attendants,
with a troop of elephants, richly caparisoned, in the
rear. The Great Mogul asked if there were a king in
France, a question which looks like wit, but was only
ignorance.  He also inquired if the French used the
English language, thus betraying more ignorance. In
consideration for the condition of the Oriental mind,
the British Resident introduced Jacquemont as a conquering hero, a lord victorious in battle, saheb bahadozr,




30


Mfodern Frenchmen.


which title he bore in the East. They do exactly the
converse at Oxford, when they compliment a successful
soldier by dubbing him D.C.L.
The English at Delhi obeyed the orders of the Governor-General with hearty good-will, 'for they treated
Jacquemont with the utmost kindness and attention.
On his departure, he was accompanied for two days by
a hunting party of English gentlemen, and was mounted
by their care on the finest Arab in those parts, so that
he might ride pleasantly after the wild boars, which he
did without accident, notwithstanding his " unclassical "
horsemanship. -Later in the same month, he joined a
greater hunting party, and belonged to it for a fortnight,
enjoying the kindness and cordiality of the English
sportsmen, though his abstemious habits enabled him to
do but scant justice to their good cheer. At Pattialah,
they had a great hunt with the rajah's elephants, killing
hundreds of hares and partridges, but no larger game.
However, the novel scene amused Jacquemont, who threw
himself heartily into the enjoyment of it. The merry
company went with him as far as Saharunpoor, where
he found a wretched botanical garden, under the direction of the resident physician, who made himself very
useful by taking care of the traveller's collection and all
superfluous things left behind at Saharunpoor, as he
lightened his camp for the mountains. Faithful to the
main purpose of his enterprise, Jacquemont had been
doing scientific work ever since his departure from Calcutta, writing his observations and collecting specimens
by the way. The first collection, formed between Cal



Victor yacquemont.


3I


cutta and Delhi, had been left at Delhi under English
care; and now the second was left at Saharunpoor with
the doctor, who also took charge of Jacquemont's Persian horse, which was sent back when its rider reached
the Himalaya.
At the age of twenty-one, our hero had visited the
Alps; and now, in spite of the strength of a fresh
impression, he at once perceived their superiority in
grace, beauty, and interest.  Although the vegetation
of the Himalaya bore a close resemblance to Alpine
vegetation, it was not so well placed for the adornment
of the landscape; and this Indian scenery had not the
broad valleys, the blue lakes, the rich meadows and pastures of the more picturesque Switzerland and Savoy.
It is a consolation for holiday travellers, whose excursions are confined to Europe, that they may find within
its limits the most beautiful scenery in the world.
In a letter to M. Victor de Tracy, dated the 26th of
October, I830, Jacquemont gives the following brief but
clear description of the Indian Alps: "The Indian
Himalaya may be compared with some regions in Europe. It is covered with forests whose trees bear a
family likeness to those in the forests of the Alps;
namely, pine, fir, oak, cedar, and sycamore, growing in
different proportions, according to the height of their
situation. Above the limits of the forest, dwarf shrubs,
willows, and juniper bushes are scattered on verdant
pastures, and this zone reaches up to the line of eternal
snow. Towards Thibet, however, the whole land is so
elevated that the bottom of every valley is higher than




32


Modern Frenchmen.


the forest limit on the southern slopes of the chain.
Vegetation, reduced to some dwarf shrubs, thorny,
stunted, and spreading low, and to a few sapless plants,
forms here and there a dark-colored patch by the side
of a torrent; the slopes of the mountains are covered
with nothing but their own debris, the immense horizon
includes no pleasanter prospect than a monotonous sterility and desolation, surrounded by a wide circle of
snowy crests." *
In other letters, Jacquemont recurs to the impression
produced upon his mind and feelings by the scenery of
the Himalaya.   "I have seen fine things," he says; but
he complains that what he had seen could never either
rouse his soul to admiration or soften it to tenderness
like the mere recollection of the Alps or the hills of
Central France. Nor was this due to the magic of the
native land, for even the hill scenery of St. Domingo
filled the traveller's mind with these tender recollections.
In such comparisons, although not an artist and little
gifted with any of the artistic sensibilities, Jacquemont
touched upon the most subtle and delicate influences of
landscape in nature and art. Why do we feel powerfully
stimulated or deeply moved by one order of scenery,
when another leaves us indifferent?  The ubi patria est
* I shall have more to say of Jacquemont's literary abilities towards
the close of this study, but cannot help remarking here what a perfect
piece of writing the above quotation is. Not a word is wasted or out
of place; and the paragraph is so comprehensive that it conveys a clear
idea of a wide extent of country. Let us remember, too, that it was
written hurriedly, in a private letter to a friend, without any view to
publication.




Viclor yacqunemonZt.


33


of Tacitus does not answer the question. Jacquemont
was not born in St. Domingo, nor Turner by the Lake of
Lucerne.
Few travellers have had more of that sustained and
resolute heroism which steadily pursues ill-rewarded
labor in spite of adverse conditions. In the Himalayan
expedition, he was more poorly fed than ever, and the
necessities of mountain travel had caused such a reduction in his few comforts that his camp was little better
than a bivouac, and he suffered both from cold and
hunger, as well as the physical strain of hard pedestrianism; yet his scientific labors went on day by day,
and all his hours were occupied. Four times he crossed
passes at the height of eighteen thousand feet, and
once he pitched his tent a thousand feet higher than
the summit of Mont Blanc. When exhausted by fatigue
and ill with the change of diet, -for the bag of rice
was empty, and could not be filled again at that altitude,.
-he still endeavored to climb the snowy slopes to the
zone where all vegetation finally expires. The air was
so rarefied that he could not walk thirty paces without
difficulty of breathing and exhaustion. His men so
dreaded the toil in the snow that they mutinied, when
by deeds and words he re-established his authority, and
went on, like the hero of Longfellow's "Excelsior," but
with a more definite purpose. He had thirty-five porters with him (mountaineers), five domestics, and an
escort of five soldiers; yet few European travellers in
India have been so wretchedly fed and lodged. His
dinner had been boiled rice (so long as the rice lasted),
3




34


Jlodrernt Frenchmen.


a piece of kid insipid and tough, and water from the
nearest stream. He drank a little brandy at dawn only,
to warm himself. The little tent was very thin, and the
cold night wind from the snowy summits filtered through
the tissue of it, came in gusts and squalls under its rim,
and blew icily on Jacquemont as he lay on his hard bed
without a mattress. This is what he suffered from
most, the night cold; for his constitution loved the sun
like an orange-tree, and a low temperature was to him
like Dante's frozen hell: so that his nights were miserable, though he was rolled like a mummy in fifteen yards
of thick Thibetan flannel.
Notwithstanding the general dryness, the rainy season
caught the little expedition, in the month of June, on
the southern slopes of the Himalaya, and added to its
other discomforts that of a thick, damp mist, which so
obscured the daylight that Jacquemont could hardly see
to write in it. Then came the rain "by bucketfuls,"
and the traveller marched away from it towards the rainless vales of Thibet. Here, at the worst, he found only
wearisome winds and fogs.
A hardy spirit of adventure now urged our hero to
penetrate even into the Chinese Empire, - an excursion
of great difficulty, for he had to carry twelve days' provisions (sufficient for the journey and the return), and
he had sixty men to keep. For five days they advanced
without seeing a single village, and they had to cross
two chains of mountains which exceeded the height of
eighteen thousand feet. The utmost altitude reached
during this expedition was above eighteen thousand four




Vic/or 7acquemonz.


35


hundred feet, and here Jacquemont found quantities of
new plants and organic remains, and made many observations, "which," as he said, " were an ample reward
for the trouble and fatigue of the expedition." The
special scientific purpose of this excursion was to see if
there were not strata with shell-fish in them even there.
These were found, and many new plants into the bargain.
Writing to his brother Porphyre, from the camp on
the frontier of Chinese Tartary, Jacquemont describes
the climate, and gives some details about his way of living: "There is a moderate amount of snow in winter,
which is without thaw four months running: it hardly
ever rains, but there comes a hurricane every day, at
three in the afternoon, which lasts far into the night.
I often awake long before dinner, frozen in my five
rugs." His food consisted of coarse wheat cakes, the
wheat half ground and with the bran in it, and a smoked
mutton ham, of which he expected ultimately to devour
the bone, as there was so little difference in hardness
between it and the flesh. The expedition was not without
danger; for, although the troop included sixty men, only
one-tenth of that number were combatants, and armed
opposition was to be expected. Whatever little opposition they met with was overcome by Jacquemont's
happy mixture of tact and audacity. He fired bullets
into a tree, drank a spoonful of flaming brandy in the
presence of the Chinese officer and his men, spoke to
them with an air of offended dignity, and gave them
some tobacco.
It is not hardship, it is not fatigue, that alarms or




36


Modern Frenchmen.


discourages a man of spirit in such expeditions as this:
the real enemy is sickness. During the whole of his
Himalayan expedition, the worst hours for Jacquemont
were passed in his tent in a forest, after a seven hours'
march, when he was suddenly seized with horrible pains
in the intestines, -pains so intense that they almost
brought on delirium. Two days' march lay before him
without a human habitation, and his band had only
just provisions enough to carry them over this interval.
These are the real.trials of a traveller, - to be fit for
nothing but a sick-bed and medical care, and yet forced
to march forwards, forwards, on food entirely unsuited
to his condition!
The Himalayan expedition lasted eight months, the
summer being spent on the north side of the great
range, chiefly on the banks of the Sutledje, or in exploring its tributary, the Spiti. During all this northern
journey, such was the dryness of the atmosphere that
Jacquemont never once detected a trace of dew. The
land is not absolutely rainless; for there is a little rain
in spring, and a slight drizzle at rare intervals in autumn,
but that is all. In winter there is a little snow. The
scientific results of Jacquemont's northern excursion
were a collection of plants unknown on the southern
slopes of the mountains, a collection of minerals, and
an abundance of observations. He passed to the south
side in the beginning of October, descending first to
Simla and travelling thence by the lower valleys to
Saharunpoor, where he had left many things, and where
his Persian horse awaited his return.




Victor 7acqzemonz t.


37


During seven months, Jacquemont had not heard or
spoken any European language, nor slept in a house,
and his table had been as solitary as it was ill-provided.
On his return to Simla, he found that his nomadic
habits clung to him still, so that a nervous restlessness
took possession of him as soon as he tried to be sedentary and settle down to his writing, — a restlessness
which nothing but movement could relieve. This was
rather a serious inconvenience for a man who had to
settle arrears of correspondence with friends in Europe,
Asia, Africa, and America, and whose notion of letterwriting was so magnificently liberal both as to quality
and quantity. Many a filial affectionate page did he
write to his old father, with abundant details about himself and his work, assuring him that the tall, lank body
was in good trim; that he had not lost so much as a
tooth; that he had a long moustache now, of an afflicting color (the moustache was red), long hair, a very
brown face, the appearance of perfect health, and its
reality. It was hot at Simla, compared with the temperature of the high mountains; so Jacquemont dressed
in white during the day, but in the evening, out of deference to his English host, he appeared in ceremonious
black silk stockings, dress-coat, every thing except
breeches, on which poor Jacquemont dared not venture on
account of the meagreness of his calves. "Had they
but been as well developed as my shoulders," he exclaimed regretfully, " I would have adopted the culotte;
but under present circumstances I am not philosopher
enough for that! " Let it not be supposed that the love




38


Miodern Frenchmen.


of science had caused our hero to forget the graces
and elegances of polite society! He kept a dress-coat
somewhere in a box, -a coat which had none of the
awkwardness of a new one, for it had been two years in
use, including eight months at sea, and a fortnight of
actual immersion in salt water during the storm at
Bourbon. " It is one of the seediest coats in existence,"
said its proprietor; "yet the English pay me the most
marked attentions in spite of it!" Nevertheless, he
began to think seriously of providing a successor, and
even of going so far as to order a new suit, in thick
Chinese silk, "black and economical."
Jacquemont might reasonably look forward to much
English hospitality, judging from the cordiality of the
reception which had been hitherto given him everywhere. At Sabathoo, he had been the guest of Captain
Kennedy, who treated him, I was going to say, "like a
brother;" but men seldom treat their brothers half so
well. Here, too, he made the acquaintance of Fraser of
Delhi, who travelled with him southwards for two days;
and a manly affection soon established itself between
them, -an affection which afterwards became one of the
strongest of all Jacquemont's attachments. During the
journey between Sabathoo and Mahan, an accident happened to our hero, which exactly resembles one that
occurred in an Indian defile to the present GovernorGeneral, Lord Lytton. Jacquemont's horse was climbing
a steep road on the edge of a precipice, when the ground
gave way under his hind legs. He clung hard to the
earth with his fore feet for half a minute, and then, being




Victor yacqzucmont.


39


able to cling no longer, fell backwards into the abyss.
As soon as the rider came to a consciousness of his situation, he found himself perched in a stunted, thorny tree,
with no worse injury than a blow on the head, received
from the horse as they fell over together. He expected
to see the horse dashed to pieces on the stones at the
bottom of the ravine; but, lo! the animal also was sticking in a tree which grew conveniently lower down, and
waiting patiently, unhurt, till they fished him up with
ropes. Lord Lytton's accident was a precise repetition
of this. At Meerut arrived the news of the French
Revolution of I830, just when Jacquemont happened to
be there; and all the English officers, civil and military,
became suddenly possessed by such feelings of enthusiasm in favor of constitutional liberty in France, that
nothing would satisfy them but a banquet given to our
hero as a living representative of French liberal aspirations. His host, a colonel of cavalry, wounded at
Waterloo, was so enthusiastic that he embraced Jacquemont and burst into tears. Every Englishman in
Meerut wanted to shake Jacquemont's hand, \which (he
declared) was oftener squeezed than that of MI. de la
Fayette, in America. All this enthusi.asm. led to the
drinking of much champagne at the banquet. The champagne caused more enthusiasm still. Tri-color draperies
and flags hung over the festival; the hero of the evening
wore tri-color ribbons on his breast, and so did all the
Englishmen in sympathy, rejoicing together over the
fall of that very white flag which English blood and
gold had helped to restore in France. Many a speech


~- -- - -  —




40


Modern Frenzchmen.


was made. The honored guest launched out into a
grand oration, in the English language, on liberty, the
tri-color, the Imperial eagles, and the Gallic cock, ending with a brilliant and effective peroration on the
alliance of France and England. The British officers
at Meerut seem to have taken a peculiar pleasure in
making Jacquemont deliver English speeches.  It so
happened that during his stay in the place there were
several great military inspections. He was invited to
each of these, and also to the inevitable banquet which
followed; the banquet never ending without a toast to
the health and success of the traveller, with the kind
wish that he might sometimes, though amongst strangers, forget the distance which separated him from his
native land.
Towards the end of August, in the preceding year,
when our hero was on the frontier of Chinese Tartary,
at a distance of twenty-five days' march from the most
advanced British station in the Himalayas, a Tartar
courier had succeeded, by dint of much running and
climbing, in overtaking his little band, and had delivered a packet of letters, amongst which there was one
which turned out to be of the very greatest importance,
as it affected the whole course of his future travels. This
letter came from M. Allard, a French officer, who at
that time was in the service of Runjeet Singh as generalissimo of his armies, and who now with great courtesy
offered to facilitate Jacquemopt's travels by every means
in his power, and most especially by his influence with
Runjeet. "I have learned," he said, "through Dr. Mur



Victor jacquemozt.


41


ray, that a French traveller has arrived at Simla, who
is at the same time distinguished by his scientific attainments and by the mission intrusted to him. This piece
of news makes me hope that an old officer might possibly be of use to one of his countrymen in regions so far
from their native land.... Make use of my services as
frankly as I offer them: it will be the countersign of our
nationality."  Here, at last, was the voice of the native
land in all its sweetness, made audible even to the
utmost confines of distant India. Jacquemont's heart
was touched; and he answered with a full expression of
his feelings, saying that the plains of the Punjab interested him little, but that if Runjeet could be induced
to let him travel in Cashmere, that would interest him
much. On returning to Simla from the mountains, our
traveller found a second letter from M. Allard, recommending him to get letters of introduction to Runjeet
from the Governor of Delhi. In consequence of this
correspondence, Jacquemont resolved to get to Cashmere, if he possibly could; and, when once the resolution
was taken, he used all his influence to further its accomplishment. He wrote to Lord William Bentinck for an
introduction to Runjeet, begging to be described, not as
a victorious general, but simply as a doctor of medicine,
which was much nearer the truth, as he had received a
medical and scientific education.
At Delhi, the British Resident, by Lord William's
order, introduced Jacquemont personally to Runjeet's
representative there, in the warmest and most flattering
terms of recommendation that the Persian language




42


Modern Frenzchmen.


could supply.  Here he left his collections, well preserved and in good order, not having money enough to
send them on to France, and so started on his expedition to the Punjab, with Cashmere for his ultimate purpose, towards the end of January, 1831. Resuming his
old camp habits of exercise and abstinence, which had
been interrupted of late by British hospitality, he resumed also the vigorous health which he had enjoyed
in the mountains. Even the irregularity of camp life
was a benefit to him. He pitched his tent on the battlefield of Paniput, where he shot an old peacock, which
supplied an undesirable roast, washed down with brackish water. From Kurnaul, he wrote to a friend: " Six
days of open-air life on foot and on horseback have
completely set me up again. Like a true Mussulman,
I have sworn myself to a total abstinence from spirituous liquors. I live like the natives, and find it to be
the regime which suits me best."
From Loodeeanah to Lahore the stages of the journey
were regulated by Runjeet Singh, who sent an officer
with thirty horsemen to greet and escort the traveller.
He crossed the Sutledje in some state and pomp, mounted
on an elephant and surrounded by his escort of cavalry.
On the opposite shore of the river, he was received by a
squadron, in order of battle, with military honors; the
said squadron escorting him afterwards to his tent.
Here Runjeet's representative, Shah-el-Din, soon arrived, accompanied by several officers, and humbly offered
Jacquemont a bag of money, which, of course, the ill-paid
emissary of the Jardin des Plantes was only too happy


--— lc IPIyll --- -YULI-~ ---I ---



Victor    f/acvzemonozit.


43


to accept; whilst the attendants came in a little procession, each man bearing an offering, such as a basket of
fruit, a pitcher of cream, a pot of preserves, &c. The
next day, Jacquemont, who was always careful of his
dignity, did not invite Shah-el-Din to travel by his side,
so he followed at a distance of two or three miles in the
rear with his escort. When the camp was pitched, however, Jacquemont received a message from that officer,
and afterwards a visit, during which the same ceremony
of the money-bag and other presents was repeated. He
began to wonder whether there was to be a quotidian
money-bag so long as the journey lasted. The next
evening, and the next, confirmed this pleasing expectation,
for still did Shah-el-Din renew his obsequious visits, and
offer his little sack of silver, whilst his attendants came
with a daily offering of provisions, that threw far into
the shade the stringy kids of the Himalaya, the hard mutton ham of Thibet, and the tough old peacock of Paniput.
"Hitherto," said Jacquemont, "I have always been annoyed by the slowness of Indian travel, but Runjeet
Singh has arguments that would reconcile me to the pace
of a tortoise." -"You will be wanting to know," he
writes gayly to his father, "how much there is in the
sacks;" and then he tells him the sum, namely, a hundred
and one rupees, - a daily allowance equal to more than
a fortnight of poor Jacquemont's pay. He declared it
made him begin to be avaricious!
At length, however, this pleasing journey drew towards
its close; and, when Jacquemont's party got within two
leagues of Lahore, they were met by a carriage and four,




44


Modern Frenchmen.


containing M. Allard and two other European officers in
the service of Runjeet Singh. Allard and Jacquemont
leaped to the ground, and embraced each other with the
effusion which might be expected of two Frenchmen
under such circumstances. Then Jacquemont got into
the carriage; and after passing through a wild bit of
country, rich in ruins, like the neighborhood of Delhi,
they came to a delightful oasis - a royal garden of roses
and lilies, with walks bordered by orange-trees and jessamine, and many fountains playing in their basins. In
the midst of this charming spot stood a little palace, furnished with the greatest elegance and luxury; and this
was to be the traveller's temporary home. Jacquemont
was not much given to poetical description, yet the letter
in which he tells all this reminds one of " Lallah Rookh."
He had travelled on her road from Delhi, in Oriental pomp
and state; and now, at the gates of Lahore, a palace
was assigned to him, worthy of the Princess herself.
Here a repast awaited him, splendidly served; and when
evening came his new friends left him alone, "in the
enchantment," as he wrote, " of a dwelling which realizes
the magic palaces of the ' Thousand and One Nights.'"
Then came Shah-el-Din, having announced the traveller's arrival to the king, who now sent exquisite grapes
of Caboul, delicious pomegranates, other fruits in rare
perfection, and also the ever-acceptable bag of silver,
which this time contained five times as much as on the
preceding evenings! A splendid dinner was served by
a band of domestics in silken liveries, and so the wonderful day came to an end, and Jacquemont slept in the




Victor yacquemozt.


45


royal house,- more comfortably, let us hope, than under
that thin tent by the snow fields of the wind-swept
Himalaya!
The next day was a memorable one in our hero's existence, for he made the acquaintance of that remarkable
soldier and sovereign Runjeet Singh, a man who, had it
not been for the too close neighborhood of the colossal
British power in the East, might have played amongst
the Princes of India a part not less predominant than
that of Napoleon amongst the dynasties of Europe.
Jacquemont had no opportunity of studying Runjeet as a
military chieftain, for he did not accompany him on any
warlike expedition; but he had the most ample opportunities for observing Runjeet's acute and original mind.
It is probable that no European ever knew the wily
sovereign of Lahore so thoroughly as Jacquemont came
ultimately to know him. Of all Indians, he had the
most lively and insatiable curiosity; a curiosity so eager
that it compensated, in the opinion of his visitor, for the
apathy of all other Orientals. His talk was a series of
interrogations. "He asked me," said Jacquemont, "a
hundred thousand questions about India, the English,
Europe, Bonaparte, about this world and the next, about
heaven and hell, about the Supreme Being, about Satan,
about the soul, and a thousand other subjects."  Before
Jacquemont's arrival, Runjeet suspected that he was an
Englishman; and after it he may still have imagined,
for some time, that his strange visitor had more practical
purposes than those scientific pursuits which must have
been unintelligible to an Oriental. Might not this visitor




46


I odern Frenchmen.


be an agent of the English government? However,
after the very first audience, as Jacquemont was leaving
his presence, Runjeet said frankly (thereby revealing his
former suspicions), "Decidedly you are not English.
An Englishman would not have changed his position
twenty times, would not have gesticulated whilst speaking, his voice would not have had your variety of tones,
your high notes and low notes, and he would not have
laughed as you do." Are not these remarks acute for a
man living at such a distance from France and England?
They precisely hit upon the most salient external differences between the natives of the two countries.
Runjeet soon discovered that he had found a treasure
in Victor Jacquemont; a living encyclopaedia, always
ready and very generally able to answer amply and clearly
the questions put to him; so different from the taciturn,
monosyllabic English, who kept their information to
themselves and answered with "yes" and "no."  The
French traveller, on his part, though sometimes wearied to death by Runjeet's incessant interrogations, was
strongly attracted by that gifted and vigorous character.
Jacquemont knew too much of men and their ways to
be prevented from recognizing the qualities of such a
potentate as Runjeet because his faults were equally
visible: on the contrary, he observed him day by day
with the eye of a naturalist who is interested in some
dangerous creature, yet able to watch the operation of
its most evil instincts without being disturbed in his
studies by his sentiments of moral indignation. "This
model Asiatic sovereign," said Jacquemont, "is far from




Viclor Yacuqemont.


47


being a saint. He is without scruple when his interest
does not require him to be faithful and just, but he is
not cruel. He will condemn a great criminal to mutilation, to the loss of his ears, his nose, or his hand; but
he never condemns to death. He is brave in the extreme,
a quality not common amongst the Princes of the East;
but, though always successful in his military enterprises,
it is to his treaties and his perfidious diplomacy that he
owes his elevation from the condition of a plain country
gentleman to the throne of the Punjab and Cashmere.
In reality a sceptic, he professes the religion of the
Sikhs; and, besides that, goes annually to pay his devotions at Amritsir before the tombs of Mahometan
saints. He is shamelessly immoral, casting aside the
Oriental veil of mystery, and showing himself in public
in the worst of company."
It was on the i6th of March, I83I, that Victor Jacquemont took leave of Runjeet, who gave him a khelat of
the first class, - a khelat being nominally a robe of honor,
but in reality consisting of various presents. That given
on this occasion included a pair of magnificent Cashmere
shawls, in color like the lees of wine, another pair less
magnificent, and seven pieces of silk or muslin; "these
last," said the receiver, " being of extraordinary beauty."
To these things Runjeet added a jewel composed of
stones unskilfully cut, but precious, and not like the pastes
of the Great Mogul. The value of the whole present
was ~500. But Runjeet's largesses did not stop here.
The excellent old habit of giving bags of silver was renewed to some purpose, for the bag this time contained




48


8Alodern Frelnchmen.


eleven hundred rupees; and promises were given of further
money-bags in the course of Jacquemont's travels to
Cashmere. About the same time, he received a letter
from the Jardin des Plantes, informing him that his pay
was increased by ~80 a year, so that his pecuniary prospects were brighter than they had ever been since the
beginning of his travels. Jacquemont's feelings had
been deeply wounded at not receiving any letter from
the administrators of the Jardin des Plantes; and now
they were somewhat soothed by the date of this their
first communication, May I9th, 1830, it having taken ten
months to reach him. Those were not the days of fast
mail steamers and the Suez Canal!
Our hero's camp equipage was considerably augmented
by the combined forethought of M. Allard and the generous sovereign of Lahore. A guard of cavalry and
infantry, camels to carry the tents and baggage to the
foot of the mountains, porters to carry them afterwards,
a secretary to write letters to Runjeet,- all gave evidence of his interest in his new friend. It is not always
easy for travellers to get away from sovereigns who take
a fancy to them; and Jacquemont experienced some
difficulty of this nature, for he was invited to a royal
hunt, but firmly declined the honor. M. Allard looked
into every detail of the traveller's wandering household,
discovered every deficiency, and remedied it.  Their
parting was painful to Allard; for Jacquemont had
brought France, la patrie, with him to that place of
exile, and took it away with him when he departed.
When he got into the hill country on the road from




Victor 7acquemont.


49


the Punjab to Cashmere, our traveller found that, notwithstanding the increase in his band, such campaigning
was still far from luxurious. They struggled on through
a deluge of rain, which of all evils is the most discouraging to him who travels with tents, especially when it
lasts day after day. "The tents become prodigiously
heavy; the camels that carry them slide at every step
on the sodden soil, and often put their hips out of joint,
which they do only too easily; the ox-wagons with the
heavy baggage bury themselves in the mud; all the
servants, drivers, and soldiers are out of spirits; they
become as if they were deaf and dumb and half paralyzed."  Besides the rain, Jacquemont went through
a terrible thunder-storm, he being in his tent at the time,
which was rimmed with lightning as he lay on his low
bed. Lightning never seems so dangerous as it does to
a person in a tent at night, with the electric fire encircling hkn as it flashes round the tent-pegs like a flaming
serpent in the grass.
Rough travel is romantic when we do not see its
details, and pleasant enough in reality when the details
are all in order; but it tries the patience of a leader
most severely when things go wrong and cannot be
remedied on the march. That excellent Persian horse,
which was never ill, never tired, never dispirited, now
fell lame because he had lost a shoe and the road was
rough and stony. Two horses belonging to the cavalry
escort fell down a precipice and were lamed. It was
impossible to keep up a strict camp discipline in such
terrible weather. The men dispersed, in the rainy
4




50


Modern Frenchmnen.


nights, in search of better shelter, and could not be got
together again in the morning. The mehmandar * managed to fall in such a manner as to break his arm, and
Jacquemont walked for three hours on very rough, steep
ground before he discovered him. The man was built
like Hercules, but so wretchedly afraid of pain that it
was impossible even to examine the bone. The physical
labor of such travelling would be exhausting of itself,
without any mental toil or care. The geological work
kept Jacquemont constantly on foot, hammer in hand,
every now and then leaving the road to climb some
neighboring hill and get the direction of the strata with
his mariner's compass. The road itself was nothing
but a narrow, stony track, tunnelling its way through a
dense wood of thorny shrubs. Sometimes, for want of
sufficient foresight, the whole band ran short of provisions in places where none could be procured. To
crown all these pleasures of travelling, Jacquemont was
taken prisoner, in a very polite and respectful manner,
by an outlaw who dwelt on the top of a hill with three
or four hundred soldiers, all in rags and desperate with
hunger. This man, Neal Singh, was an officer in Runjeet's army; but his pay had been stopped, and so had
that of his men, for a space of three years, during
which he said that his soldiers had lived on the grass of
the fields and the leaves of the trees, without renewing
their clothing. His crime was the refusal to give up
* A Persian word which Jacquemont translates by "gardien de l'hospitalite." This official in the present instance represented Runjeet
Singh's hospitable care for his late guest during the journey to Cashmere.




Victor  7acquemont.


51


the hill-fort which he now occupied; and he looked
upon Jacquemont as a convenient hostage who might
be detained on this Hill of Hunger until the king sent
all arrears of pay. In a word, Neal Singh thought that
the capture of Jacquemont gave him the opportunity of
treating with Runjeet de puissance a puissance. Whilst
the outlaw explained these matters to his prisoner, his
followers gathered round, clamorous, with lighted matchlocks. Jacquemont tells the whole story in great detail,
how he played the grand seigneur, and tried to overawe the man in whose power he found himself, succeeding at last so far that he escaped on payment of a
ransom of ~50, with a promise of his protection at the
court of Lahore. The bandit received his money with
affectations of the deepest humility, begging his victim
to touch the money-bag and touch his own hand as he
received it, to prove that the gift was made in pure
good-will, as an expression of satisfaction for his services. To this Jacquemont had to consent, and then
the robber prostrated himself, declaring that he was the
most faithful, the most grateful, the most devoted of his
servants; nay, more, - if he might be permitted so to
entitle himself, - the most inviolable of his friends!
The comic element was not wanting at the end; for
Neal Singh, at the moment of Jacquemont's departure,
begged in a low voice for a bottle of wine, and received
(what would at least be equally intoxicating) a bottle of
raki from Delhi, which served for scientific preparations
instead of spirits of wine.
The hardships of rough travel and bad weather now




52


Modern Frenchmenz.


began to tell on Jacquemont's health. An ordinary
traveller would have had himself carried in a palanquin,
and so would have spared his body. Even a scientific
emissary, less zealous and conscientious than Jacquemont, would have economized effort by contenting himself with the knowledge that came easily in his way;
but our hero was hard upon himself, and economized no
effort. The day when his mehmandar broke his arm,
he walked fifteen hours at a stretch, and felt so tired in
the evening that he was unable to eat. In some of his
marches, he had waded through four mountain torrents
in the course of the day, ice cold (the water being really
iced), and deep enough to take him up to the waist.
His constitution was not equal to such a life as this
for very long together; so, on the 27th of April, he
arrived at Prountche "in a pitiable condition, spitting
blood." His manner of dealing with himself in illness
was invariably marked by his usual energy and resolution. He did not give way to despondency, but at once
applied the best remedies in his power, or what he
believed to be the best, however severe. This time he
thought leeches ought to be applied; but he had none,
so he set his men to seek them in the neighboring
streams, and put sixty-five of them on his breast and
epigastrium. To remedy the weakness occasioned by
this great loss of blood, he had sheep killed, and ate as
much mutton as he could, which in course of time
entirely re-established him.
There was still snow in the pass of Prountche when
Jacquemont crossed it at the beginning of May, but




Victor facquemont.


53


this was a small matter in comparison with previous experiences in Thibet; and he arrived safely at the famous
lake of Cashmere, being conducted to his residence in
a boat sent by the Governor. This residence was a
pretty pavilion of small dimensions, in a garden of lilac
and rose trees, shaded by immense Oriental planes, and
close to the water's edge.  The camp was pitched
under the trees, and huts were rapidly erected for the
cavalry and their horses. Our hero considered himself
too great a man to pay the first visit to the Governor
(who was not of high birth) at his own residence; so it
was arranged that they should meet at a small palace
on the opposite shore of the lake, formerly the Trianon
of the Mogul Emperors, but now very seldom used.
This palace of Shahlibagh was en fete to receive the
distinguished stranger, who was fetched from his own
residence by a fleet of boats with a guard of honor.
On arriving, he found a beautiful garden with magnificent trees, many fountains playing, a crowd of people,
and very fine troops parading in a handsome and picturesque costume. There was the usual exhibition of
Oriental dancing, accompanied by monotonous music,
"graceful only at Delhi," according to our traveller.
"I stayed," he says, "as long as I found pleasure in
looking at the strange architecture of the palace, the
variety and brilliance of the warlike figures that surrounded it, the colossal grandeur of the trees, the green
lawns, the cascades, and, in the distance, the blue mountains with their snowy summits."
His own pavilion, though pretty enough, was a poor




54


Modern Frenchmen.


lodging. The walls of it were of open work, like lace,
as if no wind ever rippled the famous lake of Cashmere,
and as if the temperature never fell below that of a
midsummer night. However, it served as a convenient
frame-work, to be lined with canvas, which protected its
inhabitant both from the wind and from public curiosity.
As a further protection against this last annoyance, a
cordon of sentries was posted all round the garden, who
did not shoot or bayonet intruders, but belabored them
with sticks. This plan is excellent, and ought to be
adopted in every camp.
Though an excellent writer about men and women (but
especially about men), our hero was not very skilful in
the art of describing scenery, and was himself perfectly
well aware of this deficiency. "If I knew how to express what I feel," he says in one of the most charming
of his letters,-" if I could only transfer to paper what
I see so clearly in my own mind,-what charming wordpictures would I not make of these places that I visit in
my wanderings!" In other letters, he suspects himself
of having become less sensitive to the beauty of scenery
than he was in earlier life. "There is in each of us,"
said a French writer, regretfully, "a poet who died
young."  With the lake of Cashmere before him,
Jacquemont's mind enjoyed the present far less than
the awakened reminiscences of the past. His memory
recurred to scenes that had impressed him far more
deeply; to the Lago Maggiore; to the lakes of the
Bernese Oberland, Thun, and Brienz; to Lake George
in America, whose character he describes in the English




Viclor 7acquemont.


55


word loveliness, not finding a French word to express it.
He remembers the peaceful and grave impression
received from the cold landscape of North America,
and the "tumultuous pleasure " of his first gallop under a tropical forest in the West Indies. "I am no
longer," he writes in his pavilion by the lake of Cashmere, "under the charm of the illusions which gave
life to these dreams: the brightness of these flowers
has faded; their perfume has evaporated. The world of
reality is a poor affair: there is a sentiment which makes
us see it as it is not."
All this is profoundly true; and the truth of it is
proved by evidence inaccessible to Jacquemont, - the
evidence of art. The strict truth, "le monde comme
il est reellement," chills a painted landscape like the
presence of death. The " illusions" are the living soul
of the landscape-painter's art: the truth which destroys
the illusion is that opposite of life, the terrible rzior
cadaveris. Jacquemont's scientific training had killed
his landscape sentiment; and so we find him in the
most wonderful scenes of the East, only wondering that
they did not affect him more. Something of his indifference may have been due simply to the condition of his
eyesight, which was bad when he left France, and had
become worse since his arrival in India. But, whatever
may have been the cause, it is certain that the scenery
of Cashmere gave Jacquemont very little pleasure; so
little, that he does not condescend to describe it at all
carefully in his letters, and hardly ever mentions it without criticism. The passages in which he attempts a




56


Modern Frenchmen.


little description are brief and scattered, — provokingly
so for a reader who wants to know what sort of a place
the lake of Cashmere is.  They have, however, the
great merit of wasting no superfluous words in those
empty phrases with which ordinary travellers prolong
their uninstructive pages. The writer has not the enchanted vision of poet or painter; but he has a manly
sense of reality, and tells his correspondents briefly and
honestly the plain facts that he is able to perceive.
Amongst the trees, the Italian poplar and the plane
predominate in the cultivated landscape, the plane reaching a colossal development, as we have seen already in
the gardens by the lake. The vine is gigantic when
cultivated; the forests are composed of cedar, fir, and
pine, and the birch grows on the higher levels. The fir
and the birch remind the traveller of Europe, and so do
the water plants, the butome and buck-bean (menyanthes),
the yellow water-lily, and our familiar species of rushes
and reeds. The lake is clear and shallow; so very shallow, indeed, that there was no place deep enough for
swimtning within five miles of the pavilion. "It is only
a sort of marsh," wrote Jacquemont, "which the Alps
would be ashamed of, if it stagnated at the bottom of a
Swiss valley."  Whilst he remained in his pavilion, occupied during the day by sedentary labor, he kept his
health by an hour's swim every evening, going in a boat
to the place where the water was deep enough; but it
was very warm, so warm as to afford little refreshment.
He sometimes went to a small island with a palatial
building on it, consisting of one great hall, which had




Victor 7faczuaemonlt.


57


been a plaything of the Mogul Emperors, now shaded
by two immense plane-trees, out of four that had been
planted there. From this island, there are fine views
in every direction,-picturesque buildings in the distance, with noble old woods, one of which is a forest of
gigantic trees, the whole bounded by the grand lines of
the mountains.  Jacquemont admitted this grandeur
of line, but declared that within the outline there was
not that wealth of picturesque detail which gives interest
to the Alps of Europe.
The hospitable sovereign of Lahore had commanded
that the traveller's table, even in distant Cashmere,
should be kept at the royal cost; but it did not quite
realize the gastronomic ideal of a Frenchman, even when
that Frenchman was the most abstemious of his race.
"I should almost enjoy good cheer," he said, "if I had
but bread and wine." He possessed some bottles of fine
old port, bought at Simla at a sale; but it was too strong
for common use, and he kept it for the cold of the mountains. His health in Cashmere was not very regular;
and he attributed this partly to total abstinence from
alcohol, promising himself a glass of wine every evening
in his next campaign. He had the strongest confidence
in his own regulations about eating and drinking, firmly
believing that his life was safe so long as he adhered to
them. The heat was more difficult to deal with. It
happened that the summer of I83I was exceptionally
dry in Cashmere, from the failure of the periodical rains.
The streams ceased to flow; the rivers became like that
famous Manzanares, to which a French traveller sent a




Modern Frenchmen.


glass of water in charity. Jacquemont, who generally
bore heat so well, was overcome by it now, and either
worked with difficulty, or sat still to be fanned in his
pavilion, or had himself rowed out upon the lake, if
haply he might catch some wandering breath of air.
The body was overcome, but the mind remained clear
and resolute, and able still to call the physical man to
fresh exertion. Without entirely abandoning his residence on the borders of the lake, the traveller made excursions in the mountains, of the most fatiguing description,
lasting from nineteen to twenty-five days each, during
which he lived in the saddle or on foot in the old rough
mountaineering way. He reached the point of separation
between the waters of the Hydaspes and those of the
Indus, between Cashmere and Thibet; he discovered a
lake at that time unknown in Europe, and the only deep
one of those regions; he made many geological observations, found some new plants, and even a new quadruped, an unknown species of marmot. He received a
visit from a highland chieftain, who had a wife and a
daughter in captivity in Cashmere. Jacquemont promised to beg their liberty of Runjeet, and was happy not
to be seized as a hostage, the more so as this chieftain
had a "tail" of two hundred armed men. "He accompanied me," wrote our hero, "to the brink of a large
torrent, which is the limit of his contested lordship.
I would not have permitted him to come farther, in the
interest of his own safety; and I was on the point of
telling him so, when he got down from horseback to
take leave of me. He said with a smile that no muskets




Victor tacquemont.


59


could be more accurate, or carry farther, than those of
the two mountaineers who always walked on each side
of him; that no sabre could be sharper than his, no
horse more active than his horse. Here was a figure
I shall never forget, - so fine-looking, gentle, and picturesque. Sir Walter Scott would not have invented
a better."
Jacquemont had begun his residence at the lake of
Cashmere on the gth of May, 1831; and he quitted Cashmere for the south on the i9th of September in the same
year. It would be difficult to imagine a more romantic
way of living than his had been during those summer
months. Alone in the isolation of a dignity which it
was necessary to maintain for his own convenience, and
even for his own safety; never once hearing the sound
of any European language; never seeing one European
face; in a scene of great historical and poetical interest,
and which, however inferior it may have been to the
loveliest lakes of Switzerland or Italy, was still one of the
most beautiful in Asia, with all the elements of rich
foliage, clear water, and magnificent mountain distances;
his mind continually occupied in noble studies, his body
alternating between strenuous exercise and undisturbed
repose, - this traveller had passed such a summer as it
is given to few travellers to enjoy.
There had been a great increase in his establishment
since the days when he could put his baggage into an
ox-cart, and when his dinner-service consisted of two
plates. He had now an escort of sixty soldiers; and
his baggage, including a fresh scientific collection, was




6o


Modern Fresnchmen.


carried by fifty porters. There were also some living
animals in captivity, including antelopes from Thibet,
which died from the heat as the party descended towards
the lowlands. Jacquemont did not suffer from this cause,
but only dressed more lightly; and yet it became a forced
march, as the mountaineers of those regions had never
been completely subjugated by Runjeet Singh, and were
dangerous. The distance between Bimber and Jummoo
had to be done in three marches, during which Jacquemont was on horseback fourteen or fifteen hours each
day; besides which there was no sleeping, as the camp
had to be on the alert all night long. He had expected
to be received at Jummoo by Goulab Singh; but in the
absence of the rajah his eldest son had remained purposely to entertain the traveller, and the vizier amply
provided for the wants of his wearied men. "Abundance
reigns in the camp," he wrote from this place: "soldiers,
domestics, and porters all enjoy the rajah's hospitality.
The poor fellows had great need to pass through this
land of plenty, after the privations and fatigues that
they have endured since they left Cashmere."
A little later, Jacquemont met with Goulab Singh
himself, who seems to have been as fond of instructive
conversation as Runjeet; for he sat with the traveller
far into. the night, talking "about the mountains, about
Cashmere, the immortality of the soul, about steamengines, then about the soul again, and the universe."
Goulab was so much pleased with this physical and
metaphysical conversation that he begged Jacquemont
to stay a whole day with him; when they talked again,




Victor    acquzemonzt.


61


and hunted, and Jacquemont shot a wile boar, from which
the rajah's cooks prepared an excellert dejtun;zei, to the
horror of the Mahometans present, wio consider wild
boar not less abominable than the domestic porkers
of the Giaour. Before Goulab bade adieu to Jacquemont, he sent him sumptuous presents,- a fine white
horse beautifully caparisoned, and a khdlat of Cashmere
shawls. " I shall take a real pleasure," wrote our hero
just at that time, "in continuing my Indian travels on
Goulab's horse, for he did not give it me merely out of
etiquette, but evidently as a friendly souvenir." How little
we can foresee even the nearest future! A month later,
Jacquemont himself slew this noble-looking horse, with a
bullet from his own gun. The brute was dangerous in
various ways, both to his rider and his groom. He had
mutilated the groom, by biting off one of his fingers.
Just at this time, namely, in the month of October,
I831, Captain Wade and two other British officers were
sent by Lord William Bentinck on a complimentary
mission to Runjeet Singh. Their business was to meet
Runjeet at Amritsir, and thence to accompany him to
Ropoor, where it had been arranged that a personal interview was to take place between the two potentates.
Runjeet had got as far as Amritsir, when Jacquemont
arrived; and both stayed there some days. They had a
private interview of a very friendly nature, during which
the sovereign of the Punjab offered the young traveller
nothing less than the vice-royalty of Cashmere! Jacquemont chose to take this as an amiable royal jest, and
laughed at it in his own lively way. Bit was it really a




62


Modern Frenchmen.


jest? Our hero seems to have thought that Runjeet,
who repeatedly pressed him to accept, wished to prove
his philosophy, by seeing whether or not it would be able
to resist the temptation of worldly grandeur; but is it
not also quite possible that the astute Asiatic prince may
have been a sufficiently good judge of character to desire
eagerly the services of a man so energetic, so able, and
so perfectly trustworthy as Victor Jacquemont, -a man
whose society interested and delighted him more than
that of any other European, and whose superiority he
was quite able to recognize? Had not Runjeet already
given a post of immense importance to a Frenchman,
since M. Allard was commander-in-chief of his armies,
with extensive powers of military reform? and had not
his success in this experiment been such as to encourage
him to make a second? Whatever may have been Runjeet's intentions, it is clear that he would have made an
excellent bargain in securing such a rare combination
of qualities and accomplishments as the young traveller
whom chance had thrown in his way. Jacquemont's
refusal, on the other hand, is intelligible from his own
point of view. He was too prudent, too sober-minded,
to let himself be dazzled, even by the splendors of a
vice-royalty, so far as to give in exchange for it all that
made life dear to him, -his scientific career, his European friendships, his closest family affections.  He
saw, too, the absolute uncertainty of a position which
would be held in daily dependence on the good-will of an
Asiatic despot, whose suspicions might be easily aroused
against a representative at a distance, and whose notion




Victor 7acqLuemooZt6.


63


of good government was the unfailing extortion of taxes.
The most effectual motive which might have induced
him to become a satrap of Runjeet Singh was the possibility of wealth; but Jacquemont was already aware that
Runjeet's policy towards Europeans in his service was
to prevent them from amassing, in order to retain them
more completely in his power. The temptation, however,
must have been very strong, if, as Jacquemont was informed, the last viceroy of Cashmere received a fixed
income of ~5o a day, and scraped for himself additional
"profits" to the amount of  140o,ooo annually.
The closing days of that October were passed by
our traveller in the midst of most striking scenes. He
witnessed a review of the active and picturesque Sikh
army, consisting of two hundred thousand men, encamped round Amritsir. In the midst of this mighty
host was the royal pavilion of Runjeet Singh, in the
centre of a court enclosed with walls of silk. Jacquemont was present, with Captain Wade, when the vassal
princes came to do homage to Runjeet as their suzerain,
each of them layin'g tribute at his feet "in monstrous
bags of silver and gold." After this ceremony, each
vassal put himself at the head of his own force, and rode
past in the pride and panoply of Eastern war. Each
body of men had its own peculiar aspect and its special
costume; but, if the leaders were variously accoutred,
they were alike in the display of princely or baronial
magnificence. "The chiefs are covered with gold, silk,
and precious stones, which glitter on the sombre ground
of a heavy coat of mail.  Their head-dress is a pict



64


Modern Frenchmen.


uresque combination of the helmet with the turban
wound about it. Their horses are as magnificent as
themselves, and the knights ride with a grace and audacity utterly unknown to our old riding-masters in
Europe.  As they passed before us, Runjeet courteously told us the history of the most famous. It was
a frightful catalogue of heads cut off, of tigers killed at
close quarters, and similar deeds of prowess." Though
Jacquemont was not much given to the indulgence of
poetical imaginings, and seldom sought for comparisons
in the remoter ages of history or legend, these various
bodies of men, each in the costume of their own land,
carried his mind to Homer and the Grecian armies
before Troy; whilst the knightly appearance of the
leaders, in their coats of mail, reminded him of Saint
Louis and his chivalry.
As Runjeet continued his royal progress in the direction of Ropoor, Jacquemont rode for five days by his
side; and then, on the 2Ist of October, they finally separated, Runjeet ending their intercourse, as he had begun
it, with very munificent presents. Travellers get into
the habit of saying farewell to temporary friends, and
their hearts ought to be hardened to such separations;
yet Jacquemont often felt them keenly, and admitted
in a letter "that he had been weak enough to feel a
momentary sadness on leaving Runjeet Singh." This
expression is an instance in which he was trying to
be stoical, and it really means that the separation had
affected him considerably. It was a strange friendship
between the intellectual Parisian and the barbarous




Victor 7acquzemonZt.


65


Eastern sovereign; but, although Runjeet had united
in his career the ambition of a strong-handed conqueror
with the dissolute habits of a voluptuary, he had his
good qualities, and had acted towards Jacquemont in
particular with the most consistent kindness and the
most loyal good faith. The keen pleasure that he took
in their conversations was flattering to the traveller's
self-love, and we may readily imagine that both would
separate regretfully when the last of their many dialogues had come to its inevitable end.
On the first of November, our hero arrived at Mondi,
the rajah of which place had given him a pressing invitation. However, when he got there, the sentries opposed his advance; and he had to push forward by force.
Deputations came from the town, earnestly soliciting
the traveller to go no further, and promising that the
rajah would pay him a visit the next morning, wherever
he might choose to encamp.  All the town was in a
state of commotion and excitement, as if the foreign
traveller had been an enemy; and yet he was treated by
the authorities in the most friendly and respectful manner. The enigma was explained by the rajah's uncle,
who came and told Jacquemont, with a piteous air, how
the astrologers had discovered the same morning that
it was an unlucky day; and, that if he and the rajah
did not postpone their interview, it would entail fearful
calamities on the monarchy of Mondi.
Our hero's importance as the Plato of the world, the
Socrates, the Aristotle of the age, the high and puissant
seigneur victorious in battle, all which titles had been
5




66


A lodaern FrenJchmen.


given him in the Punjab and Cashmere, now suddenly
collapsed when he recrossed the Sutledje and became
plain Victor Jacquemont once again, a wandering naturalist and underpaid emissary of the Jardin des Plantes.
At Sabathoo, he met his old friend Kennedy, an artillery
captain, who for the time being was ruler between the
Jumna and the Sutledje, with a regiment of Goorkhas
under his command. This Kennedy was a humorous
Englishman who loved a joke; and, partly as a satire
on the recent greatness of his guest, partly to exhibit
his own skill in handling a regiment of infantry, he held
a grand review of his Goorkhas in Jacquemnnt's honor,
compelling him to sit solemnly on horseback in European costume as the companies marched past.  The
men presented arms; Kennedy himself saluted with his
sword, and called out, "Now, Jacquemont, take off your
hat and make a speech!" Our hero's vengeance was
to upset Kennedy's gravity by exactly mimicking the
usual tone of English inspection speeches, in an address
of studied absurdity, which Kennedy had not self-command enough to hear to its conclusion. He got out of
the difficulty by drowning Jacquemont's peroration in
the roll of drums, and dispersing the men before it
was over. "After eight months of absolute solitude,"
said the traveller, "any gayety is good, even that of
the English."
Our hero's plan was to return to Delhi first, and, after
staying there long enough to pack and send off his various scientific collections, to travel gradually towards
Bombay. He reached Delhi on the I6th of December,




Victor yacquemont.


67


1831, in the evening, and discovered with pleasure that
his friend Fraser was at home in his big house, where
of course the traveller received the usual hearty AngloIndian hospitality.  Lord William Bentinck happened
to be at that time quite close to Delhi, with the enormous vice-regal camp, so Fraser had to attend him to
the limits of his jurisdiction; and Jacquemont was left
to do his work quietly, without any other noise than that
produced by his own workmen as they nailed up his
numerous packing-cases. Some idea of the extent of
the different collections when united at Delhi, which
Jacquemont had from the first selected as his central
depot, may be formed from the length of time occupied
in the packing. He had fondly imagined that a fortnight would be amply sufficient for this business, yet it
gave the traveller and his workmen incessant occupation for no less than two months. They were two very
pleasant months. During the day, there was plenty of
work to do; and, when evening came, Jacquemont went
to the town, on horseback in fine weather, in a palanquin when it rained, to dine with the Resident, Mr.
Martin, who enjoyed an allowance of,~500 a year for
the expenses of his table, and conscientiously spent it, so
that his dinners were superior to the solitary meals in
the little tent. After dinner came a long talk till midnight, and then a ride back behind two running footmen with torches. And so pleasantly passed the days.
On his arrival at Delhi, the traveller had learned that
his friend, the Governor-General, was encamped close to
the town, and would pitch his tents that night at Kou



68


Modern Frenchmen.


toub, on the ruins of old Delhi, ten miles off: so he
went to Koutoub, and spent two days there with Lord
and Lady William Bentinck, who received him even
more kindly than at Calcutta. During these two days,
they had long conversations about the Punjab, Cashmere,
Paris, and other countries and places.
But, of all his English friends, his host at Delhi,
William Fraser, made the deepest impression on Jacquemont's heart. "You know," he wrote to a lady,
"that I do not prodigally bestow the sacred name of
friend. Well, I have given it to a man whom I may
have mentioned in a former letter. His name is William Fraser.  I have just been living for six weeks
under his roof; and on his account Delhi will remain
the tenderest of my Indian souvenirs."
Fraser was British Commissioner at Delhi (head of
the civil service in the province). He was fifty years
old when Jacquemont knew him; and they first met at
Captain Kennedy's, at Sabathoo, in November, I830.
The reader may remember that a sudden friendship
sprang up between them, and that they travelled together for two days. During those days, each was
going out of his way merely to prolong their talk; and
when they separated it was with the hope of meeting
again. Fraser was one of those superior persons, who
incur the imputation of misanthropy because they live
on a higher intellectual level than those about them,
and consequently suffer from a very real though involuntary isolation. For once, in Jacquemont, he had
found a man who could understand him; and Fraser




Victor yacquemont.'


69


became, in what was real society for him, "the most
sociable of men." " He is a thinker," wrote his young
French friend, "who finds nothing but isolation in the
interchange of words without ideas, which is called
conversation in Anglo-Indian society; and the consequence is that he seldom frequents it. He has travelled much, and always alone, never having found a
companion to his taste."  After living thus in mental
solitude to the age of fifty, William Fraser found companionship at last, for six weeks, all too short, whilst
the young Frenchman stayed with him.  When the
time came for their separation, the apprehension of it
was so painful to both that they tacitly agreed to avoid
it, and Jacquemont was to get away "like a thief" without a word. However, when the dreaded moment came,
and a servant told the parting guest that the camels
were already gone and that his own horse was waiting,
saddled, he forgot his resolutions, and went and pressed
Fraser's hand. They parted in perfect silence, and Jacquemont went to Koutoub, where he encamped. In the
night, a horseman came galloping to the camp with a
letter from Fraser, in which he declared that the pain
of separation was too much for him, and that he would
follow his friend and travel a few days with him, even
to the neglect of public duties. Jacquemont thought:
" I wish he would come, but I don't expect him. It is
only the sorrow of the moment that makes him write
so: he has far too much business waiting for him, and
he will not come." So he tried not to hope, and went
and encamped at Gourgaon. Here he was walking in




70


M/odern Frencrhen.


sadness and solitude in the midst of the great desert
plain, when he saw a tall white figure advancing towards
him from a distance. It was Fraser! The two friends
dined together "like kings," though their dining-room
was only the little travelling tent, "the smallest tent in
India," and the feast was nothing but wheaten cakes
and a jug of milk. They travelled together to Nhoun,
which at that time was on the frontier of the British
possessions, and there they separated for ever. Jacquemont was a very early riser, but one morning when he
awoke and looked out of his tent, lo! Fraser's tent had
vanished in the night.  He had taken the sorrow of
the final parting to himself, leaving his friend in the
happy ignorance of sleep.
In February, 1832, Lord William Bentinck was still
travelling in the north of India, after his interview with
Runjeet Singh; and a meeting took place between him
and Jacquemont, which I prefer to recount in the traveller's own words, - the more willingly, in this instance,
as the passage was originally written in English, and
may interest the reader as an example of the writer's
skill in the use of our language. If we bear in
mind that English was only one of four or five different
languages that he knew at least well enough for practical purposes, we shall do better justice to his qualities
as a linguist.  Of his accomplishments in Oriental
languages, few of us could form an opinion, if we had
the materials; but he wrote Italian as fluently as English, and as well. The following quotation may present
one or two instances of carelessness: a man writing a




Victor 7acquemont.


7I


book would strike out such an expression as, " Never did
I receive from them so kind a reception." * But Jacquemont was writing to a private friend, without the remotest idea of publication, and, no doubt, with his usual
extreme rapidity. Another point may be noticed in his
favor. His letter was addressed, not to an Englishman,
but to a Frenchman who could read English; and all
who are accustomed to write a foreign language are
well aware that they do so most correctly when addressing a correspondent for whom it is the native tongue.
An Englishman will write more idiomatic French to a
native of France than to one of his own countrymen,
because in the first case he feels that his correspondent
will have a sympathy with the intimate genius of the
language that is wanting in the second.
"The Governor-General was then marching from
Adjmeer to Agra: his route was almost parallel to
mine in opposite direction. I received from his camp
an exceedingly flattering invitation to join it. Horses
were sent to me, and stationed in the way, with horsemen to guide and to escort me; and leaving my caravan on the 25th of February, long before daylight, I
arrived before noon at the tents of the Governor-General,
after many an hour of hard riding. Lord W. Bentinck
was to stay two days in the place where I met him.
* Awkward as it is, this expression, to receive a reception, is not a
Gallicism. It may be used in careless haste by an Englishman. I have
just hit upon it in the Daily News (Jan. 2, 1878). The Athens
correspondent of that journal telegraphs the following sentence:
"The Queen arrived at the camp to-day, and received an enthusiastic
reception."




72


Modern Frenchmen.


However attentive he and Lady William  had always
been to me since the day of my arrival in Calcutta,
never did I receive from them so kind a reception. I
spent with them two days which I shall never forget.
The camp was pitched in the weary desert of Rajpootanah. It appeared like a moving city. Though exceedingly averse to any thing like state, Lord W. Bentinck
cannot dispense altogether with the pomp by which the
former governors-general of India surrounded themselves in their journeys. Many of the chief officers of
the State must accompany him, to despatch the business
of the various branches of the service. Every one of
the heads of departments has a number of deputies and
assistants. Then comes the personal state of the Governor-General; then his escort, consisting of a regiment
of infantry, one of cavalry, his life-guards, a light battery; and, after all, an immense number of campfollowers. The sight was quite new to me, and very
interesting, as you may fancy. To welcome my arrival
at head-quarters, my friend, the Alwur rajah, arrived
there also on the same day. He had been informed
that, after paying a visit to his Lordship, he might
receive one in return,-an attention which had been
paid by the Governor-General to all the other rajpoot
princes except to him on a first occasion. The rajah
expected also to receive a khelat, or honorary dress,
a distinction bestowed on many other chieftains of his
rank. The reception afforded me an opportunity of seeing a rajpoot court in all its gayety and glittering.
After the Asiatic exhibitions of the day, I sat on the




Victor yacquecnonzt.


73


evening by the right of Lady William Bentinck, at a
large table, to a superb dinner. The party was numerous. An excellent band was in attendance in a
contiguous tent. Lady William told me she had lately
received from  the Palais Royale La Parisielne, and
desired it to be performed for me."
"What a strange concourse of circumstances! I
felt inwardly grateful for it. I enjoyed it thoroughly.
The evening before, at that time, alone in my little tent
pitched in a solitary spot at the foot of a hill, sitting to
my usual meal; a plain pillow; a single candle burning
on my small table, often blasted away by the wind; no
noise but the loud shrieks of the jackals about my
cattle, bullocks, and camels,-every thing about me
told of the country where I was. And but for twenty
hours, what a complete change around! All the luxuries and refinements of Europe! Lord William, the
next day, was able to command some hours of leisure,
which we spent together in his tent, talking of this
country, of its probable destinies, glancing, too, at Europe, and concluding by exclaiming how strange was
our meeting there, and talking there of such things,
he, a man from England, one of the crowd there, absolute ruler of Asia; I quietly engaged in my philosophical researches amidst barbarous tribes!"
"On 27th, long before daylight, the tents were
struck down. I found a horse and a couple of horsemen in waiting at the door of mine. I mounted; and,
trusting to the good eyes of my guides and to the
sure footing of my charger, I pushed forwards at a sharp




74


Modernz Frenchzmen.


canter, on a rough path intersected by ravines, and,
changing horses and guides on my way, in a few hours
I joined again my poor little wretched camp, where
I could not but fancy that the whole of the two days
past was a dream."
Such was Jacquemont's English, and very respectable
English it is for a Frenchman. There are a few faults,
yet the faults are not, in most cases, Gallicisms: they
are deficient or superfluous English, betraying less an
intrusion of the writer's native idiom than an insufficient
familiarity with ours. For example, he says, "The
tents were struck down,"  a word too much, the idiomatic expression being, " The tents were struck." And
he says, " A rajpoot court in all its gayety and glittering,"
-a syllable too much: he should have said, "in all its
gayety and glitter." But, notwithstanding these and
other little errors, few men can write a foreign language
so well; and our hero's proficiency seems the more
remarkable, when we reflect that he lived for weeks, and
even months together, in India, without hearing any
English at all. In the Himalaya, he used no English
after leaving Simla; in the Punjab and Cashmere, he
spoke English to nobody. Even when surrounded by
our countrymen at the British stations, he constantly
complains that they made him speak French for their
own improvement.
The long journey from the vice-regal camp at Kalakoh, by Adjmeer and Aurungabad to Bombay, may be
passed over briefly, as it offers little to interest the
reader. His way of travelling was to divide his little




Victor 7acquezmoit.


75


caravan into two portions, one with the baggage in the
ox-carts, the other a light personal escort which attended
Jacquemont as he rode to the right or the left for purposes of study and exploration. Both were vigilant, on
account of tigers; but the only death from this cause
was that of a peasant, who did not belong to the caravan,
but was closely following it. There are indications, in
the letters written during this part of his travels, that
Jacquemont's health, notwithstanding his persistent
courage and cheerfulness, was not so regular as it had
been. The great transitions of temperature tried him
severely. He marched two or three hours in the night;
and in the sandy deserts of Rajpootanah the air is so
dry and clear that the earth loses much heat by radiation, and goes down to the freezing-point in the absence
of the winter sun, which nevertheless had sufficient
power to raise the temperature of the tent in which the
traveller spent his afternoons to about 95~ Fahrenheit.
The natural consequence was a very bad cold; and the
patient stopped three days to be nursed by an English
surgeon, who luckily happened to be at a British station
on his line of march. The notion of sitting inside
a small tent during the hottest part of the day is a
notion which could have occurred only to Victor Jacquemont. In the month of May, at Yedlabad in the
Deccan, he would sit writing in that little tent for hours
together, with the thermometer varying from Ioo0 to
I 10~ Fahrenheit, so that a jug of water beside him got
up to the temperature of a warm bath. He sat happily
in this heat, clad in a light bathing costume, in the full




76


Modern Frenchmen.


enjoyment of his wonderfully clear mental faculties, and
of what, so far as his own sensations could inform him,
seemed to be a perfect physical condition.  As he
advanced every day farther south, and as the season
advanced daily nearer and nearer to midsummer, the
temperature of night and day became gradually more
equal. In the valley of the Nerbudda, the night heat
had risen almost to an equality with the burning sunshine. "The heat from the ground," wrote Jacquemont
towards the end of May, " darts into the face and eyes
like that from blazing straw at a little distance." He
got so acclimated to this, that when on the high ground
of the Deccan the temperature fell to oo00, he had a
sensation of coolness.
On the 5th of June, he arrived at Poonah, where the
Governor of Bombay, then the Earl of Clare, happened
to be staying at his country house. He kindly offered
hospitality to Jacquemont, who declined because he
wanted the free disposal of his time, and also, very
probably, because, notwithstanding Lord Clare's kindness, it must have been evident to the traveller, at their
first interview, that much intercourse would be profitable
to neither. One of the first disagreeable things he
learned in the neighborhood of Bombay was that the
place was about three times as expensive for man and
beast as either Delhi or Calcutta. "My three horses
are ruining me," he wrote; but it was difficult to do his
work without them.
During the stay of Jacquemont's little party at Poonah, there were many cases of Asiatic cholera; and




Victor 7acquemont.


77


amongst the rest one of his servants named Soudine
was attacked by the disease. Soudine was twenty-five
years old, and had been in his master's service a year and
a half. His health had been always perfect, and his conduct strictly regular; but the most severe temperance
is not a protection against that terrible malady. The
reader is already sufficiently acquainted with the manliness and mercy in Victor Jacquemont's character to know
that under such circumstances no consideration for his
own safety would weigh with him for an instant in comparison with the plain duty to do what he could for the
sufferer. Soudine had been to Cashmere with his master, and had never served another. He had been the
most active and the most useful of Jacquemont's men;
and now, when he lay prostrate under mortal disease,
his master tended him as one would tend a younger
brother, had him near his own room, and endeavored,
though in vain, to combat the progress of the disease
during the forty hours that it lasted. Writing an account of Soudine's death, his master said: "I should
have regretted it more, if I had not always used him
well; but during these two years I have seldom spoken
to him roughly, and, though he was engaged at five
rupees a month, it is long since I doubled it."
Jacquemont himself had a severe illness at Poonah,a sudden and violent attack of dysentery, which lasted
five days, and only gave way after very severe treatment.
On his recovery, he made the following reflection: "A
traveller in my trade has various ways of making a fiasco,
as the Italians say; but the most completefiasco of all




78


8Aodern Frenchmen.


is to die on the road." To us this looks like a presentiment, though it simply bore reference to the attack of
dysentery. Jacquemont was not as yet aware of the
existence of a still more dangerous disease, which was
gradually fastening its hold upon him. The grim, unwelcome visitor whom we see in Holbein's "Dance of
Death" was already in waiting, and the traveller's long
journey in this world had nearly reached its end.
Here is another strange detail. A journalist at Bombay had somehow heard that Jacquemont had been bitten
by a dog at Hyderabad. The truth was that the traveller
had never been bitten, and had never been at Hyderabad;
but the newspaper writer added an expression which
looks prophetic, though his facts were unhistorical.
" What a misfortune it would be," he said, " if M. Jacquemont were to die!"
If the reader will take the trouble to refer to a map of
India, he will find the island of Salsett near Bombay;
and, if the map is a good one, he will find Tannah on
the eastern coast of the island, on the shore of the little
strait which separates it from the Indian mainland.
Jacquemont arrived at Tannah, from Poonah, on the 22d
of September, 1832. His intention was to explore Salsett
and the neighboring islands, getting through the work
as rapidly as possible, on account of the unhealthiness
of the season there, and then to get back, about the first
of November, to the elevated and cool plateau of the
Deccan.
Salsett, like many other islands, is cultivated and inhabited round the shore, but wild in the interior, where




Victor JYacquezmoit.


79


the hills rise to a considerable height; and there are
rocky solitudes in dense forests. Subterranean temples
of mysterious antiquity are to be found in these lonely
places; and Jacquemont reached one of these after a
very long and fatiguing march. But the principal object
of his curiosity in Salsett was to settle a question in
geology. It so happened that, just before leaving Poonah,
he had received a memoir by Arago on the geological
researches of Elie de Beaumont. Jacquemont's scientific
zeal was always like a lamp, just ready to be lighted; and
Arago's pages kindled it. Notwithstanding the season
of the year, which everybody knew to be deadly in the
island of Salsett, he explored it thoroughly from one
end to the other, in search of tertiary and alluvial strata,
under a burning sun, in pestilential air laden with the
germs of death. He exhausted himself by long marches,
by constantly stooping to examine the ground he traversed, and by hurrying through his self-imposed task
in order to get back soon to the high country to preserve
what remained to him of health.
Although half a physician, and always ready to rely upon
his own treatment of himself, which on several critical
occasions had proved successful, he had been mistaken
as to his bodily condition since the month of March,
when he passed through Ajmeer. His,notion was that,
by severe temperance, a European could protect himself
against liver disease in India. This notion became a
fixed belief, expressed repeatedly in his letters. Jacquemont was convinced that the Anglo-Indians had liver
complaints, not because the climate was deadly, but




80


8  Modern Frenczhmen.


because they ate too much meat, and drank too much
wine and ale and brandy. Having an absolute control
over his own appetites, Jacquemont had lived by rule
since his arrival in India, and believed that his abstemiousness was safety. He had always been subject to a
certain sluggishness of the bowels, and unfortunately
attributed what were really attacks of liver inflammation
to a heating of the intestines. Even so late as the 27th
of October, when prostrated by a violent attack at
Tannah, the result of his exploration of Salsett, he
was still in error as to the nature of his disease, and
had recourse to his old remedies, to leeches amongst the
rest, with which he covered his body before and behind.
The attack had begun with dull, aching pains, after an
exposure of twelve hours to the sun; and he met it with
a two-ounce dose of the horrible oil of palma-cristi. As
neither that nor any other of his usual remedies had any
effect whatever, Jacquemont had himself transported to
Bombay, to the officers' hospital, where he passed the
whole month of November. He lay in bed, suffering
much at first; but, as the weakness increased, the pain
diminished, and the nights, though sleepless, were calm.
lie was now clearly aware of the nature of his disease,
-abscess of the liver, -and expected its fatal termination. He employed his time in settling all the details
of his affairs, and in writing to his friends, when his
failing strength permitted. To his brother Porphyre he
wrote: -
"Nothing is so cruelly painful, when we think that
those we love are dying in a distant country, as the idea




Victor 7acvquemo;Zt.


81


that they have to pass the last hours of their existence in
loneliness and neglect. You ought to find some consolation in the assurance that, since I reached this place, I
have been the object of the most affectionate and touching care. Many good, kind fellows come to see me
continually, indulging my sick man's fancies and anticipating my wishes. I mention Mr. Nicol first of all, and
after him Mr. John Bax, one of the members of the Government, an old colonel of engineers called Goodfellow,
a very amiable young officer, Major Mountain, and others
whom I do not name. My good doctor, Mac Lennen,
has risked his health for me. I have the most absolute
confidence in his skill."
The first-mentioned of these Good Samaritans was
Mr. James Nicol, an English merchant, who had been
Jacquemont's host for some days immediately after his
arrival from Tannah, before he was taken to the officers'
quarters. Mr. Nicol had treated his suffering guest,
whom he had never seen before, with all the affectionate
solicitude of an old friend; and he afterwards wrote an
account of Jacquemont's illness, in French, for the satisfaction of his relations. In this account, he says that,
during the whole time of his illness, the patient preserved " a tranquillity and a contentment of which he had
never before witnessed an example." On the day of his
death, Jacquemont sent for Mr. Nicol, who could not
restrain his tears. On seeing this, the dying man took
his friend's hand, and said to him:  Do not make yourself unhappy. The hour is at hand, and it is the accomplishment of my wishes. For the last fortnight I have
6




82


Modernl Frenchmez.


prayed for no other end. It is a happy event. If I were
to survive, it is probable that the rest of my life would be
made wretched by ill health. Write to my brother, and
tell him what happiness and tranquillity accompany me
to the grave."
Then he asked Mr. Nicol to see that his manuscripts
and collections were duly sent to France; and he entered
into minute directions about his funeral, expressing his
wish that the service should be conducted " as if for a
Protestant." He also dictated the words of the inscription upon his tombstone, probably to defeat any laudatory intentions of his friends. During the whole of his
last day, he retained the use of his mental faculties " as
perfectly," says Mr. Nicol, "as if he had been in good
health." At five o'clock in the evening, he said to his
friend, "I shall now take my last drink from your hand,
and then die." He lived an hour and a quarter longer,
after which he sank finally from exhaustion.
Whilst he lay there dead, his last farewell was slowly
crossing the Indian Sea, to be read long afterwards by
tear-dimmed eyes in Paris. Many a tear has been shed
since those days, over these simple words, by those who
have never seen the writer, and never heard his voice:" My end, if it is my end that approaches, is peaceful
and quiet. If you were here [he means his brother
Porphyre], sitting by my bedside with our father and
Frederic, I should feel heart-broken, and could not see
the approach of death with this resignation and this
serenity. Console yourself, console our father, console
yourselves mutually, my friends!




Viclor yacqzuemozt.


83


" But I am exhausted by the effort of writing. I must
say Good-bye! Good-bye!     Oh, how you are loved by
your poor Victor!    Good-bye, for the last time!"
"I am well off here," he said to Mr. Nicol, "but I shall
be better in the grave."
He had received the cross of the Legion of Honor a
short time previously, and was therefore interred with
military honors. His funeral was attended by the members of the Bombay Government, by his recently won
yet devoted friends in that place, and by many other
persons. His wishes were minutely respected in every
particular by Mr. Nicol, whom he had appointed to be one
of his executors. A simple stone marks his resting-place,
and on it may still be read his own modest inscription: "Victor Jacquemont, born in Paris, 8th of August, ISoI; died at Bombay, after having travelled
during three years and a half in India."* He did not
mention his recent knighthood to the tombstone-reading public of Bombay, but he sent the cross quietly to
his father.
To us, who know the end, many passages in the letters,
in which the traveller indulges his anticipations of a
happy meeting with Porphyre and their father, have a
pathos far surpassing the calculated and intentional pathos of novelists and poets. Here is an extract from one
of his letters to that beloved brother, Porphyre, written
* M. Cuvillier-Fleury gives the inscription in a slightly different form.
According to him, the date of birth is given as the 28th, and not the 8th
of August; and the date of death (Dec. 7, 1832) is given in the inscription. I have followed that given by the traveller's nephew, the present
M. Victor Jacquemont.




84


8Modern Frenchmen.


in the month of May, in that fatal year 1832, in his little
tent near Yedlabad, in the Deccan: —
"Oh, how delightful it will be to find ourselves together after so many years of absence, which for me have
been years of isolation! What a pleasure to dine, all
three of us, or, better still, all four,* at our little round
table, cheerfully lighted; to have soup and red French
wine; and to leave the dining-room, only to go to your
room or our father's; leaving others to seek their pleasure
out of the house, whilst we shall remain at home by the
fireside, telling each other all that happened when we
were far apart. I have eaten alone and drunk water
alone so long!"
Then come pleasant projects for a quiet old bachelor's
existence with his brother Porphyre, when they are to
walk out together, play trictrac together, and indulge
themselves occasionally by hearing a little good music
together. It seems almost a breach of confidence to
quote this letter; for the writer ends by saying, "Of
course this tender and ridiculous chatter is for you and
our father only."
Now and then he recognizes the possibility of a less
happy ending of his travels. Whilst as yet in perfect
health at Samalkah, near Paniput, he writes: "I have
left full directions about forwarding my scientific collections, in case I happen to die during my travels. I
could not forget this possibility. However great may
* The allusion here is to his brother Frederic, of St. Domingo, whom
Victor loved and respected less than Porphyre, yet thought of fraternally still.




Victor 7aczqullmolt.


be a man's confidence in his destiny, he cannot blind
himself to facts. The great majority of those who have
done work like mine in India have died here. Of course
I find all sorts of good reasons for not imitating them."
His two strongest reasons, as he believed, were severe
temperance and chastity. In the gayety of health, he
said it was rather a foolish thing to die at thirty; and
he had the vanity to suppose that he would live to a
much greater age, his notion being that death might be
resisted by self-control and strength of will. He criticised the English for having liver diseases. "All the
English," he wrote, "have diseases of the liver, which
are unknown to the French. I know what produces
them,-four immoderate meals a day.   There is the
cause! I shall live on rice as much as possible. With
that regimne, I have nothing to fear but intermittent
fevers; and I have a pot of quinine." And so, believing
himself safe from liver disease, he allowed it to establish
itself without opposition, whilst he took medicine for
another ailment. He compared himself with his predecessor, Duvaucel, who died in India, and flattered himself that he had played the game of travel more prudently. He also compared himself to an old vase, fragile
by nature, but hardened by knocks and accustomed to
fall without breaking: the similitude was a bad one; for
no vase that is really fragile is or can be hardened by the
blows of accident. On the isle of plane-trees in the
Cashmere Lake, he discovered that he was thirty years
old that day; and a scientific annual told him that it
was the probable half-way station in the journey of life.




86


Modern Frenchmen.


He was astonished to think that half of life could be
already over: he felt as if he had been born yesterday,
and the thirty years were only like a dream. Alas! not
only the half of life was over, but he was already living
his penultimate year!
We have been so much occupied with the story of our
hero's varied and adventurous life that time has been
wanting for any adequate study of his character.
Victor Jacquemont was a stoic, but a genial stoic.
Prosper Merimee, who knew him      intimately, said that
this stoicism was neither a gift of nature nor an affectation
in deference to the fashion of the day,* but that it resulted from reason, and was a conquest of self-discipline.
The acquisition of this character was, in his case, the
result of many combats, in each of which the victory
was on his side, yet cost him dear. His theory was that
a man ought to exercise himself continually in conquering his own desires, and that when he had to suffer he
ought to find within himself an amount of endurance
sufficient to meet the suffering. Closely connected with
this stern and continual training of the will was an unfeigned contempt for luxury, or rather for that condition
of the human mind in which it attaches importance to
* When Victor Jacquemont was a young man in Paris, the higher order
of cultivated and aspiring youth to which he belonged were disgusted
with the false sentimentalism of Rousseau and his imitators; and, by
reaction from that, adopted a sort of English disdain for the expression
of the feelings. This reaction against sentimentalism was a dominant
fashion for a few years.




Victor  acqueucmonf.


87


those minute and multitudinous details which in the
aggregate make up the perfection of comfort. Here is
a passage in a letter to his brother Porphyre, which sincerely expresses an unalterable conviction:"The English have habits of opulence and factitious
wants without number, which would make them inevitably wretched in various situations where I shall find
myself. I do not say this out of envy: no, it is from
the bottom of my heart that I despise such an ignoble
dependence upon things. I am sure, on the contrary,
to find a charm sometimes in the somewhat antique and
biblical simplicity of my caravan."
Here we have Jacquemont's view of luxury, - "an
ignoble dependence upon things." He objects to it,
because he perceives that it is an impediment to freedom and also to great actions. He did not object to
those conveniences which are necessary to efficiency.
He willingly accepted the services which save time, but
had a contempt for mere self-indulgence in all its forms,
and liked to get rid of cumbersome and useless impedimenta. He lived with a soldierly simplicity, but cheerfully. "I dine gayly," he writes, " with a piece of bread
and cheese and a glass of wine, on the corner of my
writing-table.... Setting aside all the cant of philosophy, I declare that I would rather not be rich. I believe
that in my present condition I have more sympathy
with men and things. In our unfurnished life, as the
English would call it, there is more simplicity, more of
the candor of truth, and therefore more poetry....
What an admirable receipt for happiness, to know how




88


8Modern Frenchmen.


to do without things!"  Merimee said that Jacquemont
was clearly aware that his scientific pursuits were not
the road to wealth; but that he only esteemed money
for the liberty which it gives, and that with his simple
tastes and his contempt for the pleasures of vanity he
asked nothing more from Fortune than the possibility
of leading a philosopher's life.
Intimately connected with these ideas was a delight
in sobriety, not at all from any harsh or uncharitable
asceticism, but from a feeling that sobriety was morally
more beautiful than its opposite, and also because he
valued mental clearness and physical efficiency. His
doctrine was that man, in a state of society, eats too
much; and in this he was unquestionably right, as every
physician knows. At Bourbon, he observed that the
slaves who worked like horses, and had both the appearance and the reality of health, ate nothing but Indian
corn and rice, except a weekly ration of codfish;
whereas the whites, who expended no muscular force,
ate from five to ten times that value of assimilable
nutriment, digested it badly, and were either meagre or
bloated in consequence. With regard to drinking, Jacquemont was not a teetotaller; but he drank water as a
rule, and only allowed himself wine and brandy in the
most moderate quantities, when convinced that they
were necessary to his health. His cellar was easily
supplied, and supplied for a long time.  At Calcutta,
he bought two dozen small bottles of brandy, of which he
only consumed nine in twelve months. At Simla, he
purchased a few bottles of port wine, and calculated




Victor yacqzeemont.


89


that they would last him a year. He carried beyond
reasonable limits the French habit of a long interval
between meals. When on the march, he would travel
often thirteen and sometimes fifteen hours without
eating; nor had he the common resource of tobacco,
which puts off hunger, for he only smoked occasionally,
and in the greatest moderation. Notwithstanding this
extreme sobriety, he was not insensible to the pleasures
of taste. There is an amusing passage in which he
anticipates the delight of eating a paed from France,
and he gave some thought to the quality of the little
wine and tobacco that he used.
His asceticism was always tempered by prudence: he
did not lose sight of the essentials of human life. "I
am without pity for my body," he writes in I830; but
then he adds immediately, " so far as the toils I impose
upon it cannot radically injure health." He suffered
terribly, as we have seen, from cold, in the Himalaya,
yet had no thought of turning back till he had accomplished his purposes. He was manly in his habits without rashness, the only instance of downright rashness
in his travels being that fatal exploration of Salsett;
but that was a result of scientific ardor, and not of mere
athletic temerity.  He lived from reason, and not in
conformity to the customs of those about him.  At
Calcutta, he did not follow English customs, but rose
before the dawn and took his exercise whilst others
slept. In spite of his unmuscular build, he had considerable personal strength, which his temperance and
activity kept up to a pitch of regular serviceableness.




90


Modern Freuczcmen.


He could either walk or ride from morning till night.
On the rough slopes of the Himalaya, he did his work
on foot; at Agra, he tired three horses every day. " The
variety of my studies and exercises," he wrote to M. de
Tracy, "sometimes on horseback, more frequently on
foot, sometimes on an elephant or in a palanquin, leaves
no room for any kind of fatigue. I have never enjoyed
more equal health."
He had a great esteem and admiration for industry
and economy wherever he found them, and endeavored
successfully to practise these virtues in his own affairs.
"Work and thrift," he said, speaking of the life of
nations, "these are the great matters; and liberty itself
is precious only so far as it is used in labor and accumulation. Liberty is admirably employed in the United
States; for the English race, which has peopled the
North of the New World, is eminently industrious and
orderly." He managed his own expenditure with such
care that, at the time when he was poorest, he could
write to his father, " I have had the admirable talent of
remaining within my budget." At a later period, when
his means were larger, he described his increased establishment, but added that it still bore the same strict
proportion to his means.  He had the moral courage,
at the outset, to live on ~20 a month, in the highest
society in India.  Jacquemont knew that with his
limited means a close attention to money matters was
essential to the success of his enterprise, so that he was
parsimonious with a noble purpose.
His religion was more practical than dogmatic; for,




Vzctor Jacquemonzt.


91


although nominally a Roman Catholic, he belonged to
a sceptical society and age, —"les hommes de I830."
Some clerical newspapers have been hard upon him, and
even to this day strict Roman Catholics will tell you
that he had a cold nature. In a certain limited sense,
there is some truth in this. On the side of the ideal,
he had not the warmth of a saint or of a poet; he was
even less inclined than most men are to carry his
thoughts much beyond the boundaries of the visible
world. We must remember, too, that his letters, which
have been published without mutilation, were for the
most part addressed to correspondents of his own way
of thinking, and written with perfect freedom. It is
therefore easy to extract passages which may offend
readers who think differently. Sometimes offence may
be taken simply because the reader is not accustomed
to one kind of freedom, when he himself uses another
equally culpable, if culpability there be. I remember,
for example, a passage in which Jacquemont freely
criticises the way in which the femur of the camel is
articulated in the pelvis, which at first seemed presumptuous, because the Creator of the camel made the
animal what it is; but we are shocked by this simply
because we are not accustomed to hear any criticism of
bones. When Mr. Palgrave gives two pages to a most
severe criticism of the camel's mind, we are not shocked;
and yet the animal's brain is just as much God's work
as its pelvis.
Although Jacquemont himself said that he had not
religious faith in the usual sense of the expression,




92


Modern Frenchmen.


he also said in the same paragraph, " Our tenderness
ought to expend itself for the benefit of humanity: that
must be our religion." He had in a high degree what
the author of " Ecce Homo " has called the "enthusiasm
of humanity," and carried it into practice. Me'rimee
said: " To be useful was with him an absolute principle,
which had taken possession of his mind and reigned
there without question. Hie was a slave to what he considered the first of duties, and looked upon every one as
blamable who did not employ his faculties for the general
good." Whenever an opportunity for usefulness clearly
presented itself, Jacquemont accepted it cheerfully, and
set to work at once, being often better qualified than
most men by his scientific knowledge. On board ship,
he acted as if he combined in his own person the qualities of a surgeon with those of a sister of charity.
His love and sympathy were ready for all mankind.
"How many good souls," he writes, "have I met with
everywhere! A misanthropist, if he could have travelled with me, would have been cured of his malady."
He had no desire to deprive others of their belief.
" You are very happy," he wrote to a young lady, " to
keep alive those persuasions which differ from mine;"
but then he cautions her against thinking uncharitably
of heretics, who have a religion also, and one that is
serviceable to the world. "I know some such," he adds,
"who are stoics towards themselves, and angels of
charity and indulgence towards others."
During his travels in different parts of the world,
Jacquemont's feelings revolted against all cruelty and




Victor Jacquemont.


93


oppression. In Brazil, he actually witnessed the arrival
of some cargoes of slaves from Africa, and was so painfully impressed by the sight that he remained ever
afterwards an ardent enemy of slavery. Writing to a
friend in office, he said: "If I were in your place, in
the position which you occupy, I would make use of it
for the suppression of those crimes.  You are not
afraid of going to extremes in doing right: say, then,
that the colonial administration is accused of a criminal
connivance in the slave-trade. If the administration
acted loyally, it would prevent the importation of slaves."
Then he goes into details, and shows how the thing
might be done. Resuming the same letter at a later
date, he says: "This lamentable question of slavery
recurs to my mind incessantly. If you had seen, as I
have, the slave-sales at Rio, you would be tormented
without respite!"  Jacquemont's humanity was large
enough to feel sorrow for whole races of mankind.
Glorious as was the discovery of Columbus, Jacquemont
felt painfully its fatal consequences to the aboriginal
races of America which the white man destroyed, and
to those of Africa which he enslaved.
The Oriental system of government, by acts of cruelty
and tyranny, was intensely repugnant to our hero's
notions of justice. An Italian officer in the service of
Runjeet Singh gave him some information about this,
which made him deeply regret that he had not remained
in ignorance. When Runjeet offered him the viceroyalty of Cashmere, one of his reasons for refusing
was because he would have to inflict barbarous punish



94


Modern Frenchmen.


ments, -" There were too many ears and hands to cut
off." Nothing pleased him more, during his residence
there, than his great reputation for justice. The people
came to him voluntarily to settle their disputes, and he
willingly made himself useful as an unofficial magistrate.
Though a man of science, and able to perform a
surgical operation with perfect coolness, he had so much
sympathy with pain that he disliked even the representation of it on the stage. He would have been
totally incapable of vivisection. No man could be farther from every kind of effeminacy than he was, and
yet his feelings of humanity towards animals deprived
him of all pleasure in field sports. "I have not the
heart," he said, "to kill inoffensive animals." Having
shot a wild boar in a royal chase, he remarked that the
feat gave him little or no pleasure, though it was his
first wild boar.
One of the most marked peculiarities in this original
and interesting character was the combination of genuine modesty with unfailing assurance. His modesty
may easily be disputed by his enemies, who may quote
many passages from his letters to disprove it; for
Jacquemont was fond of boasting humorously, to his
intimate friends, about every little success that attended
him either in society or in his adventures. It amused
him immensely to call himself the modern Plato, the
Socrates of the century, the Aristotle of the age, and
by any other pompous titles with which Oriental hyperbole had recognized his abilities. IHe liked, too, to
describe his lordly state in the Punjab and in Cashmere,




Victor Yacquemont.


95


and the arts by which he kept up his dignity in the eyes
of the population. Many a passage may be quoted, in
which he frankly expresses the pleasure he felt in his
own skill, whether in carrying out some traveller's
project, in the mastery of a language, or in the management of men. Such passages a cautious Englishman
would have been careful to suppress, but there is nothing conceited in them. They are the exuberance of a
rich nature, rejoicing in the possession of extraordinary
powers. A man who could possess Jacquemont's mental and bodily activity without sometimes exulting in it,
would have no pleasure in life. He never expressed
such exultation except to those who loved him, and who
were glad to hear that he bore his labors lightly, and was
treated with kindness and confidence and honor. "I
am not timid," he said; "and perhaps, in the eyes of
some, I may be wanting in modesty, although in the
sincerity of my own heart I feel myself to be really
modest and exempt only from false modesty." It is
hardly to be expected that a strong man, thirty years
old, and more than six feet high, should have the graces
of timidity, especially after so much intercourse with
the world. He felt perfectly at ease in any society, and
was not to be put out of countenance by displays of
splendor which only amused him. In his intercourse
with great people, he resolutely made the conversation
interesting till they forgot the social distance and met
him  with equal frankness,-a plan which succeeded
admirably when the great folks happened to be intelligent and weary of boredom (like Lord William Bentinck




96


9Alodern Frenchmen.


and Runjeet Singh), but which would not have shaken
the majesty of stupid greatness. In a correspondence
between Jacquemont and a French lady, she laughingly
calls him "an impudent rascal;" and he has the grace
to admit that there is some truth in the compliment,
but says, "After all, my impudence is only candor."
We may add to this, that without unshakable selfconfidence, both in society and amidst the hazards and
anxieties of travel, Victor Jacquemont could never have
done his work. Sometimes he saved himself by cool
audacity when his force was insufficient. Here is an
incident, in the mountains, far from help: "My old Sikh
officer, Kadja Singh, pointed out to me, in an embarrassed manner, a score of rascals posted in front of my
camp, presenting their guns at us and refusing a passage.   My horsemen proposed       to ride at them     with
lances, -an absurd     notion  that made me shrug my
shoulders. Instead of that, I wrapped myself in my
superb robe of white cashmere with flowers, sat down
comfortably in my arm-chair and began to smoke. In
this convenient attitude, I entered into diplomatic rela* The candor of his letters occasionally goes quite beyond what we
are accustomed to in English books; but we must bear in mind that
they were private letters to the writer's most intimate friends. An
ultramontane newspaper treated Jacquemont's memory with great harshness and injustice, because he sometimes mentions a medical instrument
which was lost, and caused him some anxiety till it was recovered and
restored to him with Oriental ceremony. To this it may readily be
answered that the instrument in question was a most valuable safeguard for a traveller, and that, although Jacquemont's sense of the
ludicrous was tickled by the publicity accidentally given to it, the
inventor of that instrument was a benefactor of humanity, since it has
been the means of saving many a life.




Victor 7actemlzo/t.


97


tions with my enemies." The result was that, after
praising them for their vigilance and patronizing them
with airs of gracious condescension, he rode away majestically and unmolested. When riding with Runjeet
Singh, he stopped the royal elephant and all the escort,
to examine a plant by the wayside.
Although Jacquemont's character was one of the most
truthful that ever existed, he did not hesitate to act a
part before people who could never have understood
him as he really was, however elaborately he had explained himself. In Cashmere, he had a reputation for
sanctity, and willingly sustained it, which was not so
hypocritical as it may at first sight appear; for he could
hardly have given a more accurate idea of his character
to the simple inhabitants of the valley. He was temperate in the extreme, so is a saint; he lived chastely, so
does a saint; he loved the virtues of charity, mercy, and
justice as ardently as the holiest Buddhist or Mahometan, and probably understood the practice of them better
than any Asiatic. It is impossible for a man like Jacquemont to make simple people really understand him;
and, so far as they can achieve the feat at all, they must
do it in their own way, which is by taking some type
that is familiar to them, and calling him by its name.
One rule will be found to hold good with Jacquemont
throughout: his frankness had no other limit than the
capacity of his hearer to understand him. Suppose he
had said to ignorant Asiatics, "I am a geologist and
ethnologist," would it have conveyed any thing to their
minds? The impossibility of making himself known for
7




98


MIodcrn Frenchmen.


what he really was, and the absolute necessity for making himself respected, led him occasionally into a sort
of' charlatanism quite repugnant to his real character.
What he professed and practised habitually was an " exclusive esteem for absolute probity," and he carried this
so far that he feared "to be amusing at the cost of
truth."  We know men by their admirations. Observe
the points that Jacquemont admires in the character of
Lord William Bentinck:
"Though accustomed to scenes of carnage, he has
preserved in its virgin purity that flower of humane feeling which too often withers amidst the habits of military
life. Tried, too, by the most corrupting of professions,
-diplomacy,-he has kept, like Franklin, his thoughts
straightforward and his language simple and sincere.
When I thought of the immense power of this excellent
man, I rejoiced for the sake of humanity." There is an
equally interesting paragraph, in another letter, about
Washington:
"He was not a very great general, nor an eminent
orator, nor yet a statesman of extraordinary skill: he
was better than all that, an honest man and a great
citizen! We ought not to give esteem or consideration,
nor contempt or hatred, to the qualities of the intellect:
talent is neither estimable nor inestimable in itself, it is
morality which is estimable; and immorality, with whatever rare talents it may happen to be united, deserves
nothing but contempt."
Turning from the moral to the intellectual side of
Jacquemont's character, I should say that its predomi



Victor 7acquemont.


nant qualities were a fine curiosity of the highest kind
about every thing, and an openness on every side. He
was not at all one of those specialists w1o shut themselves up in a narrow specialty, and become blind
and deaf to the great interests of human life.      Men of
science are much exposed to this danger, especially
when the science which they pursue, such as botany,
for instance, can be entirely detached from history and
politics. Jacquemont got a dislike to botanists for this
narrowness, and avoided them, though botany was one
of his own leading studies.   He regretted that his labors
in natural history left him such scanty leisure in India
for the study of the various peoples whose origin he
wished to investigate. Few men of his years have seen
so much of mankind, and still fewer have made such
careful observations and     comparisons.    Towards the
close of his short life, he became a most acute critic,
both of nations and individuals, seeing qualities and
faults with equal clearness, and enumerating them with
equal force. His criticisms of Humboldt and Cuvier,
brief as they are, will be long remembered. I will not
spoil them by translation, but give them in the original
in a foot-note.* On the death of Cuvier, Jacquemont
* "J'ai requ hier par M. Cordier le nouvel ouvrage de M. de Humboldt sur la geographie physique et la geognosie de l'Asie centrale,
qu'il a visitee en I829, et qu'on m'envoie de Paris, humide de la presse.
Qu'il a de science et d'invention! Mais combien peu de methode! Qu'il
ecrit mal, obscurement, peniblement, filandreusement! que ses phrases
sont longues! que de parentheses, notes et appendices pour expliquer
l'obscurite du texte, comme si c'etait du sanscrit! Que Cuvier est
grand par la methode! quelle intelligence parfaite! Tous deux manquent de simplicite. Cuvier laisse voir le sentiment de sa force; il est




I 00


Modern Frenchmen.


associated him in his regrets with Sir Walter Scott,
and took pleasure in recognizing the true utility of
Scott's work. He then develops this idea of true utility,
and affirms that Canova and Rossini were also useful
men. Comparing Scott and Cuvier with a great manufacturer, whose usefulness no one denies, he observes
justly that the manufacturer can be replaced, that if he
had not been born some other would have done his
work, whereas it does not follow that, in the absence of
Scott and Cuvier, another author would have written
" Waverley " or another zoologist discovered comparative
anatomy. Though a professional man of science, Jacquemont had a keen appreciation of literature, and read
copiously and carefully in several languages. He had
great intellectual energy, the sort of energy that a good
lawyer displays when he grapples with all the difficulties
of a heavy and complicated case. In all that he had to
do, he took the wise precaution, which the vain and the
indolent so generally neglect, of first ascertaining what
had been already done, -a precaution which, simple as
it may appear, often cost him weeks of the most wearicoupable d'orgueil, mais avec une certaine dignit; au lieu que M. de
Humboldt, qui est le second homme du monde (du monde intellectuel,
je veux dire), s'il n'est pas le premier, est, malgre cela, le plus fieffe
charlatan que je connaisse."
The following passage about the personal character of Cuvier occurs
in another letter:" Prodigieuse intelligence qui n'est plus! I a cree cles sciences nouvelles, admirablement fecondes; la geologie serait pen de chose sans
son anatomie comparee. II perfectionnait tout ce qu'il touchait. Mais
il etait egoiste et dur, dur jusqu'a la mechancete, et les individus
n'etaient rien pour lui. I1 considerait le genre humain abstractivement,
comme les geometres sont enclins a le faire."




V/ictor 7acyuemnonl.


IOI


some drudgery. He was, however, so happily constituted that he could go through great labors cheerfully.
"My mind," he said, "although sometimes anxious, preserves an habitual freedom which makes work easy and
light for me. I feel myself in full progress, and one
is not unhappy with such a feeling as that."  I have
spoken elsewhere of his extraordinary facility as a writer,
which enabled him to do as much in a day as other writers
can do in a week.
Like all great workers, Jacquemont had a keen sense
of the value of time. He detested the sort of existence
which people lead in cafes and steamboats, where any
useful occupation is so difficult as to be almost impossible. Although he happened (not from choice) to lead
an adventurous life, he disliked adventures as an interruption, and was never so happy as in the undisturbed
pursuit of his occupations. The time lost in the ceremonies of social intercourse was a constant vexation to
him. He rides round a city with a rajah, and notices
that it takes two hours: "Alone, I should have done it
in less than an hour."
He bore solitude easily, and said that when alone
his thoughts were full of sweetness and tenderness.
"A long studious retreat, entirely separated from the
men and things of Europe," would not, he thought, be
painful to him. When it came to the test, he found the
intellectual isolation easy to bear; but he suffered from
the too long absence of those dear to him, and his imagination realized the distance from them too well. He
had the keenest possible enjoyment of enlightened and.. *..1




I02


Modern Frenchmen.


intelligent society, in which he was everywhere a favorite; but he had quite as strong a dislike, on the other
hand, to the society of dull and stupid people, and had
not the art of adapting himself to their ways. Prosper
Merimee, who knew him      intimately, said that stupidity
(and by stupidity Jacquemont meant nothing but the
mental condition of all commonplace humanity) irritated
him strangely, and that he seemed to think it almost culpable. He delighted in the society of intelligent Englishmen, such as Fraser, Lord William Bentinck, and Sir
Charles Grey, with whom he would talk for hours and
hours together; but the general tone of English society
seemed to him     unendurable.    The ordinary English
irritated him "by their prodigious indifference to every
thing that lies outside of the narrow circle of their
monotonous existence." He declared that he preferred
the natives of the remote Cashmere valley.     The "genteel stiffness" of manner which is considered the thing
in England, and the habits of thought which correspond
with it, were the exact opposite of Jacquemont's tastes,
and he declared that " they crushed him." At Poonah,
his irritation explodes in the violent exordium of a letter
addressed to Colonel Hezeta, which is a fine bit of fury,
worthy of Byron in a passion.* After all, Jacquemont
* "Ah les sottes gens que les gens de Poonah, mon cher ami! Ils
montent a cheval, vont en voiture, dejeunent, dinent, s'habillent, se
rasent, et se deshabillent, s'assemblent en comite pour regler les affaires
d'une bibliotheque commune ou je n'ai jamais vu d'autre personne que
moi-meme; dorment, dorment beaucoup et ronflent fort; digerent
comme ils peuvent, pechent sans doute autant qu'ils peuvent, lisent
leurs gazettes de Bombay; et c'est la toute leur vie! Les sottes gens!
les sottes gens! Le juge est une espece d'idiot; le magistrat, un en*,.r,~  r




Victor yacquemonlt.


Io3


only says in his own way what Stuart Mill, Matthew
Arnold, John    Morley, and Mark Pattison have since
said plainly enough in theirs; besides, we must remember that he had not the precious advantage, which we
possess, of concentrating it all in a single word. We
can call dull people " the Philistines," and so relieve our
souls, and have done with them.
Let it not be supposed, from the frankness of Jacquemont's criticisms of English society, in private letters
never meant for publication, that he was ungrateful for
the uniform kindness with which our countrymen everywhere received him. There are a hundred passages
which express his gratitude most warmly, and prove
that the sentiment was constantly present in his mind.
He praises English hospitality as much superior to
French, noticing especially its spirit of self-sacrifice to
the guest: he appreciates English delicacy with regard
to his pecuniary situation; and his respect for the public
character of the English breaks out in many a passage
of sincerest eloquence.   " Honor to English ministers,"
he says, " they keep their word! ""      The Englishman,
beyond all men, has the capacity for command." He rejoices in the extension of the British power in Asia; and,
so far from exhibiting that jealousy of it which we find
rage chasseur, etc., etc. L'homme de sens, c'est le general, qui a appris
son metier, dans votre pays, contre nous, et, de plus, bonhomme. Les
autres aussi peuvent etre bonnes gens, mais quelles betes! quelles
nullits! "
"J'ai essaye d'en faire causer quelques-uns de ce pays qu'ils habitent;
ils n'en savent pas plus que moi qui arrive, et ne parlent aucun de ses
patois; ils n'y ont pas voyage, n'ont aucun desir de le faire ni de savoir.
Oh! les brutes! les brutes!"






104


Modern Frenchmen.


in the lower portion of the French press, he constantly
asserts that it is a benefit to the conquered races; contrasting the peace and security of British territory with
the imperfect protection of life and property beyond
what was at that time our frontier. He said that the
English were awkward in their personal intercourse with
Asiatics, did not know how to talk to them, and had no
intellectual influence over them, but that no nation in
Europe would have done so much for the natives of a
conquered country. The great fabric of British power
commanded Jacquemont's admiration. "The more I
know of this fabric," he wrote, in our own language,
"the more extraordinary it appears to me. No guess
can be made at its durability: it may last centuries,
and may be swept away in a few months. However,
this I will foretell: the British power in India will not
perish by foreign aggression."
The severest of Jacquemont's criticisms of our countrymen relate to their carelessness in money matters,
and the facility with which they went into debt. He
compares this with the stricter condition of opinion in
the French army, where debt is held to be so disgraceful
that it is practically unknown. One of the numerous
passages on this subject is an excellent specimen of
Jacquemont's trenchant style of writing, when excited
by moral indignation.* With his strong disapproval of
* "Voici comme ils raisonnent:
"'Je suis un English gentleman, c'est a dire un des animaux les plus
brillants de la creation.
"'J'ai quitte les joies de l'Europe, les charmes de la vie de famille;
j'ai dit adieu a mes amis pour venir habiter ce chien de pays.




Victor 7acguemont.


I05


debt, it was a matter of course that he should feel hostile to the cause of it, -the costly elaboration of comfort.
So far from  admiring this, he considered it a great and
serious evil.  "I do not conceal my opinion that the
system of English life is nothing but a succession of
errors, all fatal to happiness. They talk of home without
ceasing; and this home, which they like so much, is the
material side of their existence, — their sofas and easychairs. Our home, which we do not talk about, is in the
heart. I tell them that the poor in our country have more
pleasures, and pleasures sweeter and nobler, than the rich
in theirs." In another passage, Jacquemont seems to
imply that English luxury is always more recherche than
French,- an error certainly in many respects, especially with regard to variety of dishes. The real distinction is, that in France you may live comfortably or
barely, according to your means and your taste; whereas
in England you have to conform to a certain standard of
comfort, whether you like it or not. For example, if a
Frenchman does not care about carpets, he need not
buy any; but all Englishmen, in the educated classes,
are compelled by custom to purchase carpets. Jacquemont had a well-grounded antipathy to all compulsory
expenditure,-having small means and great purposes,
and a firm resolution not to be thwarted by other people's
exigencies.
"'Ergo, j'ai le droit, par compensation, d'etre admirablement nourri,
abreuve, vetu, loge, voiture,' etc., etc.
"'Et, si mes appointements n'y suffisent pas, je m'endetterai pour
faire face a cette necessity.'"
The concentrated severity of this could not be surpassed in the same
space.




Io6


6Modern Frenchmen.


He criticised other nations as frankly as ours, and his
own countrymen did not escape remark. Dining with
the French Governor of Chandernagor, he meets with " a
collection of fellow-countrymen, probably very estimable and respectable people;" but he confesses that he
would have been "much mortified," if an English officer
had presented himself and been a witness to their vulgarity. He is ashamed of the French adventurers at
Calcutta. It is evident that he had become so far
Anglicized as to have acquired a taste for the society
of gentlemen, and a certain intolerance of non-gentlemen. Further reflection might have convinced him later
that it is not easy to keep up the refinement which he
appreciated without a good deal of that expenditure
which he thought superfluous.
The peculiar forms of vulgarity which flourished in
the United States at the time when Jacquemont visited
them were especially odious to him, because they appeared authoritative and overwhelming, like the vote of
some great popular majority. He valued the blessings
of high culture and intellectual freedom; and it was his
conviction that these blessings were gravely imperilled
by the tendencies of the middle and lower classes in
America, which (so far as Jacquemont could judge from
a short residence) were strongly imbued with what we
should now call Philistinism. There is Philistinism in
every country; there is plenty of it in France itself; and
we cannot stamp it out, like the cattle-plague, by killing
all the Philistines and burying them in quicklime on the
spot. We must therefore reconcile ourselves to the




Victor yacqueznmoit.


o07


necessity of living side by side with large masses of
fellow-citizens who are contemptuously indifferent to
"the stars of mortal night" which shine in the higher
regions of literature and science and art. Jacquemont
could have made up his mind to this; he could have
selected his friends from amongst the intelligent few,
and followed his own pursuits in privacy. What he
dreaded was such a complete predominance of Philistine principles in America that a really cultivated class
could never thrive within the frontiers of the republic.
He was afraid that the habits of studious reading and
vigorous, independent thinking would be utterly stifled
and overcome by the other more visible habits of intense
money-getting and narrow-minded intolerance. No one
would have been more happy than Jacquemont himself
to learn that his anticipations of evil were not destined
to be realized, and that in another generation the more
thoughtful English writers would be more read in the
United States than they are in their native land. And,
whether we be English or American, we may easily forgive Jacquemont his criticisms on our failings; for, in
his case, such criticisms were never suggested by the
narrow sentiment of international ill-will. They were due
invariably to his passionate interest in the well-being of
humanity everywhere, which made him anxiously apprehensive about the evils which menaced it, no matter in
what quarter of the globe. And I may affirm, without fear
of contradiction from any one familiarwith that rare and
noble nature, that, although his death-bed on that far
Indian shore was blest with serenity and peace, it would




Io8          ilodern Frenchmen.
have been lighted by the radiance of a more perfect happiness if some credible voice could have told him that,
long before this century drew to its conclusion, there
would neither be a slave in the cotton-fields of America,
nor a serf on the plains of Russia, nor a patriot in the
prisons of Italy.




Henri Perreyve.


I09


HENRI PERREYVE.
IT is probable that the name at the head of this paper
will be entirely unknown to the majority of readers
in England and America, and it is not a great name anywhere; but it has gradually become familiar to a certain
class of minds in France, and is likely to be remembered
in connection with the religious and political life of the
Second Empire. Perreyve was never an important personage; but we should miss a great deal that is valuable
in human nature, if we confined our attention exclusively
to important personages. Our loss would be equally
great, if we refused our consideration to all who differ
from us on politics and religion; and a foreigner's views
of these subjects are always sure to be un-English, even
when he may nominally belong to the same denominations as ourselves. You cannot reasonably expect Perreyve, or any other Frenchman, to have English views
about any thing whatever: the national habits of thought
will mould his opinions in one form or another, but never
in an English form; and these habits of thought are due
to historical causes as well as to idiosyncrasy. For
example, republicanism in England is associated much




IIO


Modern Frenchmen.


less with the love of liberty than with the desire for
equality; so that an Englishman who loves liberty is not
by any means of necessity a republican. In England,
political liberty is unbounded under the monarchy, which
has indeed actually come to be one of its best safeguards;
and, therefore, a lover of political liberty in England is
always likely to be a loyal supporter of the throne. The
only inducement to be a republican, in England, is the
desire for certain social changes which may seem worth
purchasing at the cost of social disorganization; and
very few Englishmen consider that such social changes,
if desirable at all, are worth the risk and peril which
disorganization would involve. The case is very different in the country where Perreyve was born and died.
Nobody who knows France will hesitate for one moment
to admit that every liberty-loving Frenchman, without a
single exception, is a republican. He is so from sheer
necessity, because the republic - the real, and not the
nominal republic -is the only system of government
which tolerates or promises the first elementary conditions of political liberty,-the rights of free speech
and free printing, the right of public meeting, and the
government of the country by its own fairly elected
representatives. No monarchy in France can afford to
permit the exercise of these rights, only a really representative government can permit them. So hostile is
any thing like monarchy in France to every thing which
an Englishman considers as his political birthright, that
even a mere President, if he happens to be of a royalist
temper, will try to restrain the sale of newspapers he




Henri Perreyve.             I I I
does not like, will prohibit public meetings, interfere
even in private "reunions," and set up a cabinet in defiance of an overwhelming majority in the representative
chamber. It is beyond the scope of the present biographical essay to inquire into the reasons for this, but the
fact is beyond dispute; and an Englishman cannot judge
a Frenchman fairly, unless he remembers it. Every
one who holds English opinions about political liberty
holds what all French monarchists condemn as radical
opinions; and there is no limit to the severity of the censure which they apply to Frenchmen who are guilty of
no greater crime than this, that they desire for France
the freedom which ought to belong to a civilized people
in its maturity. A single instance may illustrate the
difference between the two countries in this respect.
A venerable English statesman received a workingman's club, in the spring of I877, at his residence in
Richmond Park; and an address was read to his guests,
in his name, which no Frenchman could have delivered
in the same month without drawing down upon himself
the attentions of the police, the abuse of the monarchical
press, and the condemnation of "good society."  Yet
Earl Russell occupies his house by her Majesty's kind
permission; and it is probable that, of the six hundred
working-men who were his grateful guests on that occasion, and who enjoyed the unrivalled beauty of the place
which the aged statesman loves, and where he spends
the evening of an illustrious life, there was not one
individual who imagined that there could be any thing
incongruous between the place and the address, —




I I 2


Modern Frenchmen.


the royal demesne and the rejoicing in the people's
liberty.
I would ask the English reader, who in his own country associates the word "republican" with ideas of dangerous social disorganization, to try to put himself in
the place of such a Frenchman as Henri Perreyve, who
loved liberty next to religion, all but equally with religion, and who knew by the experience of his countrymen that there was no hope for it under the sceptre
either of a Bourbon or a Bonaparte. What can such a
Frenchman be but a republican? Perreyve, then, was
a republican from boyhood to the day of his death. At
the same time, he was a very earnest Roman Catholic.
Here, again, we have to remember that we are not in
England, that the subject of our study is not an Englishman. In England, he would probably have found all
that he needed in the Established Church; in France,
he happened to be born in the dominant religion, and
adhered to it from a certain docility of mind in religious
matters, which was quite compatible with much independence in secular affairs. A real Protestant is a person who has examined the evidences of religion for himself, and who accepts them because, after examination, he
is satisfied of their genuineness and sufficiency; but there
may be many in Protestant churches who not having
time or learning enough for that, or the active spirit of
inquiry, are content to take them on trust, in simple obedience to authority. Nobody who does this need feel surprised by the obedience and submission of a Frenchman,
who was a born son of the Church of Rome. Such a sim



Henri Perreyve.


I I3
1)


pie submission of the mind is too common everywhere to
excite surprise in itself; but it may seem remarkable in
one who was perpetually expressing his enthusiasm for
political liberty. An admirer of Perreyve, almost a disciple of his, told me that he was quite conscious of the
contradiction in his own case, yet felt it impossible not
to be ardently Catholic and ardently Republican, being
unable to renounce his convictions in either direction.
The inconsistency is more obvious to-day than it was
before the utterances of the Vatican; but no inconsistency, however glaring, can prevent a man from having
his own convictions and giving them hospitable lodging
in his mind, where they have to get on together as they
best can. The more perfect his honesty, the less will
he be tempted to turn out any of his opinions, that he
may appear consistent in the sight of others.
Henri Perreyve was born in Paris, in April, 1831.
He lived in his own family, receiving his religious education at home, and at the church of St. Sulpice, where
he was catechised. His general education went on at
the same time at the Lyceum of Saint Louis, which he
attended as a day-scholar. He studied philosophy two
years at home, and began to study law. His philosophical studies were under the direction of M. Nourisson; his legal studies were directed personally by his
father, who was a competent master, being Professor of
the Civil Code at the Faculte de Droit of Paris. We are
told that Perreyve's father was a distinguished Latinist
as well as a learned jurisconsult, and that he watched
over his son's studies with the most tender care.
8




114


Modern Frenchmez.


The young man had an intensely strong ecclesiastical
vocation from the beginning. He had the same passionate desire to be a priest that others have to be
soldiers or sailors, famous authors or actors or artists. At a later period, when he discovered that he
had the gift of eloquence, there are evidences of delight
in this great power, and of a natural ambition to be famous and influential as an orator; but there is no trace
anywhere of any thing like worldliness in Perreyve's
nature. To be a priest was what he desired, -a simple
priest, but at the same time a thoroughly efficient one.
This may seem to us a very moderate ambition, but it
did not seem so to him. He had the deepest sense of
the obligations of the sacerdotal character, and a great
conception of its dignity.  Though he belonged to a
church where the ranks of the hierarchy are very
sharply defined, where the mere priest is nothing but
a common soldier under the orders of his officers, and
a unit in an immense organization, he looked to this
comparatively humble position as the most enviable lot
on earth; and the ranks and dignities of the church
seem to have been as little in his thoughts, with any
reference to his own future, as the woolsack is in those
of an English attorney. From first to last, the sentiment of ecclesiastical arrogance was entirely absent
from his mind. His daily prayer was that he might be
"a good priest, humble and chaste, and serve his Master
in obscurity or in publicity, in action or study, with
tongue or pen." We are constantly meeting with this
sentiment in his private memoranda, and in his most




Heinri Perreyve.


II5


confidential letters. He had but one desire in his heart,
and it was this.
The first full assurance of his ecclesiastical vocation
came to him at the age of twelve, when he first took the
sacrament. From that moment, his future was decided
in his own mind, and a lamp of enthusiasm was lighted
within him which burned steadily and brightly to the
last. There was little parental opposition to this vocation. The boy's mother hailed it with gladness as a
mark of heavenly favor; his father did not oppose otherwise than by requiring that Henri should complete his
legal studies and take his legal degree. This is passed
over somewhat rapidly in the biographies; but it seems
evident that the father was glad to employ this means
of putting his son's ecclesiastical vocation to the test,
and he may possibly have indulged the hope that the
young man's ardor would cool with time, and that the
legal studies might be of future use in a secular profession.  Whatever may have been the father's private
views (and it is scarcely conceivable that he should
have imposed the study of law as a preparation for clerical life), his commands caused no rebellion, and there is
no evidence of any dissension in the household. Henri
submitted to the legal education, worked as well at it as
if he had been looking forward to a future at the bar,
and had the pleasure of writing to his father a very
affectionate letter from Toulouse, on the i9th of January, 1852, in which he announced that he had successfully passed his legal examination. His father accepted
this as a sufficient sacrifice of filial obedience, insisted




I6


ilIodern Frenchmenz.


no more on the subject, and left Henri to pursue his
theological studies. His ordination as sub-deacon took
place in May, 1856, and in the same month of the year
1858 he became a priest.   He took the degree of
Doctor of Theology in I86I, and died at the end of
the month of June, I865, aged thirty-four years and two
months.
This brief outline of an ecclesiastical career, which
was delayed in its beginning and prematurely cut short
in its conclusion, will seem at first sight to offer few of
the conditions of interest and none of the attractions of
success. Young as Perreyve was when he died, there
have been ecclesiastics of his age already advanced to
high preferment, and with the splendor of episcopal
rank within their reach. His life presents no worldly
success of a degree sufficient to attract attention to his
name. His profession gave him food and clothing, and
nothing more, unless we count amongst its advantages
that of admission to aristocratic society, which Perreyve
accepted merely as a useful enlargement of his experience. And yet, notwithstanding this dearth of
ornament and incident, this brief existence is more sure
of being long remembered than that of many a prelate
who has lived in magnificence, surrounded by the homage of his ecclesiastical court, the deference of lay
officials, and the veneration of the faithful. Perreyve
was one of those rare and fortunate persons who are
gifted with the moral beauty which attracts and retains
esteem, and with that inexplicable personal charm which
draws to itself whatever loving-kindness there may be




Henri Perreyve.


I I 7


in the social atmosphere, as certain crystals absorb
moisture from the air we breathe. He was gifted for
friendship and for persuasion.  Few men have had
more devoted friends; few men have exercised so evident an influence by oratory on audiences difficult to
move. The simplicity of his life's purpose was in itself
a constant source of strength. He desired only to be a
good priest, and hoped that his object might be attainable by his own efforts, with God's help. He lived,
therefore, in that very healthy state of mind which is as
nearly as possible independent of human aid and of
human opinion, - a state of constantly active aspiration, like that of an artist who cares only to do good
work, and is alike independent of the applause of the
press and the checks of the picture-dealer.
Whatever may be the advantages, to us who live in
the common world, of passing through that constant
succession of disillusions in which human life ordinarily
consists, few of us can be quite incapable of imagining
that sweeter and purer flavor which life might have had
for us, if we had been able to preserve, undiminished,
the fervor of our early enthusiasm. We may work, in
manhood, for what we believe to be right; but how difficult it is for us to throw ourselves heartily into the
conflict against evil, and to feel certain that we are not
likely, in some indirect way, to be doing more harm
than good!   It is this fear, unacknowledged, unexpressed, which takes the force from our speech and the
efficacy from our action. A man-child comes into the
world with a certain limited stock of vital energy and a




II8


Modern Frenchmen.


certain natural heat. If the heat is not chilled nor the
energy paralyzed, the boy prepares vigorously for the
work of his manhood; and the whole life goes forward,
year after year, with a perfect economy of its fire and
force, even in what may seem the most prodigal expenditure. It was so with Henri Perreyve. His youthful enthusiasm animated him to the last. Instead of
being checked by the cooler and more experienced
people he met with as he grew older, it was respected by
them as a divine gift, a sort of inspiration, - just as we
should admire and encourage the growing genius of a
poet. Nothing is more striking, in the brief records of
his life, than the moral support he received on all hands,
and the remarkable readiness with which people of all
ranks, all ages, and the most various shades of religious
opinion, at once recognized him as a person who ought
to be treated with an exceptional degree of confidence
and respect. Such is the influence of an earnest and
beautiful nature; but it is scarcely necessary to say
that the sweetness of character which was Perreyve's
greatest charm would have been difficult to preserve,
if, whilst remaining equally honest and equally highminded, he had felt urged by conscience to any act of
rebellion against his Church. The Church of Rome is
a gentle mother, most tender and affectionate in all her
ways to a son who remains docile and submissive; but
she has unfathomed wells of bitterness in reserve for
the unhappy priest who ventures to dispute her authority in any thing, or to reserve for himself any
liberty of action or of thought. Perreyve never felt the




Henri Perrcyve.


II9


weight of her authority. The submission of the intellect was natural to him in all that concerned his
religious faith, being bound up with his notions of duty
towards God.
It may be said with truth that Perreyve began the
practical work of his ministry in his youth; for, in the
year I848, when only seventeen years old, he and several of his young friends started evening schools for the
apprentices in the Quartier St. Victor at Paris, and he
himself was charged with the religious lectures. In
I850, his health broke down: he began to spit blood,
and was recommended to travel in Italy, with a physician, Dr. Charles Ozanam. The published collection of
his letters begins with this journey to Italy; and it is
these letters which will supply the material for the
following brief account of his life, and of the impressions which he received from the men and things
he saw. The correspondence reflects his feelings and
impressions from year to year, and reflects them with
remarkable clearness, both because he naturally put
much feeling into his letters, from the earnest communicativeness of his character, and also because the letters
are for the most part addressed to very dear personal
friends, to whom he could be very communicative without impropriety, as they were interested in all he either
thought or did.
Throughout these letters, the most permanent characteristic is the intensity of the writer's affections, not
only for persons, but even for places and things. At
Lyons, he is sad, because his family once lived there, and




I20


Modern Frenchmen.


he had often visited the city in his early life. Now the
old friends are absent or dead, the property is in other
hands (a vineyard, with a tower, on the hillside), and
nothing is left but the mournful pleasures of memory.
Saddened by a visit to these scenes of childish happiness,- the wood,'the garden, the little field where the
cow was kept, the strangely altered house, where he
finds some of the old furniture, nevertheless, -the
young traveller goes to Fourvieres, and is pained by
modern projects of embellishment.   The little old
chapel is to be enlarged, the altars enriched, the tower
rebuilt. All this only hurts Perreyve, whose affections
had attached themselves to the chapel when it was
small enough to be warmed by the burning tapers of
the pilgrims.
In Provence, he feels already like a wanderer in a
foreign land. Avignon, Arles, and the remarkably curious and interesting region round about, arouse in him
none of the happy energy of the real traveller, for the
simple reason that his affections are not bound up with
them in any way. So his heart turns back to Paris,
and he thinks of his own little room at his father's.
The same strength of affection makes him feel exiled
in Italy, although Italy is the chief seat of his own
Church.  Even the Church herself seems strange to
him at Naples, and he writes about the southern aspects
of Catholicism, just as an English Protestant might write
about them. He says: " Our Gallican gravity has been
hurt by Pagan externals, and I could recognize nothing
of the Gospel in them. I feel tempted to call Naples a




Henri Perrcyve.              121
Pagan city. Her mission seems to have been to preserve
the genius of the ancient world. Unluckily, I stayed at
Naples through the Holy Week. I compared the ceremonies practised there with the pious and severe
ceremonies of the Church of France. I saw the frivolous and idle Neapolitan populace running from tomb to
tomb, from church to church, a thousand times wilder,
noisier, more jocular than the crowd of staring Parisians
when there are public fireworks." Every thing in the
world is relative, yet some English readers may feel
surprised that any one could speak of the very advanced
ritualism of ecclesiastical ceremonies in France as "severe."  The passage is worth quoting, because it so
decidedly exhibits Perreyve's tendency towards Gallicanism, and his love for seriousness and severity in public
worship.
The young traveller was not entirely absorbed in ecclesiastical matters, for he became very enthusiastic at
the tomb of Virgil, whom he calls "l'homme de bien qui
ne chanta jamais que la vertu;" forgetting the antique
immorality of the Eclogues. Possibly there may have
been just a little innocent self-deception in this burst of
enthusiasm about the Mantuan bard. A more genuine
and perfect pleasure was a visit to the monastery of
Monte Cassino, where he sympathized heartily with the
industrious and intelligent monks who at that time
were exposed to some persecution. The Neapolitan
Government, hating intellectual labors, looked very
sharply after these monks, stopped their correspondence,
established a censorship over their books, and sent sol



122


Modern Frejzchmenz.


diers to seal up their libraries and break their printingpress. It is a curious evidence of the impressionableness
of Perreyve's nature, that, although he stayed at the
monastery only a day, he formed a friendship there, as
some have fallen in love at first sight, with a monk
twenty-six years old, whom he describes as being full of
knowledge and of high intellect. They had barely time
to exchange a few thoughts hastily in the one day that
they lived together, yet when they parted it was after
long embraces, and Perreyve's eyes filled with tears.
Monte Cassino may have impressed itself the more
strongly on Perreyve's memory, that from his youth
he had dreamed of a life combining religious faith with
intellectual activity, and he found the two together there.
His interest in the monks was increased by the tyranny
of the authorities, whom he calls " the persecutors of free
thought"-an expression remarkable as coming from
one who was already in heart a priest of the Church of
Rome, never herself very favorable to intellectual freedom. His dominant idea, even at that early time of life,
is expressed in a letter from Florence (March I8, 1850),
in which he says: " I believe that what the world most
needs in the present day is a class of young men at the
same time moral, religious, and liberal. They may possibly be the salvation of France, and the transition, so
often sought, between true social progress and the
ancient doctrines of Catholicism." A little farther on,
in the same letter, he speaks of his own willingness to
give time and effort to strengthen the party, of whose
members it may be said that they are at the same time




Henri Perreyve.


123


pious and free and earnest for social progress, their
religion not being a religion of slaves. This was the
note of Perreyve's thought and aspiration from his
youth. In him there was no real inconsistency between
the passion for freedom and the devotion to the Church;
for willing service is the most perfect liberty of all, and
his ecclesiastical service was more than willing, being
eager and joyous. The mistake of his life lay in the
inability to see how few men can be good Catholics and
feel perfectly free at the same time, and how dangerous
to Catholic unity is the free action of individual intellects.
In the ardor of political liberty there was no such
cause of embarrassment, and we may all sympathize
with Perreyve in the bitterness of his disappointment
when a respectable attempt at self-government in France
was violently put an end to by the coup d'etat of Louis
Napoleon. " I shall remember all my life," he writes in
February, 1852,-" I, a young man of twenty, cradled
in radiant hopes, shall remember having seen a whole
people, all France, sanctioning with its votes what every
heart with the love of liberty in it must detest! I cannot
bear to talk of these things, they have wounded me
deeply. What are we to do or believe? I believe still
what I believed before. If the happiness of humanity is
to be in the application of the most comprehensive democratic forms, democracy itself is only possible when
founded on Christian virtues. For the present, there is
nothing to be done but to keep silence, turn away from
shameful sights, concentrate inwardly those forces which




124


Modern Frenchmen.


are powerless externally, and try to love good and hate
evil." In another letter, written towards the end of
April in the same year, he laments the intellectual inaction and indifference which were such a remarkable
result of the establishment of the Empire: " What I
like at Paris is the intellectual activity, the life of discussion, the earnest interest in politics and literature.
There is nothing of all that now."
In August, 1852, we find him writing letters from the
Pyrenees, and exceedingly astonished at the first effects
upon strangers of that wonderful personal charm which
afterwards gave him so much influence over others.
He makes a little excursion into Spain, and meets with
many acts of kindness from people who have never seen
him before. "Is it credible," he says, "that, when I
could not get a seat in the public conveyance from
Bayonne to San Sebastian, two people entirely unknown
to me offered me a place for nothing in a carriage which
they had hired for a hundred and fifty francs? Is it
credible that I lodged three days at San Sebastian with
four kind souls, who first took me in from pity, then
kept me from a sentiment resembling attachment, and,
yesterday when I left them, gave me precious little gifts
for a remembrance, accompanied me as if they had been
my own sisters, and shed tears when I left them? Is it
credible that as I had chosen to go on foot from San
Sebastian to Renteria, to sketch by the way, and so
arrived tired and hungry, a gentleman whom I had never
seen, and shall never see again, made me go to his
house, introduced me to his family, treated me like a




Heutri Perreyve.


I25


son, and wanted to keep me to sleep in his delightful
Spanish villa, rich with superb pictures of the very
greatest schools? If I had had all my friends and
relations in a line on this road to Spain, I could not
have been more affectionately and generously treated."
Perreyve had plenty of variety in his life at this time,
and went three times to the south of France in a single
year. A visit to the Dominican monastery at Flavigny
is interesting, from the traveller's evident want of sympathy with asceticism, - a feeling which may be detected
in other passages of his correspondence. This time
there was a little feast for the Dominican brethren, who
were indulged with cakes and wine. "But how sternly
severe their life is!" says Perreyve. "It is the only time
that I ever saw a little general gayety and liberty      4
amongst them. All the rest of their life is austere to
a degree which frightened my weakness. Lacordaire
made me dine in the monastery on the occasion of the
festival, and I expected a merry meal; but they began by
chanting the De Profindis, then the Father rang a bell,
and all the monks who were to wait upon us prostrated
themselves on the earth. Nobody breathed a word
during the repast, and by way of dessert we chanted
the Miscrere."  Then comes a remark worth noting:
"There is something very seductive in the order of St.
Dominic, and that is Father Lacordaire."  This first
impression deepened with time, and in after years Lacordaire loved Perreyve better and trusted him more
thoroughly than any other man in the world.
Perreyve wrote to the Abbe de la Boissiere, in August,




I26


MIodern Frenchmen.


I853, that he had passed his examinations, and been
received as an advocate. "At last," he said, "I am
free!" This meant that he had fulfilled the paternal
injunction of preparing himself for a secular calling,
and was now at liberty to turn his attention wholly to
the things of the Church. The very same letter in
which he announces that he is an advocate curiously
finishes with the other announcement, made at this
time to several of his more intimate friends, that he had
entered the little confraternity of the "Oratoire," a very
active religious association, then in its infancy, in Paris,
and unknown elsewhere, of which we shall hear more in
the sequel.
In the summer of 1854, Perreyve being then at the
Oratoire, the Archbishop of Paris, Sibour, who was
afterwards murdered, visited the little community, and
presided at dinner. At the end of this meal, a singular
event occurred, which had an influence on the young
Oratorian's life. The archbishop made a speech, and in
* the course of it fixed his eyes on Perreyve, expressing
especial hopes for him. " I believe," said the archbishop,
" that I read upon his forehead something which assures
me that he will be the honor of my diocese." Then,
speaking to young Perreyve directly, he continued, "I
beg you to keep in your heart what I have said, until
the will of God with reference to you shall be accomplished." There was nothing supernatural in the
prelate's perspicacity; for Perreyve had a very open,
intelligent countenance, which always attracted attention
and won confidence.




Henri Perreyve.


I27


He received the tonsure in 1854, and, in one of his
frequent journeys, went to stay at the monastery of
Notre Dame de Chalais, on the road from  Lyons to
Grenoble. We have said "on the road," but this may
convey an impression that the monastery is more in the
way of human traffic and intercourse than it really is.
The actual situation of it is high amongst the rocks
and pines. You quit the road at Voreppe, take mules,
ascend for an hour and a half, and find yourself landed
on a plateau of grassy lawns. After that, you ride still
farther, under the shadow of perpetual rocks and pines;
and then you discover the monastery, hidden in this
deep fastness of wild nature. Perreyve, like all exquisite
modern natures, was keenly alive to the influences of
sublime natural scenery; and it so happened that, on
his arrival, these influences were enhanced by the charm
of one of those beautiful hours which leave an impression on the memory for years. The sun was setting
in a golden haze that filled the valleys of the Iser, lying
far below the travellers. The bell of the monastery was
tolling the angelus; and the mules stopped at the door
of the chapel, the custom being "for new comers to
salute first the real master of the house."
The days of Perreyve's sojourn in this place were full
of a quiet delight for him. The very altitude seemed to
lift him above the wretched interests and contentions of
the common world. By a natural illusion, empires and
emperors could be forgotten there, as if the arm of
Napoleon were not long enough to reach so high; and
there was a sense of remoteness from terrestrial things




128


2Modern Frenchmen.


which suited an ideal nature willing to detach itself
from the earth. The planet held him yet, however, not
by gravitation merely, but by the ties of a new affection.
The rocky ground which surrounded the monastery
soon became deeply attractive to Perreyve, when he had
made long pedestrian excursions with the brethren.
These walks, and his own hours of solitude, taught him
how happy a human soul might be in the midst of so
stern a land. Sweetly serious, his mind enjoyed the
complete absence of the world's frivolity. " Quel silence
de ce qu'il est vain d'entendre, et quelle harmonie parfaite des ceuvres divines!"
Amongst the excursions which could be made on foot
from the monastery was the ascent of a mountain, one
of the highest in Dauphiny; and from its summit he
saw the chain of the Alps, with Mont Blanc surrounded
by his rocky spires, "like a monarch surrounded by his
guards." He writes about this to a friend at the seaside, and wonders which of the two had been, at that
hour, in presence of the grander spectacle. His mind
is too habitually theological to find any ultimate satisfaction in natural beauty: it rebounds to the divine at
once; and he characteristically ends his letter with the
quotation, " Mirabiles elationes maris, mirabilis in altis
Dominus." Then he makes private entries in his notebook, following the same train of thought. Ideas of
power lead him instantly to the feet of the Creator;
ideas of purity and beauty conduct him as rapidly to the
Virgin Mary. After strongly expressing his sense of
landscape beauty, especially of the Alpine purity, he




Heeri Perreyve.


I29


comes to the Virgin at once. "I know not how it happened," he says, "but, whilst a young Dominican monk
and I were gazing together at these beautiful Chablais
mountains, we were led to admire the beauty of the
Virgin Mary." His mind is so occupied with religious
conceptions that the external world seems only to exist
for him as a suggestion of religious thought. Lakes
and streams suggest this to him: the mountain stream
is the broken and agitated life of man in the world,
wretchedly narrow and forced on at speed, mingling and
confusing the reflections of all that it hurriedly passes
by; the lake is restful and vast, with the fulness and
peace of the larger life to come. There is nothing very
new or very remarkable in these reflections, but they
show the theological habit of mind. You may read
through all the four volumes of De Saussure, who was
constantly amongst Alpine scenery, without once finding
mountain beauty likened to that of the Virgin Mary, or
Lake Leman to the heavenly rest.
As Perreyve passed from youth to manhood, the twin
ideas (for they were twins in his mind) of liberty and
Christianity grew stronger within him, and found ampler
expression in his letters. Liberty and Christianity were
so bound together in his mind that he could hardly think
of one without rekindling his enthusiasm for the other.
In the agitation of the European mind which preceded
the Crimean war, Perreyve perceived that the true solution must come from within the mind through changes
of opinion, and not from without through military and
political events. The solution which he himself always
9




130


Modcrim FrenZchmen.


proposed for public uneasiness was political freedom
along with faith in Jesus Christ. "At a time," he writes
in I854, "when the attention of every one is directed to
outward signs, let us not forget that the ultimate solution of the problem is within us, and that sooner or
later, to-morrow perhaps, after great external commotions, conquerors or conquered, we shall have to come
back to that. It may become a positive duty to speak
out, when there is danger in doing so. It will be more
a duty for us than for others, because we have received
from God two treasures very rarely united in the same
heart, the love of Jesus Christ and the love of liberty.... I believe more than ever that when the terrible
day of the last explanations shall have come, in the
supreme hearing of the cause between the children of
this world and the children of God, if a voice may prevent complete separation and ruin, that voice will be
both free and Christian; in the midst of the general
confusion it will fearlessly assert justice and truth; it
will be full of love, even for those who have gone astray;
it will not pronounce anathemas, but a pardon; it will
call for liberty and social progress in the name of Jesus
Christ, in spite of menaces from those who care only
for the past and menaces from impious revolutionists."
Then he anticipates the possibility of meeting death at
the hands of those he most desired to serve, and hopes
to face it at least as courageously as the soldiers in the
war. The possibility really existed. If Perreyve had
lived to preach Christian liberty in Paris under the
Commune, he might have been shot with the archbishop




Henri Perreyve.


I31
1)


and others of his cloth. As for the courage which he
desired, he already fully possessed it, having served as
a volunteer whilst still a mere boy (at the age of seventeen), during the terrible "journees de Juin," five days
and five nights of danger.
Another danger menaced him already in I854, that of
early death from pulmonary disease, or else, what had
greater terrors for him, a lingering existence on the
earth to be passed in impotent uselessness. The prospect of this possibility filled him with "a great and
bitter sadness." In October, 1854, he was seized with
congestion of the lungs, suddenly, in the public street.
He recovered from this attack, but felt his health broken.
When the malady was at its worst, he had accepted
death, not merely with resignation, but with gladness.
It was far harder to accept the return to life with the
dread of "a future without force, useless, and disarmed."
He wrote to Lacordaire about this, pouring out the
bitterness of his heart. Of all the misfortunes which
can happen to an ardent and generous nature, there is
not one so terrible as physical failure before the work of
the life is done. In Perreyve's case, it was not even
begun. There had been nothing but hope and preparation hitherto, and now the hope was clouded, the preparation possibly vain. "Can you imagine," he says to
Lacordaire, " what such an existence may be for souls
who have looked forward to action and contest? A life
of cowardly rest, kept up artificially without being good
for any thing or anybody, and for the mere pleasure of
living a little longer! The idea of that has hurt me




I 32
1)


Modern Frenczhmen.


more than all the rest; and, though I try to think of
something else, it haunts and devours me!"
The next year, in the month of July, his letters are
dated from Eaux-Bonnes, and are more cheerful; but
the tone is rather that of an invalid who has made up
his mind to bear his infirmity than that of a convalescent rejoicing in the prospect of a complete recovery.
He thanks a friend (the present Bishop of Autun) for
kindly greeting, and says that it has brought back a
little courage. "I am pretty well," he adds, "but the
improvement is not very perceptible." Then he complains of bronchial irritation; and, passing from the
physical to the spiritual state, seeks the divine reasons
for his affliction, and believes he has found them in the
lesson of sacrifice which he is painfully learning, - the
sacrifice of his own tastes and wishes. "God has severed me from all that I loved best in the world, - severed
me perhaps for long. He has separated me perhaps
from myself, by compelling me to cast out of my spirit
so many desires, so many illusions, so many ambitious
hopes that I had nurtured through all my earlier youth,
and has taught me to pronounce, a little less badly than
I once could, the great expression of the Apostle,
' Servi inutiles sumus.'" Then he speaks of the salutary influence of the mountains upon his mind. He
says that they make him calm, which is the more interesting that the usual effects of mountain scenery are
exciting. The sylvan world attracts his attention also,
suggesting its own analogies. Young pine-trees, torn
from their places by tempest or torrent, fall before their




Henri Perreyve.


I33


time, wither, and die unresistingly. The leaf is carried
away and perishes without rebellion.  These things
obey the law, and the law must be obeyed. The application to his own case is obvious.
In August, I855, he writes from Biarritz to a lady
cousin, in a pleasant, amiable tone, wondering at his
own capacity for enduring solitude. The same astonishment recurs in other letters about this time. He
had believed himself disqualified by nature for solitary
living, and is quite surprised to find how easily his mind
accepts it. Neither at this period, however, nor at any
other, is Perreyve in the least ascetic: he willingly
enjoys simple and unforbidden pleasures, especially the
priceless one of looking at natural scenery, and describes with astonishment the life of the Bernardine
Sisters, whom he has visited in their convent, -a life
unequalled for the rigor of its discipline even in the
Church of Rome. The Bernardines give their time to
the direction of fallen women who have repented, and
whose highest reward is to become Bernardines themselves at last. They live amongst the dreary deserts of
sand that stretch along the southern coasts, like the
first anchorites in the deserts of Africa. They eat
black bread, drink water, and never speak, - never. A
Chartreux may speak once in every week: a Bernardine
is silent as the dead.
Perreyve's delicate health kept him much in the
southern parts of Europe, the cold Parisian winters
being especially dangerous for him. He went to Italy
for the second time in November, I855, and, whilst




I34


Modern Frelzchnzen.


passing through Marseilles, visited the military hospital,
then crowded with wounded soldiers from the Crimea;
and this visit gave him " one of the great and profound
impressions of his life."  Most of the wounds were
terrible, and much aggravated by the length of the
voyage from  Sebastopol. Perreyve, who had a good
deal of the military spirit in his nature, and who had
perfect confidence in the righteous character of the
Crimean war, felt the warmest sympathy with these
sufferers, whose prospects in life were so utterly blighted,
and whose courageous resignation made him ashamed
of his own rebellion against his ailment. I take leave
to pause here, to note a remark he made. Every English reader must be perfectly familiar with the assertion
(one of the commonplaces of insular self-complacency)
that Englishmen fight for duty; that duty is their leading idea, as exemplified in Nelson's watchword at Trafalgar, and in Wellington's conduct through life: whereas,
the French have no conception of duty, but only fight
for glory, -la gloire, as they call it in their tongue.
Now I have not the slightest objection to English pride
in duty, provided it is not accompanied by the notion
that the word and the thing are a British monopoly.
Devoir means the same thing, I believe, and is the older
word of the two, seeing that " duty " is derived from its
past participle. Perreyve wrote that, in the military
hospital at Marseilles, many a soldier said to him: "J'ai
fait mon devoir, Monsieur le Cure; que la volonte de
Dieu soit faite;" and then he adds, "Le mot de devoir
est dans presque toutes les bouches." After that, on




HInri Perreyve.


I35


the same page, he describes the departure of reinforcements for the Crimea with a kindly indulgence for that
"French carelessness which covers more serious and
often profoundly Christian thoughts." A voltiggeur said
to him, as he went on board, " What luck, to have a fine
sail for nothing!"     But five minutes afterwards the
same man added in a tone of great earnestness, "Chacun
son devoir, Monsieur l'Abbe;" on which Perreyve remarks, " Toujours ce mot austere et saint! "
Perreyve   was already (I855) in friendly communication with two very famous ecclesiastics, who did much
afterwards for his own fame by associating their names
with his, in different ways.   One of these two, the great
Dominican Lacordaire, is well known in England: the
other, Gratry, is less known out of his own country.
Perreyve wrote long letters to both of them from Pisa,
-letters full of the affectionate yet respectful familiarity
which proves that a young correspondent is quite at
ease, and knows that he can count upon the sympathy
of his elders.   He is quite frank with both about his
bodily and mental state. He tells Gratry that he feels
within himself an extreme delicacy of health, a sort of
* Mr. Ruskin seems to be under the impression that devoir is an old
French word that had influence in the Middle Ages, but has since given
place to a modern substitute, gloire, with a very different meaning. Mr.
Samuel Smiles, in his book on " Character," contrasts the English idea
of duty with the French lack of the idea. This is one of those pieces of
international ill-nature which scarcely deserve refutation, but writers
of influence ought not to perpetuate them. The word devoir is quite as
much in use as duty. A French school-boy calls his work his devoir: an
English school-boy calls it his task, lesson, or exercise. As for gloire,
it is seldom used except in the official military style, which nobody
accepts without deductions.




136


Modern Frenchmen.


inward ruin, which will make him  malingre for the
rest of his days; but that he can find comfort yet, if
God will continue to him, "as at present," the faculty of
loving a few good and beautiful souls along with himself, and the power of working five or six hours every
day. This, for the time, is the limit of his ambition.
Then he goes on to say how rich human nature is in
consolations, even when all seems shattered around it.
He had recently been suffering much, and his eyes were
toq much fatigued for reading and writing, so that all
occupation outside of himself had become impossible.
In this condition, he was delighted almost to the point
of enthusiasm to find that he could still derive happiness
from mere thinking. He had never before so completely realized the value of this gift of thought. It
seemed to him that, whilst this last sanctuary remained
inviolate, the rest might, in the last necessity, be surrendered; and that, so long as the mind enjoyed simply
the liberty of its own motion, happiness need not be
renounced.
Perreyve found his health better at Rome than at Pisa,
and the interest he took in the city made the external
world attractive to him still. The Coliseum had a fascination for him, from the memory of the early Christian martyrs who perished in its arena. There is a curious anecdote
in connection with these visits to the Coliseum. Perreyve was sitting there reading Michelet's Introduction
to Universal History,-reading, not in an intolerant
spirit, but with a proper ecclesiastical pity for the " unhappy lost soul" of the great historian, - when he came




Henri Perreyve.


I37


upon a remarkable passage in which Michelet says that
he had willingly (de bon cwur) kissed the wooden cross
which stands there, in memory of the early Christian
victims. Perreyve was reading the book at a distance
of a hundred yards from the same cross, and involuntarily left his seat to go and do like Michelet, not in
memory of the martyrs, but for the benefit of Michelet's
soul,-" that poor soul which compelled God to quit it."
The anecdote shows exactly the degree of intolerance
which was compatible with Perreyve's kindness of heart.
He calls Michelet "an unhappy lost soul," but reads his
book, and wishes him no evil.
The Coliseum became a huge cabinet de travail for
Perreyve, who used to take a book (St. Paul's Epistles
most frequently) and some paper there, to escape from
friendly calls and importunities, only going back to his
lodgings in the evening. He soon had a multitude of
friends at Rome, and had also a patron, Cardinal Villecourt, a lively old Frenchman, who, in spite of his
ecclesiastical dignity, had the national love of a j'oke,
and often made one, in an amiable way, at Perreyve's
expense. Another and more serious side of the cardinal's character was his preference for simplicity of life.
On being promoted to the purple, he was so afflicted as
to lose sleep for a week, yet could confide the reason for
his sadness to nobody, the papal intention being secret.
His old servant, seeing his dejection, made daily inquiries, but got no answer save this, "Ah, my poor
Jean, something quite unforeseen has happened to us!"
At length, being free to speak, he said, " My poor Jean,




I 38.lodernz Frenclhmenz.


I am a Cardinal;" and the man knew not whether to
laugh or cry, but ended by finding the change favorable
to himself, as it placed him at the head of a cardinal's
pompous establishment.
By the intercession of the Cardinal Villecourt, Perreyve had an audience of Pius IX., and was so impressed
thereby that he gave a most minute account of it to
Father Gratry, in a letter. The Pope was most amiable
and benignant, first gave his hand to kiss and then his
shoe, made Perreyve go down on his knees and talked to
him in the most paternal way, like a confessor. The
Pope knew all about the Oratoire (the new little confraternity to which Perreyve had attached himself),
and said: " The Oratoire at Paris directed by the Abbe
Petetot, who used to be incumbent of St. Roch? Ah,
there's a priest for you!"-and then descanted on the
abbe's virtues, which led to a sort of general discourse
on the priestly character. When Perreyve went away,
the Pope blessed his ecclesiastical life " according to the
will of God, "-an expression which the young invalid at
once understood in its reference to his broken health,
and to the possible abbreviation of his ministry.
It is necessary in this place to set clearly before the
reader Perreyve's ecclesiastical situation in 1856. He
had been obliged, by the state of his health to quit the
"congregation" of the Oratory, which would have required his presence in Paris, where he could not bear
the winters, and more constant labor in public speaking
and other labor than his diminished strength could give.
He had received the "simple tonsure," but had not




Henri Perreyve.


I39


taken holy orders, not being as yet even a sub-deacon.
His superiors had discouraged the idea of the sub-deaconhood, which for some time had been Perreyve's ambition;
and, though with great sadness, he had resigned himself
to this early cutting short of his ecclesiastical career. A
little later, however, on a second application from him,
a more favorable answer had been returned, and the
matter was decided as he wished. He tells the news
to his father "as a piece of news saddening for him,
which will require an effort of resignation,"- an expression which proves clearly that M. Perreyve the elder
was not, even yet, entirely reconciled to his son's passion for the Church.
The letters from Rome, soon after this, are filled with
enthusiastic anticipations of the sub-deaconhood. The
strength of the young man's "vocation," as we say figuratively, was such that he really believed himself to be
called by Jesus Christ.  " It is not we who have chosen
him," Perreyve writes to a friend, "but he who has
chosen us;" then follow many amplifications of this
idea. He writes to a very intimate young friend:" Blessed be our Lord Jesus Christ for having, by the
help of his grace and the strength of our friendship, protected our hearts against those passions which have been
the ruin of so many at our age, and for having preserved
us for the radiant and chaste light of this day!
"Blessed be our Lord Jesus Christ, who has not
permitted the light of our first communion to be extinguished in us; who, by his grace, has caused our faith to
increase with our years, who has caused the piety of the




140


Modern Frenchmen.


child to grow into the piety of the man, so that we have
not to regret having ever quitted or betrayed him!"
The strength and purity of the religious sentiment in
these sentences will be recognized by every one. It
is difficult to find anywhere in literature, outside of the
Gospels and the Imitation, such a concentrated expression of religious satisfaction of the most blameless and
amiable kind. There is in it none of the pride of the
Pharisee, but a genuine quiet thankfulness that youth
has been passed in purity, and that the ideal of childhood has grown into the ideal of manhood without
rupture or rebellion.    It is the satisfaction of
That awful independent on to-morrow,
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
It is the exact opposite of that misery which sometimes found expression in the verse of Byron, and gave
to his " Stanzas for Music" their immortality of mournfulness:There's not a joy the world can give, like that it takes away
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone that fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess.
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
Perreyve at last announces to his mother that the
ceremony of ordination has taken place, "a finer and
more imposing ceremony than he had expected." The
younger Ampere was present, stayed all the time, and
(though not a believer like Perreyve) was so much moved




Henri Perreyve.


I4I


as to press his friend's hands with tears in his eyes on
leaving the church. The day following is Trinity Sunday, and the new sub-deacon officiates at mass, when he
chants the Epistle, "trembling a little with emotion."
The next incident of some importance is another interview with Pius IX., who begins to treat the young
Frenchman as an acquaintance. In July, we find him
back in France, at Eaux-Bonnes; and in August, at Paris,
where in a letter to Lacordaire he criticises the sort of
life people lead at the watering-places: "Nothing paralyzes the mind like the accepted habit of doing nothing.
Life at watering-places is wonderful in this respect: one
has nothing to do, and yet never an instant to call his
own. It is idleness organized." He announces that the
doctors have now better hopes for him. He talks about
Cousin, the philosopher, with whom he had become intimately acquainted, and regrets to have judged him
harshly and unfairly before knowing him. Perreyve had
complained to Cousin that in his writings there was an
implicit denial of the need of the supernatural in man,
to which Cousin replied that he had never denied the
existence of the supernatural, but had implicitly recognized it by distinguishing between the natural and the
supernatural." At this time, Cousin went regularly to
mass, and behaved very properly in church.
The next year (I857) finds Perreyve again in Rome,
from January till after Easter, kindly received by the
Pope, and much interested, as usual, in all he sees at
Rome, -the remarkable men, the splendid ceremonies,
the scenery of town and country.




142


M4Aodern Frenchmnen.


It was from the lips of the Pope himself that Perreyve
heard the astounding news of Archbishop Sibour's assassination in the church of St. Etienne du Mont. The
assassin, this time, was a priest, and the event might
have happened in the most prosperous days of the
Church; but it gave rather a sombre shade to Perreyve's
thoughts about ecclesiastical prospects. His strictly
theological way of estimating events lead him to wonder
that the tears and prayers of the Church had not exercised influence enough with God to procure from Him a
miraculous interference by which the murderer's weapon
might have been turned aside. Possibly the event, little
as it had to do with the future of the Church, may have
led Perreyve to look forward with gloomy foreboding;
but, however this may be, we find him predicting times of
severe trial. "Perhaps," he says, "I see matters on the
dark side, but many indications are clear and certain.
The Papacy will pass through terrible crises." This, as
we all know, has turned out to be true; the temporal
power being gone, and probably gone for ever, yet the
wonder is to us how little the spiritual power, or influence, has been affected by this loss, and what a robust
vitality the institution still displays. Unforeseen circumstances have strengthened the Papacy almost, if not
quite, as much as the loss of the temporal power has
weakened it. Stephenson and Wheatstone little thought
that by their labors in steam communication and telegraphy they were fortifying, in the future, an institution
so little in harmony with modern science as the Church
of Rome; yet these modern instruments have greatly




Hcnri Perreyve.


I43


increased the unity of the Church and the despotic authority of its chief, by bringing all the national branches
of Catholicism more immediately under the direction of
the Roman Curia. Bishops are summoned to Rome
from all parts of the world, and they come over land and
sea; pilgrimages are organized all over Europe, and even
in America; the pilgrims arrive in Rome by hundreds
and by thousands, bringing with them offerings more
valuable than were ever laid before the throne of the
most puissant temporal prince. Scarcely a day passes
without news from the Vatican amongst the telegrams
of the great journals; and that palace in its garden, where
the Pope lives in voluntary imprisonment, has a degree
of European importance far exceeding that of any of the
lesser sovereignties. It is the last place in Europe where
the right of sanctuary exists. A law-breaker who takes
refuge there, and is received, is safe from the police of
Europe. The master of the Vatican has still his ambassadors at foreign courts, and counts his faithful subjects
by thousands or by millions in the very heart of the
countries to which his nuncios are accredited, -subjects
who give him an allegiance far heartier and more zealous
than the simply acquiescent loyalty they reserve for the
secular power of President, or King, or Emperor. The
master of the Vatican is the only person in the world
who can use vituperation to any extent, and in perfect
safety. He can insult any sovereign on the earth, and
the insulted sovereign has no redress. A king cannot
move armies and fleets to attack an old man in a garden;
he cannot, in royal decorum, reply in language which is




I44


'i4odern Frenchmen.


thought allowable when it comes from a priest. The
Pope has the power of a man and the immunities of a
woman, the resources of royalty and the irresponsibility
of a private annuitant. Gradually, yet rapidly, an amount
of treasure is accumulating in his hands which will give
to him, or to his successor, the subtle and secret power
of gold to a degree exceeding the wildest imaginations
of romance.
"Perreyve came to the conclusion that the French
troops were superfluous, and that the Pope's virtues
would protect the Papacy better than a foreign occupation. It may be doubted whether the Pope's virtues
have done much for this; but there can be little doubt
that his exceptionally great age has won for him more
sympathy than his successor can hope for; and his
policy of constant and bitter complaint, though not
always dignified nor consistent with truth, may have
been on the whole the wisest policy for a Pope dispossessed of the temporal power.
Just before leaving Rome, Perreyve saw the Easter
ceremonies of I857, which were in complete splendor,
with a larger influx of foreigners than usual. The
"Saint-Pere " was "beau a ravir le coeur, et-sa voix tout
accentuee de ces notes plaintives et sonores qui charment les hommes et doivent plaire a Dieu."  Perreyve
writes a description of the Pope blessing the city and
the world, which conveys in a few words more of the
spirit and emotion of that remarkable spectacle than the
most elaborate description. It would be a pity to spoil
it by translation:



Henri Perreyve.


I45


"Vous savez tout le reste: cette volee de cloches interrompue par le roulement des tambours, ce grand
silence de tout un peuple, tous ces fronts decouverts, cet
ange vetu de blanc paraissant entre le ciel et la terre,
ce coup de canon pour saluer la joie de toute la famille
catholique, cette voix, cette belle, forte, tendre, et bien
aimee voix flottant dans ce grand silence d'amour, et ces
mains enfin si haut elevees vers le ciel retombant surchargees de benedictions sur nos pauvres cceurs!"
Perreyve was back in Paris in May; and his health
broke down again in June, when he was seized with
congestion of the lungs, during a retreat at St. Sulpice,
preparatory to his ordination as a deacon. He held out
till the day of ordination, went through the ceremony
by a great effort, and then went home to bed, where he
lay ill for several days. When his physical state began
to improve again, he was crushed by the old discouragement. " Here is fresh evidence," he says, "of my uselessness, -a new humiliation for so many longings after
activity and apostolic duty which a return of health
always awakens within me, but which cannot be pure
enough to please God, since He does not accept them."
Notwithstanding this liability to pulmonary attacks,
Perreyve was strong enough to speak well in public, and
discovered, at Soreze, in November, 1857, that he had
the natural gifts of an orator. This happened on St.
Cecilia's Day, in the presence of Lacordaire and a large
assemblage, when our hero narrated the feast of St.
Cecilia in the Catacombs, and took her life and martyrdom for his text. The young orator trembled with
IO




146


Mlodern Frenczhmen.


emotion, yet was master of himself in spite of this, and
spoke eloquently. He had written nothing, but only
thought over his subject, and forgot nothing that he
intended to say. At a banquet which followed, Lacordaire proposed a toast to his "young eloquence, on
which God had great designs." This revelation of so
enviable a power (fully confirmed in the sequel) delighted Perreyve, and filled him with a new sense of
responsibility. With that complete expression of deep
feeling which seems possible only to Southern natures,
he no sooner found himself in the solitude of his own
room than he threw himself with his forehead on the
ground, "devant Celui qui seul est digne d'honneurs."
In a letter to a friend, he gives an account of his sensations when speaking, and of his surprise at his own
powers. He had believed himself to be too impressionable for oratory; but, after a few tremulous words at
first, he became surprisingly calm and lucid, and could
speak slowly and clearly, so as to be heard at a distance.
He felt also that he would soon have the courage to let
his eloquence take bolder flights.
From that moment, Lacordaire felt so strongly the
value of Perreyve that he wished to have him permanently at Soreze; but Paris attracted him too much,certainly not for its pleasures, but as a great field for a
laborer who could understand the Parisian love of lib-.erty, and wish'ed to add to that passion the love of
religion, which was equally strong in his own nature.
The one perpetual dread was the possibility of a total
break-down in health. "My health is not bad," he




Hezri Perreyve.


I47


writes from Hyeres, in February, 1858, "but still weak,
and threatening ruin on one side or another. What
can I do in the diocese, with so few elements of power?
I cannot tell." Then comes an expression well worth
remembering: "Knowing myself and my own weakness, I accustom myself not to disdain small labors and
small results, since it is probably in these minor regions
that my life will have to be passed. I do not make myself miserable on this account. I have often told you
that nothing in the world gives me a purer pleasure
than to teach children their catechism; and I feel that
the day will come when, if it be necessary to renounce
bolder schemes, I shall readily console myself in obscurity for not having realized the ambition of my
youth."  The author of these sentences little anticipated
that, notwithstanding bodily weakness, he would become
one of the most influential minds in the French Church.
Perreyve's ordination in the priesthood was fixed for
the 30th of May, 1858, in the chapel of the Oratoire at
Paris. He had become less morbidly anxious about his
physical fitness.  Seeing every thing always from  a
strictly theological point of view, he finds especial
divine interferences where a physician would recognize
only natural sequences. His disease is " sent."  "God
sends us this cross of weakness and powerlessness to
teach us that there is but one thing in the world worth
seeking, and that is to execute the divine will. The
important point is not to be strong, learned, active, nor
even to be in holy orders: what really concerns a man
is to be in his place in the eternal monument which




I48


Modert Frenchmen.


God is building; and if our place is one of suffering,
impotence, premature death, — amen." He was so ill
some days before that fixed for the ordination that it
seemed doubtful whether he would be able to go through
the ceremony. However, he bore it better than had
been expected, and felt a boundless joy at this realization of all the longings of his youth. To him, the
priesthood was in itself an almost unimaginable dignity;
and it seemed to him "incomprehensible" that God
should have raised him to the rank of his ministers.
His letters, just before and after ordination, seem
like the utterances of a soul exalted to the final beatitude. "Here at last is happiness! You know how
much the hope of this blessed day had been often, long,
and seriously threatened: now that it is realized, I ought.to consider myself too happy, and willingly sing my
zunc dizittis."
Lacordaire came all the way from Soreze to be present at the ceremony, and, when it had taken place, he
asked the new priest to hear him in confession; so that
the great Dominican was the first person Perreyve met
in the confessional. Lacordaire went over his whole
life, from the age of six to the hour then present. It
would be difficult to imagine a more interesting penitent, especially to the young priest who listened. Any
student of human nature would give much to hear
such an autobiography. The contest between faith and
intellect never agitated a more passionately earnest soul.
Strength of conviction, first on one side, then on the
other; courage indomitable; ardor of youth lasting to




Heznri Perrmyve~


I49


full maturity; enormous power of influencing others;
an eloquence that had moved Paris and agitated the
Vatican; fame that had filled the great Roman Catholic
world,-such were a few of the attributes of that
remarkable being who poured his life's confession into
the inexperienced ear of Henri Perreyve.
Another incident in the beginning of Perreyve's priesthood is the last religious service which his ordination
enabled him to render to an old servant in his father's
house; and I mention this the more willingly, that it
is a pretty illustration of the relation between master
and servant, as it used to be understood amongst good
French people of the middle class, and is yet in many
families. Perreyve writes to a friend: "Our poor old
Rose died last Monday, almost suddenly, of apoplexy.
The poor woman loved you, and I believe there will be
something in your heart not altogether indifferent to
her loss. It is a grief to me, and I consider that my
childhood is buried in her grave. She had all the recollections of other days, with the liberty of the good old
times, and that right of loving unceremoniously which
is acquired by thirty-six years of devotion and of faithful
tenderness. I was anxious that her funeral should be
honorable, as if she had been an old aunt and an old
friend. All our own people were present, and I was
really touched to see so much promptitude in our friends
to honor a poor servant-woman. I believe that God
will have found her worthy of His rest: simple souls
have easy ways to salvation. It seems to me that there
was a happy predestination in the life of this poor woman,




I5o


M aoderz Frenchmen.


who came from the extremity of Silesia into France,
found a family to replace her own, gave all her heart to
love a child who became a priest, received from him the
holy communion several times, and at last the sacrament
on her death-bed." The sentiment here is Christian in
the best sense, and beautifully human.
The state of the Abbe Perreyve's health in I860 was
at times delusively promising. He had still some reserve
of strength, the energy of youth not having been entirely
used up by the enfeebling progress of his ailment. At
Eaux-Bonnes, in that year, he was able to ride rapidly
a distance of thirty-seven miles on horseback, with no
worse consequence than a little stiffness. It was probably the encouragement resulting from this test of his
powers that induced him to ask Cardinal Morlot, three
days afterwards, to send him as a chaplain with the Syrian
expedition; a request which does not seem to have been
granted. A year afterwards, Perreyve was at Soreze
again, by the bedside of his dear friend Lacordaire, who,
finding his end approaching, desired to settle his affairs,
and, having resigned the direction of his Order, made
Perreyve his executor, -handing over to him all his
private papers, in the presence of several of his monks.
It is not easy to imagine a more impressive scene, or a
finer subject for some earnest and serious-minded artist.
A life which had swung like a pendulum from one point
to its very opposite, yet ever true to its own inward
convictions, was now settling to perfect rest: the whiterobed Dominicans, who had been as children to their
fiery and masterful leader, were now grouped about him




Henrz Perreyve.


I 5


simply as witnesses, whilst he handed the written confidences of past years to one who, though not-of his
Order, was dearer to him than the dearest of those who
belonged to it.
Lacordaire died in November, I86I, and a month
afterwards Perreyve, in Paris, shrank with apprehension
from the task of preaching at the Sorbonne, which was
now his clerical duty. His physical powers were giving
way; and, notwithstanding his remarkable success as a
preacher, he had no illusions as to his intellectual power
and wealth.  "I perfectly understand my intellectual
situation," he wrote to a friend. " I feel within myself
a mediocre talent which is now giving forth its liveliest
flames, but which will soon exhaust itself. I feel nothing
profound within me, nothing greatly original or powerful.
When people compare my poor little self-and, I know
not why, it has been done several times publicly in the
course of the present year - with such names as those of
Lacordaire and Ozanam, I feel such a painful sensation
that I know not how to describe it. If I considered
myself a fit successor to men of that calibre, I should be
preparing for the next twenty years, if God grants them to
me, the bitterest of disappointments; for after a certain
time of favor the cloth would be visibly threadbare.
Happily, I have no such illusion; and I ask only to do
some good, as I may,-that is to say, in an inferior
scientific and intellectual rank,-to some young minds
who will pass through me, and afterwards go higher
than I."
The modesty of this is very exquisite. It is neither




I52


Miodern Frenchmen.


false in the sense of under-estimation of self, nor a
false pretension  to modesty.  It is the sincere expression of a judgment too clear-sighted to be deceived
by the delusions of self-love. The sentences just quoted
are simply and accurately true. It is clear from Perreyve's published works that he had little intellectual
might; that he never could have become a great philosophical thinker, his reason being too easily subjugated
by his affections; and it may be doubted whether, with
such faculties as he possessed, he could have maintained
for more than a short time the great supplies of material which are necessary to keep up the fame of a considerable writer, or even of a brilliant orator, if he speaks
frequently in one place. Perreyve, therefore, did not
underrate his intellectual faculties; but he entirely forgot, or was simply unaware of, his remarkable moral influence and charm. All men loved him, trusted him,
listened to him; and not only men, but even boys, and
French boys. The Director of the great college of St.
Barbe, in Paris, asked the Abbe Perreyve, in I862, to
give a lecture during Lent, once a fortnight only, on
Sunday morning; and it so happened that by this arrangement the students were kept in college longer than
the time fixed by the regulations. If any thing could
make a French school mutinous, it was this. So the
Abbe got up into his pulpit, before a thousand boys and
young men, every one of them out of humor. He had
not spoken ten minutes before all the thousand listened
with the most eager attention. Two days after that, a
petition, signed by the elder boys, was presented to the




Henri Perreyve.


I53


Prefect of the school, respectfully requesting that, "if
the Abbe Perreyve's health and other duties permitted,
he would give his lecture weekly instead of once a
fortnight." Whether he was able to do so or not, the
petitioners desired to express their gratitude. This
document is dated March II, 1862, and is probably
unique of its kind. The reader is not likely to remember another instance of a multitude of school-boys,
intensely fond of amusement and usually much deprived
of it, asking to be kept in, to hear a succession of sermons, on the pleasantest holiday in the week, as Sunday
is in Paris.
Such success as this would have been happiness for
Perreyve, with a little health to enjoy it; but in I864
the grip of disease was tightening fast upon him. He
observes sadly how many elements and beg-inninigs of
felicity therere ae in uts: "Wie feel so clearly, so profoundly, that happiness would be possible, easy, that it
is close at hand, - yet a little, and we should have it in
perfection! But no: there is the grain of sand, the
little deviation, that mere nothing which destroys all,
and plunges us again in the distresses of a heart deceived! "  Who has not felt this? Who but the hopelessly unhappy has not now and then felt himself so
near to perfect felicity that one trifling change would
be its absolute realization, -a little more health, a little
more money, or the presence of one who is away?
It is not possible, whatever idealists may affirm, to be
really happy in this world without sound physical health;
and the lack of that would have been enough to make




I54


Modern Frenchmen.


Perreyve's felicity imperfect, though all other elements
had been present. His father, too, was suffering from a
cruel and incurable malady. As to the son's case, the
doctor at Pau reported "progress," to which the patient
answered that there was progress in the ravages of the
disease. Bright as were his hopes of another world, his
regrets for this were painful. " I regret every thing,"
he says; and then follows a list of little details, showing
how dear his working life had been to him. "A priest,"
he said, "is a man created and put into the world for
others. Brought back within the limits of self, he has
no longer any reason for existence." In the extreme
weakness of the last days, the mental faculties lost their
energy, and there was a painful consciousness of the
loss. The dying man tried to write, but could not, and
felt a gloomy dread. "I am condemned to mere animal
repose." This condemnation was not for long. On the
26th of June, 1865, he felt, probably for the first time,
the fleshly horror of dissolution, which sometimes subjugates for an instant the noblest and bravest spirits.
"I am afraid! I am afraid!" he said, - "J'ai peur! j'ai
peur!"
This horror was the precursor of the last change,
which took place an hour afterwards; and all that oftenrepeated, self-torturing questioning, " Shall I live to be
of any use?" found its final answer and solution.
Henri Perreyve never once seems to have anticipated
that he would be of any good in this world after his
death: his modesty precluded any such hopes, so that
his whole anxiety was concerning what he might be




Henri Perreyve.


I55


able to accomplish whilst he could keep his poor, fleeting
physical health, or such semblance and mockery of it
as he possessed. It is a pity he never knew that the
service he desired to render would by no means come
to an end with his mortal body. The influence of his
character has been steadily increasing since, —an
influence of a quiet kind, yet persistent. The sincerity
and sweetness of his nature; his perfect self-devotion
to what he thought the most worthy purposes; his earnest desire to reconcile religious faith with political
liberty, -have endeared him to thousands of people in
France who are seeking after a better spiritual life in
combination with more perfect freedom. It seems to
me that English and American sympathies may be
counted upon beforehand for such a desire as this, even
though Perreyve and his admirers belonged to the
Church of Rome. Many in England and America who
kindly wish well to France desire for her a firmer
religious faith, and an assured constitutional freedom,
which may make her safe against conspirators in high
places as well as against the tyranny of the mob. As
for Perreyve's Romanism, the most Protestant of my
readers need not withhold his sympathy on that account. Born in England, Perreyve would probably have
found full contentment in Anglicanism; for such natures as his usually become warmly attached to the
religious system they find ready to hand. He belonged,
by the accident of birth, to what he himself called
" the Church of France," which happened to be affiliated
to Rome; and, as this Church satisfied his religious




I56


MIlodern Frenchmen.


cravings, he felt no temptation to rebel against her.
His nature was docile and trustful and conservative, as
well as aspiring after an elevated moral ideal. Even his
passion for liberty was conservative, since in his youth
constitutional freedom had really been attained for a time
in France, though Louis Napoleon set his heel upon it.
In all his aspirations, Perreyve was steadily sustained
by the warmest human sympathy. Life is really worth
having in the sunshine of such friendships as those
which surrounded him. His juniors looked up to him
with love and trust, his seniors treated him as a brother,
and one or two of the greatest selected him as the most
trustworthy, in their opinion, of living men. The most
exalted personages in the ecclesiastical hierarchy took a
kindly interest in his character and abilities from the
beginning, predicting a remarkable future. Perreyve
breathed, not "for a whole year," like Stuart Mill, but
during the whole of his existence, " the free and genial
atmosphere of Continental life." He was simply and
happily ignorant of what Mill calls "the absence of
high feelings, which manifests itself by sneering depreciation of all demonstration of them, and by general
abstinence from professing any high principles of action
at all, except in those pre-ordained cases in which such
profession is put on as part of the costume and formalities of the occasion." Perreyve lived habitually and
easily in a condition of high feeling, which he kept up
by constant intercourse, personally or by correspondence,
with friends who cultivated in themselves, and encouraged in others, the same nobility of nature. Though a




Hen ri Perreyve.


157


Roman Catholic, self-dedicated to the priesthood from
his earliest youth, he cherished no intolerance towards
Protestants and unbelievers. On the few occasions
when he spoke of other churches, it was usually to point
a moral by a reference to the virtues which they exhibited, and which Roman Catholics would do well to
emulate. The hardest word against English Protestants
which I can find in all Perreyve's sermons is, "Our
brethren who are separated from us;" and he heartily
praises their zeal in the dissemination of pure literature.
Again, in another sermon, he says, " Never be afraid of
the virtues of our separated brethren," meaning the
Protestants, "and do not yield to the vulgar temptation
of ignoring or casting a shadow upon them. Never be
afraid of what is good: the good is always the road to
what is true."  Of course, he does not think it a fortunate condition for the Church of England that she
should be separated from " Catholic unity;" but he has no
lack of charity, or of admiration either, for the members
of that Church. " Poor Church of England! Truly a
flock without a shepherd; full, nevertheless, of beautiful
and noble souls which are hungry and thirsty for the
truth, who will restore to thee thy place in the sacred
unity which thou hast left?" In writing of or to an
unbeliever like J. J. Ampere, Perreyve fully recognizes
all that is in common between them, and has no harsh
or unkind things to say. He only affirms (which is
natural in a priest) that intelligence, reason, and poetry
do not bring the soul to God; that real religion is
another thing than intelligence, reason, and poetry;




I58


Modern Frenchmen.


that real religion establishes an eternal and intimate
friendship between God and man. This is Perreyve's
"short method with the infidel,"- different, as we see,
from the scoldings and calumnies which used formerly
to be considered good enough for him, and fit weapons
for a cultivated clergy to employ. Perreyve quite admits that unbelievers may be friends of Christ, but
friends of the outer circle, admirers at a distance.
"They cannot know either the sweetness of his parole
interieure, nor the peace of his promesses intimes. They
sometimes understand the happiness of others: they
never share it." One could scarcely expect a priest to
speak more charitably than this of unbelief. The admission that unbelievers may be "friends of Christ" is
much indeed. The assertion that intelligence, reason,
and poetry do not produce the religious state, will
scarcely be disputed, if religion is understood in the
usual plain sense of the word. We know what religion
is, and we perceive that the intellect does not produce
it any more than an oak-tree produces grapes or roses.
The intellect produces philosophy. Then, again, the
poetic sense does not produce religion: it has its own
flower, of another beauty and a different perfume, which
is art. I need say no more about Perreyve's tolerance
and charity; but I may fairly claim that a like tolerance
and an equal charity should be exercised in his own
favor by ourselves. Surely, we are not to be outdone
in liberality of sentiment by a priest of the Church of
Rome!
I much regret that limits of space, already rather




Helnri Perreyve.


I59


exceeded, do not permit a thorough analysis of Perreyve's
literary works. He was not, as we have already observed,
a writer of great mental force; but I have seldom read
sermons, or theological books of any kind, from which
with the help of a little charity and patience the reader
may more surely gain that benefit so easy to feel, so
difficult to define, which enriches the heart, if it does not
satisfy the intellect. The preacher is so much in earnest, and has so much the gift of a certain persuasive
eloquence, -the secret of which is a strong desire to
remove all possible misunderstanding, - that it is difficult not to listen, even though he often says things
which the critical sense in us can never by any possibility accept. For example, one of his finest sermons
is entitled " Marie, Reine des Sciences," a sermon full of
the eloquence that springs from feeling, and in it he
elevates the Virgin Mary to the rank of a Christian
Minerva by ascribing to her the royalty of philosophy
and art. It is easy to understand that a cultivated age
may desire to associate its culture with its religion, and
we have heard certain cultivated persons express their
regret that there is neither a Minerva nor a Muse in
popular theology; but really, when we remember who and
what the mother of Jesus was, - the wife of a poor carpenter in Galilee, far removed both by social and geographical distance from the scientific and artistic centre
of the ancient world, - it does seem a violent stretch of
imagination to make her in a special sense the Goddess
of philosophy and art. By the incessant contemplation
of an idealized person, people can make themselves




i60


Modern Frenchmen.


believe that they know the person in detail as the poet
comes in time to know his characters without distinguishing what is historical in them and what the fiction of his
brain. In this way, Perreyve persuaded himself that
Mary's mind was remarkable for intellectual superiority.
"I hail you," he says, addressing her, "as the Queen of
philosophers. I admire in you that admirable ordonnance
of all the human faculties, which makes your soul the
masterpiece of intelligence and reason." This is exactly
the sort of compliment which Frenchmen used to address to Madame de Stael. But the love of hyperbole,
which is a characteristic of Roman Catholic theologians,
leads them to say things still more disturbing to the
equilibrium of a Protestant judgment.  For example,
Perreyve has a whole chapter about the Priest in his
book for the sick, and in this chapter he quietly affirms,
not the permanent, but the intermittent godhead of the
priest. "The Priest is God in Jesus Christ when he
teaches;" "the Priest is God in Jesus Christ when he
binds and loosens the consciences of men;" "the Priest
is God in Jesus Christ when he transmits the invisible
grace in the external rite of the sacrament;" "but the
Priest is God most especially at the altar, through, with,
and in Jesus Christ, when he offers the sacrifice for the
salvation of the people."  It is the nature of passionate
love to wish to lose itself in its object; and, when the
object is so exalted as to be worshipped, this desire
has often led to a mystic identification of the adorer
with the adored. Perreyve is not the first who has had
these feelings or used this language. Even philosophers
make use of similar expressions to indicate certain con



Henri Perreyve.


i6i


ditions of intellect and feeling. Nobody will suspect
Feuerbach of Catholic mysticism, at any rate; yet, in
his intellectual mysticism, he says: "Existence out of
self is the world, existence in self is God. To think is
to be God. The act of thought, as such, is the freedom
of the immortal gods from all external limitations and
necessities of life." The audacity of statement is here
quite as great as in the case of Perreyve, and in both
cases it is nothing but audacity of statement, better
avoided; for what the priest and the philosopher really
meant might have been expressed in a less extravagant
way. Perreyve only meant that the priest shared or
represented a divine function; and Feuerbach only
meant that the thinker elevated himself above the world
of matter by his thought. However, Perreyve makes a
clear distinction between the priest, who is divine sometimes, and the physician, to whom divine honors are
never to be paid. "The Priest is God and man;"
"Honor the physician as man, and not as a god."  This
establishes such an infinite superiority for the priest
that his dignity seems scarcely compatible with humility.
Hence we find Perreyve quite oppressed by the ideal
splendor of the priestly office, and constantly praying for
humility, as the virtue most desirable and most needful
for a priest.
His popular sympathies were broad, and included all
classes really known to him. He was a democrat in the
best sense, earnestly desiring the elevation of the people
to a higher plane of intellectual and moral life, as well
as their political emancipation. The popular vices in
thought, language, and action, were as unpleasing to
TIr




I62


jlModern Frenchmen.


Perreyve as if he had been a born aristocrat; but instead
of saying, "Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo," and passing
by on the other side, he did what lay in his power to
civilize the barbarism about him. He had been tempted
in youth, from pure ignorance, to judge the highest
aristocracy severely, as people have prejudices against
a nation in which they have no acquaintances; but, when
circumstances brought him into close contact with one
of the greatest ducal families in France, he willingly
acknowledged his error, and admitted that the aristocracy had qualities of which he had not been aware. The
great ladies seemed to him "modest, pious, and charitable, and not nearly so proud as he had imagined." The
misfortune of the aristocracy seemed to Perreyve to
be want of occupation, especially in young men; but he
found and approved a tendency to combat this by giving
them a professional training. His liberalism was of the
kind that wishes well to all classes. He was not one of
those Frenchmen who say, or once said, "War to the
castle, peace to the cottage!" but one of those who say,
like M. Taine, "Peace to the cottage, and peace to the
castle also! "
It may help the English reader to an understanding
of Perreyve's position in the Church of Rome to say that
if it had been divided, as the Church of England now is,
into the three well-known sections of ritualists, evangelicals, and broad churchmen, he would have belonged
to the last section, -I mean relatively. It may seem
strange to readers not intimately acquainted with Roman
Catholicism to speak of it as any thing else than ritual



Henri Perreyve.


I63


istic; but there may be the love of ceremony or the love
of simplicity even in a royal court, and, in spite of compulsory outward conformity, a close observer may detect
ritualism or its opposite, anywhere, in the natural dispositions of men. Perreyve had too much of the artistic
sense to be ignorant of the power of august architecture,
music, and ceremony; and he never undervalued them,
but his opinion about them was exactly that of M.
Renan.   He considered them   aids to the popular
imagination of things divine, but neither divine in themselves nor indispensable. " A little bread and wine in
a dungeon," he says, "sufficed for the liturgy of the
martyrs." Here are the two sides of his feeling on the
subject, in a page written when sickness kept him away
from public worship (exquisitely beautiful, as it seems
to me), and in the answer to the regrets which it expresses:
" Lord, I have loved the beauty of thy House, and the
place where thy glory dwells. I have loved this beauty
from a child. I have loved thy holy ceremonies, the
austere harmony of psalms, the pomp of festivals, the
incense rising to the vaults, the flowers about the altar,
thy priests transfigured far off in gold, in perfume, and
in flame, whilst taking from thy hands the benediction
which they shed upon the people. I loved the retired
place where I hid myself with my prayer, I liked to lose
myself in the oblivion of my own existence and the clear
view of thee only. I liked to remain alone after all were
gone, when the brilliance of tapers was extinguished
with the last echoes of the great organ."




I64


MAodern Frenczhmez.


Then comes the answer. Like the author of the
"Imitation," he imagines the voice of Christ replying:
" Symbols will pass away, my son; temples of stone will
pass away; my sacraments themselves will become
needless, along with faith and hope: but that which
will endure for ever is worship in spirit and in truth,
perfect charity, and the rest of souls in me. Regret
not immoderately that which in the external temple
would please thy senses and imagination. Remember
that in the whole world there is neither temple nor
tabernacle so dear to me as the soul of the just man."
I need hardly observe how beautifully the two sides
of the question are expressed in these two passages; in
what a serene atmosphere the thoughts of the writer
move, -how far above vulgar contention about forms.
The recognition of their utility is ample; but equally
clear is the understanding that they are not indispensable, and that there is something above them and beyond
them.
And now, in conclusion, I desire to say a few frank
words about the long and generous dream of Perreyve's
life, - the union of Catholicism with liberty. In one
of his eloquent discourses, he narrated with pride how,
in the thirteenth century, when the most glorious cathedrals were built, the workmen did not forget to place
the statue of Liberty in its niche; and how, at Chartres, the mediaeval carver had taken care there should
be no mistake about it by plainly inscribing beneath
the statue the name of the new patron, - LIBERTAS.
" Ah! gentlemen," said Perreyve to his hearers at the




Henri Perrcyve.


I65


Sorbonne, " how I love to read that word in the doorway
of the old basilica, near to that tabernacle which is
to-day deserted, through the misunderstandings of the
time, but which will one day doubtless see humanity
coming back wearied with its struggles and tired of its
fruitless quests." The answer to this is easy. Whatever the Church may have done in the thirteenth century little concerns us who live in the fourth quarter of
the nineteenth. It is one of the commonplaces of history that she resisted secular tyranny in ages when no
other organization was powerful enough to offer such
effectual opposition. But nozov-in our own day-is
she the friend of liberty or its enemy? The modern
Roman Catholic principle has been much more accurately defined by Monseigneur Segur than by the Abb6
Perreyve. It is briefly this, that peoples are subject to
sovereigns, who rule by divine right, and who, in their
turn, are subject to the Church; that is, to the Papacy.
The principle of parliamentary government is so odious
to Monseigneur Segur that he condemns it in language
of uncompromising severity. He has the spirit of the
Syllabus and the Encyclicals, which Perreyve would
have had to submit to in silent repugnance, like many
another, if he had lived. At the time of his fortunate
death, illusions were still possible, and a Roman Catholic
might yet speak aloud of liberty.
The truth is, that circumstances having changed, the
policy of the Church of Rome has changed with them.
In the Middle Ages, she could well afford to be the
champion of liberty and the protectress of learning, be



I66


Alodernz Frenchmen.


cause in those ages the doctrines upon which her own
authority rested were called in question by none, or by
so few that she had no anxiety on her own account. In
our day, her position is different, and so is her policy.
Her policy now is against political liberty, in all countries where she is dominant; and she favors it only for
temporary purposes in those countries where she cannot
impose herself by force. She was the friend of Catholic
emancipation in England, but when has she been the
friend of Protestant emancipation in Spain? She has
asked for liberty of public worship at Geneva, but she
has never granted it in Rome. She has long been
laboring, and is still laboring with all her power, to overthrow representative government in France and Italy,
and what there is of religious liberty in Spain. The
clerical party, in those countries, is well understood to
be the reactionary and absolutist party. The Church
has given her hearty support to every tyranny that has
existed in Europe in the present generation, on the
single condition that the tyrant should be a Roman
Catholic; and she has combated every movement
towards political emancipation. What Perreyve was
constantly deploring as a general "misunderstanding"
is really a very clear understanding indeed. Frenchmen and Italians understand with the most perfect
clearness by this time- they would be hopelessly dull
if they did not-that whatever political freedom they
may desire for themselves and their posterity must be
won in spite of the Roman Curia and the prodigious
organization which it directs. Tender and beautiful




Hcenri Perreyve.             167
religious sentiments, such as we have lately been admiring, have little to do with this stern contest for the
mastery of Europe. To the friends of political liberty,
the Church of Rome, whatever may be the beauty of
holiness to which many of her sons and daughters have
attained, is at once the most redoubtable and the most
insidious of their foes. Even so recently as the year
1877 she made an effort against representative government in France; and, though not permanently successful, she was still powerful enough to suspend it for five
months, and to replace it by an incredibly vexatious form
of personal tyranny which brought the country to the
brink of civil war, and persecuted free speech with relentless jealousy, from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, and from Belgium to the Pyrenees.




I68


Modern Frenchmen.


RUDE.
IF this little biography begins like a novel, the reader
is respectfully requested to believe that there is no
attempt to amuse him at the expense of truth.
There is a place about nine old French leagues east of
Dijon, say twenty-seven miles, called Saint-Seine-surVingeanne. The Vingeanne is a pretty stream, and
Saint Seine is a quiet country village with an old
chateau that belongs, or used to belong, to an old family
which took its name from the place. The village also
possesses an inn; and the reader is requested, by an
effort of the imagination, to transport himself to the
court-yard of this hostelry in the strange and terrible
year I793. He is not going to be troubled with any
word-painting of a picturesque old French court-yard:
we have appealed to his imagination already, and will
leave it to supply the quaint roofs, dormer windows,
pigeon-cotes, the picturesque external staircases, and
irregular wooden galleries, which are often to be found
in such places. Our own task, just at present, is a
little bit of figure-painting.
It is very early in the morning, and there is nobody




Rude.


I69


in the court-yard yet, when a figure comes down the
stair, and goes straight to a very big grindstone in a
corner. It is a boy nine years old, but he is dressed
like a man and a soldier. He wears a blue coat with a
large collar turned back on the breast after the fashion
of those days, he has a three-cornered cocked hat worn
knowingly on one side, he has white breeches and black
gaiters. He is armed with a sword of a size proportioned to his stature, and it is his anxiety about the
state of the weapon which has made him such a very
early riser. The sword is too blunt, he thinks, and so
he means to sharpen it. Unluckily, the grindstone is
big and heavy, and there is nobody to turn it. Why not
wait a little till people get up, and somebody comes to
help? The reason is that the helper would be a witness, and our young soldier has his own private reasons
for desiring to sharpen his deadly weapon in perfect
secrecy. So he sets the stone in motion, and then grinds
a little till it stops, which happens inconveniently soon;
then he gives it another impetus, and so on. Whilst
our hero is thus busily occupied, we may tell the reader
who he is, and why he is so determined to have his sword
so very sharp on this particular morning.
His name is Francois Rude, and the reader is not to
suppose for a moment that the military uniform has been
given to him by wealthy parents for his amusement, as
uniforms and swords are often given at the present day
to children who go to fancy balls. FranSois Rude
belongs to a real regiment, and the uniform which
he wears is as seriously authorized by the Govern

_______ ____ __ __ __.___,-..-.,,_ ---r — rr. - --— '-IC - — ~- - —'




I7o


M7fodern Frenchmen.


ment of his country as that of a midshipman is in
England.
He belongs to the famous Royal Bonbon regiment of
the National Guard, which, although composed of very
young soldiers indeed, who would be called children
were it not for the respect inspired by their military
ardor, considers itself of no small importance in the city
of Charles the Bold. Every Sunday, at noon precisely,
the Royal Bonbon regiment marches with music to the
strange but beautiful church of Saint Michael, which
was built by a friend and pupil of Michael Angelo, and
there a member of the Common Council, with his official
insignia, gets up into the pulpit and talks to his young
hearers about their duties and responsibilities. After
this discourse, the boys kneel on one knee, they raise
their hands to their three-cornered cocked hats, a roll of
drums fills the echoing vaults of the old church, and the
Councillor in the pulpit pronounces a layman's benediction. Besides this weekly ceremony in the church, there
is another ceremony, every second day, in the theatre
of Dijon. The battalion on duty parades on the stage
between the two plays, performing its evolutions round
the bust of Robespierre or Marat, and singing the
Marseillaise!
Let it not be supposed that the regiment exists only
to show itself in church and theatre. It exists for a very
serious purpose; namely, the manly and patriotic education of the youth of Dijon, and it takes itself au serieux.
Long orders of the day are read to it with all solemnity
when under arms in the public square, faults are severely


U14 YL-~ ---~s,. _ rYi ----_ ~ —YC-~LI~lb~LIL —  ---~ICI —i --- I1-l*Lt ---I~Il-CIL-r -—.- ly_ _C__ F~ —L~LY~I -)~-~ --- - I~U



Rude.


I 7 I


condemned, and acts of merit encouraged by public eulogy.
Every week it marches into the country, and is exercised
in one of the rocky valleys in the neighborhood of Dijon,
and every week it is paraded in the public park to watch
the exercises of the National Guard.
Francois Rude has been a year in the regiment now,
and has accompanied his father from Dijon to Saint-Seinesur-Vingeanne on a little business excursion. Unluckily,
there is a barber in the village, who on the evening of
their arrival considers the young Royal Bonbon a fit
object for the exercise of his wit. He laughs more
particularly at the sword, inquiring sarcastically about
the uses of that weapon, and finally so exasperating
the wearer as to draw from him that last answer of the
brave, a challenge to mortal combat. Then the barber
goes home to bed, and thinks no more about the duel;
not so the Royal Bonbon, who lies awake with anxiety,
especially about the sharpness of his sword.
Whilst he is sharpening it so early in the morning,
his father sees him from the window, and sends for the
adversary and his seconds. The jests begin again, but
the boy gets so angry that they endeavor to soothe his
wounded feelings by a formal apology. This he rejects
with indignation, and, finding himself unable to obtain
satisfaction by arms, quits the village of Saint-Seinesur-Vingeanne in disgust, and walks by himself to Dijon
without a penny in his pocket, or any thing to eat, along
all those weary nine leagues of road.
I cannot think of this wonderfully characteristic anecdote of those times without asking myself what some great




172


Modern Frenchmen.


painter or novelist, some Leslie or Thackeray, would
have made of it. The scene in the inn-yard, with the
boy in that curious eighteenth-century uniform, the barber with forced seriousness offering his apology, the
by-standers laughing, would have afforded Leslie an excellent subject for his refined pictorial comedy. Thackeray would have written a delicious chapter about that
Royal Bonbon regiment in the rich old Burgundian city,
and, after getting such a capital start for the hero of his
novel, would have gone on developing his life and fortunes
amidst all the surroundings of a strange and exciting
time. Less fortunate than painter or writer of fiction,
the biographer may give but little liberty to his imagination; and if by chance, as in the present instance,
reality itself should offer tempting materials, he is soon
compelled to leave them behind'for the sterner realities
of life.
The little Frangois Rude who wanted to fight the
barber was not, as the reader may imagine from his
susceptibility on the point of honor, a young gentleman
of noble lineage. His father was only a blacksmith who
lived at Dijon in a sort of court, or street without an
issue, the entrance to which may be found by the tourist
in the Rue Poissonnerie between number 15 and number
23; and here the boy was born, on the 4th of January,
1784. An iron balcony of forged work by the hand of
the elder Rude may still be seen above a little cafe hard
by; for Dijon is a place with artistic traditions, like the
Italian cities; and the rigid rule of cast-iron has not yet
entirely succeeded in substituting itself for the living




Rudze.


I73


work of the craftsman's hammer.    Rude the blacksmith
had, however, discovered a more profitable department
of his business than the making of iron balconies. He
had travelled in Germany, and, being an intelligent man
with his eyes open to the merits of things that were
new to him, had observed there a sort of chimney or
stove, which he thought might be useful in his own
country. On his return, he immediately began to make
these stoves, which were soon appreciated at Dijon, and
are now to be seen all over France, where they are known
as cheminees a lai prussiezne, or, more briefly, as prussicEnces.*  The introduction of this useful innovation was
rewarded by a business which, though it did not enrich
the elder Rude, enabled him to maintain himself and his
family in decency; and he naturally looked forward to the
time when, upon his retirement, his son would continue
the trade. Their military life went no farther than this,
that both belonged to the National Guard. The elder
Rude was a mounted artilleryman, and after the exercises
in the park he used to take his son on the pommel of his
saddle and ride back with him into Dijon: sometimes he
would perch him   on a caisson.  "It was hard when we
got to the pavement," Rude used to say, in after-life;
"but we held on for honor's sake! "
* The prassie/zne, as Rude introduced it, is a sort of sheet-iron box,
lined with brick and open in front, with a stove-pipe inserted behind.
It combines the advantages of the stove and the open fire. In the more
elegant prussiennes, the sheet-iron is covered with marble, and some of
recent invention are made entirely of cast-iron, enamelled; but the best for
burning wood with great economy of heat are the simple old sheet-iron
ones which Rude introduced.




174


Modcrtz Frenchmen.


As soon as the boy was strong enough to work at
the forge, his father made him put on the leather apron,
and begin. The military career in the Royal Bonbon
came to a premature conclusion by the disarming of that
regiment, after the fall of Robespierre, during the reaction of Thermidor. Our hero was so indignant at this
measure that he positively refused to be disarmed, and
hid his musket, for those small boys had firearms. His
existence, for the next six years, was prosaic: he worked
all the time steadily at his father's forge. At the age of
sixteen, an accident happened which changed the tenor
of his whole life, and spoiled a business career which
might have led ultimately to fortune in the profitable
trade of an ironmonger. A piece of red-hot iron fell
upon one of his feet; and, though the burn was not very
serious, it confined the lad to the house for a few days.
As soon as he was able to go out, he took a walk in the
streets of Dijon for his amusement, and it so happened
that it was the prize day at the public school of Fine
Art in that city; for Dijon was an art-centre even then,
with centuries of artistic tradition to look back upon.
Well, young Francois Rude turned into the Art School,
which was open to every one on the occasion of this public solemnity, and he was so deeply impressed thereby
that he resolved, if possible, to become a student. His
father yielded to his entreaties, but only on condition
that he was not to make an artist of himself, and that
any skill which he might acquire as a designer should
be devoted entirely to prussiennes. On this understanding, the young student went to the Dijon Academy for




Rude.


I75


two hours daily; namely, from six to eight in winter
evenings, and from six to eight in the morning when
the summer gave early daylight. Meanwhile, he worked
steadily at his father's forge.
Young men gifted with an instinct for the plastic arts
are not, as a general rule, remarkable for their love of
literature. Few men read so little as artists. You may
talk about books to busy men in other professions, to
busy clergymen, lawyers, and physicians, but not, as a
general rule, to the professional painter, sculptor, or
engraver. There are, however, a few exceptions to this
rule; and Rude, from his early youth, was one of them.
As soon as he had begun to cultivate his artistic powers,
he became aware of his defective education, and by
the effort of a will that recoiled before no difficulty he
resolved to cultivate his mind by reading, whilst he
cultivated his eye and hand by drawing at the Academy.
He had a little chamber in the garret, and here he shut
himself up at nights to read and draw in undisturbed
tranquillity. How he managed for fire and light is a
mystery, for his father was already apprehensive that
this ardor for study might not be favorable to the family
trade in prussiennes, and rigorously refused both money
and candles; but Fran/ois had his own devices, and followed his own pursuits. He had his Sunday too, which
on the continent is the day of recreation, the day on
which friends and relations meet for social intercourse
as they do on Christmas Day in England. It was hard
to leave all his companions and shut himself up with a
book, especially in a sociable place like Dijon; but, when




I76


Mlodern Frenchmez.


Franjois Rude had resolved to attain some high object,
he was ready to pay the price.* In this way, he gradually became well informed; and, as the habit of careful
reading remained with him through life, the extent and accuracy of his knowledge often surprised the learned. He
was helped in various ways by M. Devosge, who founded
the Art Academy at Dijon, and was its first director.
This M. Devosge not only looked well to the young student's progress in the drawing class, but also gave him
paper and crayons to work at home, and the use of his
private library. We may also have our suspicions that
the same M. Devosge was the source of light for the
eyes as well as of light for the understanding; or, in
other words, that it was he who provided the candles.
This good friend took such an interest in Rude that he
was constantly talking about him; and an old housekeeper, when she came to fetch M. Devosge from the
Art School, once stopped where the young pupil was sitting at work, and said to him, "Mais qu'est-ce que tu
fais done, Rude, que notre monsieur parle toujours de
toi?"
The answer to this question is that the boy already
exhibited the incipient powers of an artist. He very
* It is strange that a young blacksmith should remind one of Lady
Jane Grey, yet here we have the story of her youth translated from a
patrician to a plebeian form, and from feminine sweetness to masculine
resolution. This blacksmith's son recalls that story so beautifully told
by Roger Ascham, how he found his pupil "in her chamber, reading
Phaedo Platonis in Greek," when the joyous company of lords and ladies
were hunting in the park, and how she answered him, "I wist, all their
sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure which I find in Plato."




Rude.


I77


soon won a gold medal for ornamental drawing (the first
prize) and a silver medal (the second prize) for an academic study from life. He now began to believe that
his accidental visit to the Art Academy on a former
occasion, when he saw prizes distributed to others, had
revealed to him his true vocation; and it was a favorite
theory of his in after-life that the chance which led a
man to do what he was best qualified for was the most
important element in all successes. "Every one of us,"
he used to say, "is probably so gifted as to be naturally
able to do some especial thing better than anybody else,
and when this natural aptitude finds its outlet the possessor of it infallibly becomes remarkable; but with our
system of education such aptitudes remain unheeded,
and people do not even trouble themselves to inquire
about their existence."
At this period of Rude's life, we have the singular
instance of a blacksmith who was at the same time an
academic gold and silver medallist; for, notwithstanding
his rapid progress in art, he still remained obedient to
his father's will, and worked patiently at the forge for
years. At length, however, his good friend M. Devosge
began to think it wrong that such a sacrifice should be
continued any longer, and talked to the elder Rude with
such effect that he consented at last to let FranSois be
entirely an artist. To us, who know what he afterwards
became, this may appear simply the preference of a
higher to an inferior calling, but the elder Rude would
not see matters in that light. By great industry and
some intelligence, he had won for himself that specialty
12




I78


MI/odern Frenzchzmen.


of prussiennes, his son had partly learned the trade, which
if not brilliant was at least a certainty, and now it was
proposed that he should abandon it for an occupation
which offered no sure prospect whatever, and which,
notwithstanding a good beginning, the young man had
still to learn. Just after he had given his consent, the
father was struck down by paralysis, and was not rich
enough to keep Francois whilst he studied: here, then,
was a fresh complication. The young man met the difficulty by going to work at a house-painter's, where he did
nothing but grind colors and paint windows.
The question now is, how a poor young house-painter,
who has not yet even learnt the trade he works at, who
has no money, whose father is paralyzed and unable to
help him, is to become the greatest sculptor in France?
It came about gradually, by the kindness of others and
his own industry and genius. M. Devosge, in the first
place, was not the man to abandon his young friend
when under a cloud of misfortune, so he got some
good folks at Dijon to sit to him for their busts, and
such was Rude's natural talent for his art that these
attempts gave satisfaction. One of these busts led to
another very valuable friendship. M. Devosge had been
the intimate friend of Monnier, an engraver. Monnier
died in 1804; and his son-in-law, M. Fremiet, was living
in Dijon as comptroller of taxes, but besides his official
position he was a man of high intellectual culture, a
good writer, and a great character. M. Devosge suggested to him that it would be a good thing to have
a bust of Monnier by Rude. M. Fremiet accepted the




Rude.


179


suggestion, and gave the commission; but his kindness
did not end here. Under the pretext that the young
artist would work more easily in his house, he prevailed
upon him to establish himself in a room there, and in a
very short time both he and Madame Fremiet treated
Rude as if he had been their son.
This may look like a mere trick of rhetoric, for people
are not much in the habit of treating the children of
others as their own; but a circumstance soon occurred
which put M. Fremiet's kindness to the test. When
FranCois Rude attained his majority, the conscription
claimed him; and he would have had to go for a soldier,
had not his new friend generously interposed by paying
the cost of a substitute. M. Fremiet was not rich, but
it seemed to him that a great gift for art ought not to
be lost to the world, and besides this he had a personal
affection for Rude, and a desire to insure his happiness.
The sculptor used to say in after-life that his feelings
towards MM. Devosge and Fremiet were much beyond
what is called gratitude: his heart was too full of love
for both of them to have room for any such sentiment,
whilst they on their part had no notion of being patrons
or benefactors. He felt it his duty not to burden them
more than he could help, and so started for Paris in 1807
with ~I6 in his pocket, to make his own way in the
world.
M. Devosge had provided his young friend with a
letter of introduction to Denon, and Rude had taken
the precaution to prepare a statuette as evidence of his
capabilities. The subject of this statuette was Theseus




i8o


MAodern Freznchmen.


picking np a Quoit, and when Denon saw it he took it
for a copy of an antique.    On ascertaining the truth,
he at once offered to protect Rude, and got him work to
do on the bas-reliefs of the Vendome column. Whilst
earning his living in this way, the young student worked
as a pupil under Cartelet, a sculptor eminent at that
time; and six months later he was admitted to the Pcole
des Beaux Arts, the national school of art, answering to
our Royal Academy. In after-life, he used to say that
the teaching he received there did him nothing but
harm, that the force of example made him abandon his
early manner for a worse, and that the seven years during which he followed the official routine were the seven
lost years of his life.  He went even farther than this in
his regrets, for he used to add that the long and persevering effort of his maturity had been to cast off the
influence of the Ecole, and forget what he had learned
in it.*
It is very possible that the interest which Denon took
in the young sculptor may have been at first awakened by
feelings of provincial patriotism; for Rude was a native
of Dijon, and Denon was born at the nearest town to
the southwards, - namely, Chalon-sur-Sa6ne. He was a
* The reason for this divergence between the genius of Rude and the
academic system of teaching was not any want of classic feeling in him,
but quite the contrary. His mind, from the beginning, was more truly
and vitally classical than the spirit then prevalent at Paris. The boy who
modelled the Theseus was in happy and natural sympathy with the genius
of ancient Greece, and the kindly teaching he got at Dijon from his good
friend Devosge was better for him than the rigid and deathful compression of the public school.




Rude.


i8i


very great man, indeed, in those days; and his protection
was well worth having. He was famous as the savant
and artist who had accompanied Napoleon to Italy and
Egypt; he had a high social position as a Baron of the
Empire; and, besides the celebrity gained by his works,
he held a most influential situation in the art world as the
official director of museums and general superintendent
of all works of art executed to celebrate the victories of
Napoleon. His kindness to Rude was unfailing. So long
as Rude remained at Paris, he gave him work to do, and
guided him by friendly advice. When his young friend
won the great prize in 1812, with a statue of Aristaeus
lamenting the loss of his bees, Denon recommended him
not to go to Rome at once, but rather to stay in Paris
till he had saved money enough to see Italy thoroughly
and at leisure. This good advice was acted upon until
the year 1814; but the events of that remarkable year
made Paris distasteful to Rude, and led him to claim
his right to be sent to Italy. When he got to Dijon, he
stayed there to visit old friends, and during this visit to
his native city an event occurred which had an unexpected influence upon his future destiny.
It was now the month of March, 8I 5. Marshal Ney had
gone to Lons-le-Saulnier on his way to stop Napoleon on
his return from Elba. Napoleon was marching northwards
by wayof Lyons and Chalon-sur-Saone. Ney's regiments,
passing through Auxonne, were soon to arrive at Dijon.
This threw all the Dijon people into a state of intense
political ferment. France, at that time, was divided into
two great political parties: the Royalists, who desired the




I82


Moderit Frenchmen.


restoration of the Bourbons; and the popular party, which
at that time had no effective representative but Napoleon.
It may be well to offer, in this place, a few remarks upon
the realities which underlie the names and outward appearances of French politics. The contest, for the last
hundred years, has been between aristocracy and democracy; but there have been changes in the names of the
parties on both sides, which are very misleading to readers
of French history who have never lived in the country.
The aristocratic principle was represented, in the first
quarter of this century, entirely and exclusively by legitimacy, and in I814-I5 the democratic principle had for
its representative a man quite as hostile to liberty as
any legitimate sovereign could be; namely, Napoleon.
After oscillating between these two, the country supposed itself to have found a sort of compromise in a
bourgeois monarchy, or monarchy to suit the middleclasses, called Orleanism; but, when Orleanism came to
an end, the old contest between aristocracy and democracy began again, the reins of government being seized
by the democrats in 1848. Now we come to a period of
French history in which the action of the two parties is
not so visible on the surface of public events. Napoleon
III. did not lead the democracy as Napoleon I. had done;
for the popular party now desired not merely the abasement of its enemy, but also liberty for itself, and it had
realized the truth that liberty can never be possible
under a despotism. At the same time, those who remained faithful to the aristocratic principle were beginning to lose hope in a Bourbon restoration, and to




Rude.


I83


transfer their allegiance gradually to the new dynasty;
so that the fall of Napoleon III. after Sedan was looked
upon as a misfortune for aristocracy, a view of things
which would have greatly astonished the French aristocrats of I814. Napoleon III. being out of the way,
the contest between the two principles began again
under new names. The popular party was now called
Republican; and the aristocratic party, composed of
Legitimists, Orleanists,* and Bonapartists, now   called
itself Conservative. Having no longer any king or
emperor at its head, this party placed itself under the
nominal leadership of Marshal MacMahon, whose ducal
rank made him acceptable; but its real leader was another duke, with an intellect incomparably more subtle
and crafty, and a character far more unscrupulous, -
De Broglie. With the last great struggle between the
aristocratic party headed by this duke, and the democratic or popular party, headed by Thiers, Grevy, and
Gambetta, every reader of these pages will be more or
less familiar. How it ended, in the last months of 1877,
by De Broglie's fall from power, and MacMahon's submission to the will of the majority of the French people, we
all accurately know. If I mention in this place events
so recent and so familiar, it is precisely because the very
strength of the impression they have created is likely to
falsify our conception of the state of parties in the early
* The principle of Orleanism had been the government of the middle
classes; but, when Orleanism ceased to exist, those of its adherents who
desired liberty became republicans, and those who preferred monarchy
to liberty retained the name of Orleanists, but sided with the aristocratic
party against the republic.




I84


4Alodern Frenchlzmen.


months of 1815.   The events of the present, so far from
enabling us to understand the past, are often a great
hindrance to our comprehension of what happened even
at a little distance from our own time. For example,
our present hero, Rude, was in I8I5 an ardent supporter
of Napoleon; but he was not in the least what we, in
I878, understand by the word "Bonapartist."    Remember that Orleanism was not invented then; that republicanism had apparently perished in disorders to which
Napoleon put an end, and in tyrannies more odious than
his own; that a child of the common people, with plebeian
instincts, like Franrois Rude (who a few short years before was a blacksmith), had no choice between supporting a form of royalty which was bound up with traditions
of privilege, or else welcoming an emperor who, tyrannical as he was, did at least throw open the avenues of
advancement on every side to merit. All clever and
aspiring youths in the lower and middle classes were
for Napoleon in those days. Even if he had never gone
to Paris, Rude would have been for Napoleon; and having
gone there, having lived under the personal influence
of Denon, who owed his advancement to the Emperor's
recognition of his merits, it was not in the nature of
things that he could take sides against the Captain and
Sovereign of democracy.*
* What is said in the above passage about the " plebeian instincts"
of Rude will be fully explained before the close of this biography. The
expression is simply true, and is not intended to convey either praise or
blame, either sympathy or antipathy. This is not the place to expound
my own sentiments about aristocracy and democracy; but I may observe
that the word "plebeian" is not necessarily a word of either hostility
or contempt.




Rude.                   185
There is a certain old tower at Dijon at the old palace
of the Dukes of Burgundy, one of the loftiest towers in
the world and one of the most beautiful. It was commonly called, in Rude's time, La Tour di Logis du Roi;
for the palace was still classed as a royal dwelling.
High above the tower turned a big weathercock painted
pure white, the color, or negation of color, which belonged to the legitimate monarchy. Rude tried hard to
get the keys of this tower, with the audacious intention
of painting the weathercock with the tricolor of Napoleon. He was gifted with uncommon strength, agility,
and nerve, and he would probably have succeeded in his
project if the porter had yielded to his entreaties; but
the man suspected something, and declined.
At length, the news arrived that the first of Ney's
regiments was at the gates of Dijon. M. Fremiet,
Rude's old friend, whose political sentiments were the
same as his own, thought it would be well for the most
energetic of their party to go and join the Emperor on his
passage across the hills; for Napoleon had slept on the
14th of March at Chalon-sur-Sa6ne, and was now travelling to Auxerre, by way of Autun and Avallon, through
the narrow valleys of the Morvan. Rude was to get
these friends of the cause together at a cafe close to the
ducal palace, and there'he found in a back room five
resolute fellows with tricolor cockades. Just then they
heard the trumpet of Ney's advanced guard; and the six
went boldly out with their colors, and posted themselves
in line, with their backs to a hoarding in front of the
theatre. The critical moment had now arrived: a regi



I86


AIlodern Frenchmen.


ment of hussars came riding along the street, with white
cockades and drawn swords.
When Rude, in after-life, used to tell the story of that
day, he said that he and his five companions shouted
"Vive l'Empereur,"     as the   royalist cavalry came on.
"They had nothing to do," he said, "but lower the points
of their sabres, and pin us to the boards." The first troop
merely looked at them, looked at their tricolor flags and
cockades, and then turned aside to go down the Rue
Rameau. The second troop came on.
Rude and his companions shouted "Vive 'Empereur! "
louder than ever. This time the soldiers hesitated when
they looked, and, on receiving the word of command to
turn down the Rue Rameau, they answered, "Vive 1'Empereur!" Men and officers changed their white cockades for the tricolor as soon as they could, and a few
days later Marshal Ney himself accepted an enthusiastic
demonstration from the balcony of the Hotel de la
Cloche.*
* This is the account of the conversion of Ney's troops which is
received as authentic by the people of Dijon, but the account given by
Thiers is different. According to Thiers, the Sixth Hussars (the regiment mentioned above), commanded by the Prince de Carignan, went at
a gallop to Dijon to raise the city against the king, and succeeded in doing
so. This, however, is dependent merely on a report from an officer
"who had been on the Burgundy road," and is not the testimony of an
eye-witness. According to witnesses who were in Dijon at the time, the
hussars rode quietly into the city wearing the white cockade, and not the
tricolor, which they would have worn if already in insurrection against
the king. At the same time, they say that many old soldiers amongst
them had tricolor cockades in their pockets ready to exchange for their
white ones, and that officers were seen to pull a little string, which was
ingeniously so contrived that it revealed the blue and red which turned
the royalist white into the national tricolor. The exact truth would




Rude.


I87


M. Fremiet was one of the most enthusiastic advocates
of the Empire; and during the Hundred Days he maintained it so heartily that, after the battle of Waterloo, he
became a marked man, not sure of keeping either liberty
or life. Under these circumstances, there was nothing
for it but flight, and for some reason he preferred Belgium to Switzerland as a residence. It was necessary
to get him away privily, and by himself; but he only consented to this on condition that Rude would bring his
wife and his little daughters to Belgium afterwards.
These events became, therefore, of the greatest importance in the life of Rude; for the duty he now accepted
turned him aside from his intended student-life in Italy,
and changed for better or worse the whole texture of
his future career. But, whatever might come in the
future, Rude's devotion to one who had done so much
for him made him indifferent to selfish considerations;
so he cut off his moustache, put loaded pistols in his
pockets, and set off at nightfall with M. Fremiet, with
the intention of getting, if possible, to the village of Pontde-Parry, which has since become celebrated in the
Franco-German war. They took the most roundabout,
therefore appear to be that the hussars entered Dijon as royalist soldiers, but that very many of them were secretly favorable to Napoleon,
and only watched an opportunity to declare themselves for his cause.
The action of Rude and his five companions decided the matter, just as
a pointsman decides in which direction a train shall go. The conduct of
the hussars at Dijon, when Ney heard of it at Ions-le-Saulnier, influenced
his decision, and we all know how important that was. So here we have
young Rude mixed up with a great historical event, and acting his part
with remarkable courage; for he could not know that the hussars were
disposed to take his side.




i88


Mfodern Frenchzmen.


unfrequented ways, and, after wandering for some time
in the woods, got to Pont-de-Parry at last, and passed
the night there. Before going to bed, they bespoke a
place in the Paris diligence (which was to pass through
the village the next morning), of course under an assumed name. M. Fremiet duly took his place in the
diligence; and just then another drove up, that from
Paris to Geneva, with David the painter in it, also a
fugitive. Rude immediately recognized him, but was
discreet enough not to let anybody perceive it.
The next thing the young man did was to return to
Dijon, and devote himself to the ladies and children of
M. Fremiet's family. There was his mother, eightyfive years old; there was his unmarried sister; there were
his wife and two daughters. Rude employed his time
at Dijon in making preparations for departure, and then
accompanied the ladies all the way to Belgium, where
he determined to share the exile of his friends, and
renounced the pleasant Italian life of a Grand Prix de
Rome, with all the brilliant prospects which at that time
it offered to a young artist. At Brussels, he got some
work to do, and hired an old abandoned chapel divided
by a floor. In the upper part of this he established
some pupils, and in the lower his own studio. This
little art school soon became an influential academy, for
Rude introduced principles of teaching which until that
time had been unknown at Brussels. We shall have to
say more about these principles afterwards; at present,
we have to follow the story of the artist's life.
The years had been passing rapidly since our young




Rzude.


I89


hero left Dijon, with the letter of introduction from
Devosge to Baron Denon. That was in 1807, when he
was twenty-three years old. The next remarkable
event in his life was the winning of the Grand Prix de
Rome in I812, a wonderful achievement for a young
man who but a few years before had been a working
blacksmith in a provincial city.  Then he stayed in
Paris to save money for Italian travel, but quitted Paris
in I814 for Dijon, and, instead of going to Italy, left
Dijon for Belgium in I815. He stayed there, working
steadily, and living in friendly intercourse with the
Fremiet family, for several years. This intercourse led
to his marriage in 182I with Mlle. Sophie Fremiet, his
old friend's elder daughter. This was in several ways
an exception to the usual French marriage customs; for
the union was founded on a long acquaintance and on
mutual esteem, whilst pecuniary interest had nothing to
do with the matter, either on one side or the other. As
Rude was born in I784, he was now of mature age
(thirty-seven), and he knew his own mind and heart.
M. Fremiet knew him thoroughly, and could appreciate
both his talent as an artist and his character as a man.
Both had strengthened greatly since the days when
AM. Fremiet exempted his young protg'e from the conscription.
I have said little about Rude's personal qualities
hitherto, both because we have been occupied chiefly
with events, and also because his nature did not come
to its full and magnificent maturity until somewhat late
in life. It has been given to few human beings to reach




Igo90


Modern Fre;nchmen.


a more perfect manhood. In him, both body, intellect,
and character were alike robust. There is a certain
appositeness in his very name, if we take it as it is understood, not by the learned, but by the peasantry of his
native land. They would have said of him, " C'est un rude
gaillard!" not meaning that he was rough or unpolished, but that he was strong. As to his polish, what
shall I say? All who knew him are agreed that he was
gentle, and yet he was not what we call a gentleman.
His habits were too simple and laborious for the graces
and elegancies of society, and there was a certain plebeian pride in him which made him unwilling to veneer
his heart of oak with rosewood. To the day of his death,
he remained resolutely plebeian, gracing himself with all
the virtues and accomplishments that might be attainable by a man of the common people, but without the
slightest desire to raise himself into any other social
class. It is the same spirit, in another grade of life,
which has sometimes led an English squire to refuse a
baronetcy or a peerage. It is a spirit which, wherever it
may be found, deserves our deepest respect, - a spirit
which, if it could be more generally prevalent, would have
the most beneficial consequences; for it would lead the
best men of each class to improve their class instead of
toiling and struggling to get out of it. In most cases, a
man of great ability, born in the ranks of the common
people, does no good to his fellows, does nothing to elevate his class, for the simple reason that as soon as he
earns money he pretends to be a gentleman. It never
entered into Rude's mind to advance any such preten



Rude.


191


sion. All his life he considered himself simply a working man; and his ambition was to do the best work he
could, and to be himself, in all things, the model of those
qualities which may be attainable in humble life. His
work was always the best he could do, and he spared
upon it neither time nor pains. He had a horror of the
hasty, unconscientious productions which French workmen call pacotille and camelotte, exactly the same feeling
that a first-rate cabinet-maker has with regard to goods
got up hastily for sale. Another plebeian virtue that he
cultivated was to be satisfied with a workman's wages.
A gentleman, or a would-be gentleman, thinks himself
ill used by Fate and Fortune if he cannot live in a certain style, and we know what that style of living costs.
Rude was absolutely independent of all the troubles
occasioned by anxieties of this kind; for he asked no
more from Fortune than the ability to live like a workman who honestly pays his way. No expensive pleasure
tempted him, his pride was not in any form of luxury,
his dignity was simply human, and depended upon no
adjuncts. All the pomps and all the minor vanities of
the world were alike to him matters of unfeigned indifference. With the hardihood and simplicity of another
sculptor, Socrates, and an equally independent philosophy, he had a more substantial happiness; for his
marriage turned out to be one of those rarely fortunate
unions in which a man of genius finds a refuge from the
world's injustice, and a protection against his own discouragement.  Rude was so happy in love and work
that he could wait very patiently for fame, and enjoy




192


Ml9odern Frenchmen.


life thoroughly cn attendant. The routine of his existence
at Brussels was closely observed and recorded by one of
his own pupils, M. Feignaux. It is the existence, not of
a man who was waiting to live when fame and wealth
should come to him, but of a man who lived already in
the full enjoyment of his powers.
"He was dark-complexioned, strong, and robust,
graceful in his movements, and skilled in all bodily exercises. He danced well, skated well, and swam well.
He fenced with such grace, address, rapidity, vivacity,
that he used to drive me to despair. His temper was
very equal in its kindness and goodness. He was sober,
courageous, and laborious, constant in his affections, in
his habits, and in his dealings with others, well disposed
and generous towards those whom he employed. He
was gifted with a remarkable gayety, but the sallies of
his humor were always in good taste. His modesty was
excessive. I remember that one day he received a visit
from an archaeologist, who was a professor at Haarlem.
This learned man, after standing some time in silence
before one of Rude's bas-reliefs, broke out into enthusiastic praises, giving the reasons for his admiration with a
fire and an enthusiasm rare in a Dutchman. I never saw
Rude so ill at ease: he seemed as if he were trying to
excuse himself for the possession of his talents."
The gayety and cheerfulness mentioned by M. Feignaux increased, as may be expected, after the happy
marriage with Mlle. Sophie Fremiet; and, though Rude
had been energetic and industrious before this alliance, he became doubly energetic after it. Even the




Rude.


I93


disappointments which occur to every one, and of which
Rude had his full share, were powerless against his unshakable spirit of cheerfulness. Many promises had been
held out to him which were never realized, but which
had entailed great labor on his part in many sketches
and inventions; and, when on each of these occasions he
discovered that he had been deceived, he used to say to
his indignant pupils, "What does it signify? The really
important matter for an artist is to do." Then he would
go to work again without the indulgence of a moment's
discouragement, gayly singing an old French refrain,
which grandly declares that it is only the weak who bend
to the strokes of evil fortune. All his life he maintained
the doctrine that art is its own reward, that the artist
should harass himself as little as possible about any other;
that, if he has just means enough to enable him to work,
he ought to find his happiness in that, which is itself an
inestimable privilege. He was therefore in the highest
and best sense an amateur, as all the greatest and noblest
artists are. He did not work for money: he accepted
money when it came, because he was not born rich, and
could not follow so costly a pursuit as sculpture on his
own means; but the money was not his object, except
just so far as it enabled him to work. He troubled himself just as little about public opinion, being neither elated
by its attention nor soured by its neglect. Such a temper as that is worth more than fortune and fame to its
possessor.*
* Amongst the disappointments alluded to in the text may be mentioned the following: The architect Vanderstraeten, in order to get
I3




194


Modern Frenichmen.


Rude's daily habits when at Brussels are described as
follows by his pupil M. Feignaux: —
"In summer, he came to the studio at sunrise.      At
eight, his breakfast was brought to him. Sometimes,
when very busy, he contented himself with one or two
rolls of bread and a little brandy, at noon he ate another
roll, and at three o'clock he went to his dinner.  At four
or five o'clock, he was in the studio again, and worked
there until night. I used to go with him to the door,
and he would say, when we separated, ' M. Feignaux, the
first to awake calls the other;' but it always happened
that, in spite of all I could do, he was before me.  So we
walked through the silent streets at three o'clock in
the morning. During all the summer season, we began
work at sunrise. On Sundays he went into the country
with his family, but on Monday he was at the studio
with his accustomed regularity. He liked to be read to
whilst he worked, and one or other of his pupils read to
him every day. In the evening, when the day's work
was over, he drew and composed by lamplight, in the
midst of his family, listening to music. What happy
evenings they were, what affection and peace surrounded
him! "
The reader may observe here an artful economy of
Rude's advice and assistance, encouraged him to believe that he would
have various works to do which were never commissioned, and in consequence of these inducements the sculptor made models or drawings
for many important projects, including great figures of Agriculture and
Navigation, four great bas-reliefs, the external decoration of a theatre,
and various models of heads and ornaments. As these projects were
never carried out, the artist received no remuneration for them.




Rude.


I95


time. The sculptor delights in literature and music, but
he manages so that these passions shall not steal an
instant from his long hours of work. His pupils read
to him whilst he models and carves, his wife plays to
him whilst he sketches in the evening. The same economy of time may be observed in his readiness to begin
work late in the day, when the earlier hours had been
sacrificed to other duties. He had often to go to Tervueren, whilst the architectural works were in progress
there. He would leave Brussels at four or five o'clock
in the morning, in the worst of winter weather, go to
Tervueren on foot, and return in the same way. "Anybody else," says M. Feignaux, "after having walked six
leagues, after having been an hour or two in the building
with the architect, standing or walking all the time in
mud or snow, would have rested himself when he got
home. Rude went to his studio, and said to me, 'M.
Feignaux, we will smoke a pipe, and before dusk I shall
find time to do this thing or that.' "
I have not space to go into a very minute account of
the sculptor's artistic productiveness, and this is less a
biography of the artist than a written portrait of the
man. He found employment in Belgium, but was looked
upon there as a political refugee, and received neither
the honors nor the emoluments to which his extraordinary abilities might, in his own country, have entitled
him. He attempted, on one occasion, to procure commissions from the royal family by making a bust of the
king from memory, after observing him at church during
the sermon. This bust he sent to the queen, and after




I96


Mfodern Frenchmen.


the expiration of some months the receipt of the bust
was acknowledged with a compliment; but there began
and ended all the encouragement he received directly from
the royal family. He was employed by the architect of
the royal palaces, where he executed many works, chiefly
bas-reliefs and ornaments; and he produced some works
for the Belgian Parliament House. These labors just
enabled him to meet the double expenses of his studio
and his house; but, notwithstanding the frugality of his
way of living, he found it impossible to save money.*
* Here is a brief list of Rude's principal labors during his residence
in Belgium, which may be of use to readers who travel:Palace of Tervueren.
I. Outside, on the principal front. A great bas-relief of Meleager's hunt
with two hunting trophies, all in stone.
2. In the vestibule. A frieze of children with garlands of flowers and
fruits.
3. In the rotunda. Eight bas-reliefs of the history of Achilles. Heads
and figures placed in the ornaments of the ceiling.
4. In the great drawing-room. Two heads, Romulus and Remus, and
warlike attributes in the frieze. Rude also designed, though he
did not execute, the painted subjects in the ceiling.
5. In the dining-room. Figures holding shields over the doors.
6. A marble chimney-piece in one of the rooms, I think the rotunda, but
the account before me is not clear on this point.
In the Royal Palace at Brussels.
I. In the private staircases. The ornaments of the ceilings.
2. In the vestibule. The arms of the Low Countries on the ceiling.
3. In the banquet-hall. A great frieze of allegorical figures with garlands,
such as Commerce, Navigation, Abundance, Truth, &c.
4. In the ball-room. Figures of winged children playing on various
instruments.
5. In the Queen's bedchamber. An elaborate marble chimney-piece, with
a frieze of Loves playing with marine monsters. The supports have




Rude.


I97


His position was even worse than this simple statement
can explain. Notwithstanding the commissions he had
received, there was no substantial reason to expect even
so much as a continuation of the modest prosperity which
he had hitherto enjoyed. There had been a certain limited quantity of work for him to do in Belgium: he had
done it, and might now very possibly find himself face
to face with a degree of poverty approaching destitution.
He had therefore no feeling of security, and was ready to
accept any change which might lead to an improvement
in his prospects.
In 1827, a French sculptor named Roman came to
see Rude at Brussels, and the two friends talked over
Rude's affairs with perfect frankness; the result being
an understanding that in four months Roman was to
heads dressed with fruits in their hair and bas-reliefs beneath them.
This chimney-piece is one of the artist's most important works.
In the Parliament House.
I. In the First Chamber. Two Genii holding a clock-face in marble, for
the chimney.
2. In the Second Chamber. Two winged Genii bearing the shield of the
Low Countries. A figure a yard high, in metal, for a timepiece.
The King's bust, in marble.
The works in the Second Chamber were destroyed by fire soon
after their execution, and Rude did them all over again.
The Auint at Brussels.
I. The pediment. Rude carved this in stone.
2. The great busts of Vulcan and Mercury.
For the Church of St. Etienne at Lille.
A carved pulpit, in wood, with five gigantic allegorical figures of Faith,
Hope, &c., a bas-relief of the Stoning of Stephen, and, to crown all,
an archangel eight feet high, and two angels.




I98


Modern Frenzczhmen.


come and fetch him, and they were to travel together to
Paris. The appointment was kept with punctuality on
both sides, and so it was that Rude returned to his
native land after an exile of twelve years.
His position was not by any means brilliant. He had
some reputation in Brussels, but none whatever in Paris;
he had no fortune, nothing in short to help him but his
own intelligence and skill. He was beginning life anew
at the age of forty-three, and he had a wife and son to
maintain. Youth was gone, with its wonderful elasticity;
but the enthusiasm of art remained in all its freshness,
and the habit of industry was there in confirmed
strength, after the labors of twelve strenuous years.
Clearly, the first thing to be done was to win some
reputation in Paris. The Salon of 1828 was to open in
a few months: was there time to do any thing? Rude's
old master, M. Cartelier, got him a commission for a
statue of the Virgin for the church of St. Gervais; so
he set to work vigorously and executed this, finishing it
entirely, and yet leaving himself six weeks for some work
more in accordance with the classical tendencies of his
own genius. In those six weeks, he executed in plaster
the statue of Mercury putting on his talaria, which is
now in bronze in the Louvre. I do not know any statue
of Mercury, ancient or modern, which will bear comparison with this for the grace and energy of its inspiration.
Many of the antique Mercuries are heavy and sleepy
deities, with no life in them, unless it be latent; and
amongst modern sculptors there seems to be a very
general persuasion that any young Academy model may




Rude.


I99


be turned into Mercury at a moment's notice by adorning
his head with the petasus and his feet with the talaria.
Rude's Mercury is so light, and strong at the same time,
that you feel how swift he must be, and how indefatigable; he is ready to start, he needs no urging, his agile
form is leaving the ground already; in another instant,
when the wings are fastened to the springing feet, he
will flash through space like a sunbeam!
Rapidly as this statue was executed, it presents no
appearance of haste or insufficient finish. Rude was
careful and slow in his work generally, but he had the
power of working with surprising rapidity when hurried.
In the list of his works in Belgium, the reader may have
found the two great busts of Vulcan and Mercury for
the Mint. M. Feignaux, his pupil, saw him make these
busts, witnessed the whole process from beginning to
end, and his account of it is this. He says that Rude
came into the studio one morning early, according to
his custom, and asked him to prepare clay.   Whilst
Feignaux was doing this, the master occupied himself
with the construction of the armature (the internal skeleton of wood or metal which supports the clay); and
then he asked Feignaux to pose, not as a model, but in
order that the sculptor might refer to nature as he
worked. These arrangements made, Rude labored vigorously, and before the sun of that day had set the two
great busts were finished.*
* This equals the feats of rapidity which were performed by Rubens,
Landseer, and Turner. In all these cases, it is not the rapidity which is
wonderful, but the combination of quality with speed. The busts were




200


Modern Frenchmen.


To return to Rude's labors for the Salon of I828.
He was ready in time, and exhibited.      His work was
appreciated, but it does not seem to have won any thing
approaching to popularity. However, so far as the artist's
own career was concerned, the success was sufficient, as
it procured him employment. The next year he received
from the Government the commission to execute a third
of the frieze which goes round the Arc de l'Etoile, and
the whole of the ornamentation was intrusted to him.
He also got a commission for a marble bust of Lapeyrouse for the marine museum, and a bust of David for
the Louvre.
That bust of Lapeyrouse, or rather the block of
marble for it, had a powerful influence on the artist's
future career. The Government had given the marble,
which was larger than necessary, so Rude cut a piece
off which had the shape of a prism. The possession of
this piece of marble was a constant stimulus to the poor
sculptor.  " Make something of me!" it said to him
continually; and the answer was always, "What can I
make of such an oddly shaped block as thee?" At
length, after much pondering, it occurred to Rude that
there was just room in it for a little Neapolitan fishergood enough to sustain the reputation of a master sculptor in an important public building, and were probably more effective at the intended
distance than more polished work would have been. In the study on
Victor Jacquemont, the reader has met with an example of the same
rapidity in a writer. I have just read some reminiscences of Courbet
the painter, in which one of his friends declares that he has seen him
paint a landscape from nature a yard long in a single sitting with the
palette knife. This might be fairly true in color and tone, but it could
not have much form or texture.




Rude.


201


boy playing with a tortoise; and, as soon as this idea
had suggested itself, he determined to carry it into execution.
I have not said much hitherto about the sculptor's
wife. Some characters describe themselves better in
an authentic sentence than the art of the biographer can
describe them in pages of the most careful writing, so
Rude's wife shall speak for herself. The marble was
there for the new statue; but what about the current
expenses whilst the artist was executing it? A block
of marble is not like a lump of clay: it cannot be fashioned between the rising and the setting of the sun.
There were house expenses and studio expenses, the
wages of the carver, and all to be paid - out of what?
"If necessary, we will sell the linen off our backs! " said
Madame Rude.     After that answer, we know the
woman.
The statue was exhibited in 1833. It was an immense
success. It may not be quite literally true that the
sculptor, like the English poet, "awoke one morning,
and found himself famous;" but it is, I believe, the
exact truth that at the beginning of a'certain fortnight
in the spring of 1833 our hero was a perfectly obscure
artist, whereas at the end of the same fortnight he was
the most popular sculptor in France. It was the time
of the great warfare between the Classics and Romantics, and both parties claimed him. The Classics said,
"This is the calm, unexaggerated art, the perfection of
form that we desire:" the Romantics said, "This is
not a servile imitation of Greek or Roman work, it is




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modern, and has the breath of life."  The general public,
outside of this warfare of the schools, was satisfied with
the simple enjoyment of an exquisite conception realized
with the most consummate skill and refinement. The
Government set its seal to the general opinion by purchasing the work for the Luxembourg, and conferring
the cross of the Legion of Honor on the now successful
and celebrated artist.
There is a tragic element in human life which intrudes,
like an awful shadow, at those times when happiness
seems spread before us like a feast. You labor for twenty
years, you grasp the prize at last, you realize the dreams
of youth in statue, picture, or book, or you have become
a ruler of men and have a great following in the State.
It may be a superstition to believe that, at such a moment of attained fruition, some dreadful misfortune is
more especially probable; but it frequently so happens
that, whether probable or not, such a misfortune occurs.
Who does not remember a score of instances in which
the cup has been turned to bitterness just when it
reached the lips? In Rude's case, the fame and honor
won in that year I833 found him stricken by a blow so
terrible that it benumbed his faculties of pride and
pleasure. His son had died before his statue was finished. The sculptor had courage enough to complete
his work; but his gayety was gone, and the merry playfulness with which, in any preceding year, he would
have received the red riband, and the money, and the
celebrity, had given place to a silent acceptance of an
endless sorrow. Never, in after-life, could he bear to




Rzlde.                  203
speak about his boy. Years afterwards, a young man
from Burgundy, who had known Rude's son during his
short visits there, came to the studio and mentioned this
intimacy, thinking it might recommend him to Rude's
good-will. The bereaved father, in whose presence all
who knew him had carefully avoided this subject, looked
at his visitor with an expression of such pain and
reproach that it made him burst into tears.
We may remember this date then, the early months
of I833, as the time when Success and Sorrow both
came to change the flavor of the artist's life. He was
never to be merry again, but never again neglected:
the wolf of poverty would be kept away from the door,
but Holbein's grim skeleton visitor had entered it and
taken away his boy. It is possible that this coincidence
may have left in Rude's mind a certain contempt for fame
and wealth, as vanities incapable of giving any effectual
consolation. It is certain that few artists have worked in
such a temper as that which now became the habit of
his mind. He loved his art still, and labored in it manfully, but with the most complete unworldliness of
motive. His saddened seriousness left no place for the
minor satisfactions of the artistic career. Henceforth,
the unfailing character of his mind was a sustained
elevation and dignity, in which he took refuge to husband its powers of resistance. Firmly resolved to let
no petty anxieties disturb his peace, he lived habitually
aloof from the petty jealousies which torment the lives
of artists, and willingly retreated into a laborious solitude, if that can be called solitude which was cheered




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by the faithful affection of a few most sincere friends
and the devotion of a wife who had the birth and breeding of a gentlewoman and the culture of an accomplished
artist.
Thiers was Louis Philippe's minister in those days;
and he had a delicate taste in sculpture, which he could
appreciate and understand. He liked Rude's work, and
gave him a commission of immense importance, nothing
less than all the "grande sculpture" for the Arc de
Triomphe. Rude made sixty sketches to ascertain what
the Government wanted, and then some finished drawings. When it became known that the whole had been
intrusted to one artist, the jealousy of his rivals was
at once awakened; and Thiers was so plagued by them
that he divided the commission for the trophies into
two parts, one being given to Rude (the side looking
to Paris), the other to Eten. After that came other
intrigues which deprived Rude of the half of his own
side, so that finally he only executed one of the four
groups, the Chant du Depart.  He bore these disappointments with his usual serenity, and considered
that, as he liked to finish his work well, and the time
was limited, it was perhaps as fortunate that he should
only have one group to execute instead of four.
Most readers who have visited Paris will remember
the Arc de l'Etoile; and few will have seen it without
feeling that, in spite of the good taste of its architecture
and the finish of its figure sculpture, it still looks incomplete. So huge a mass needs some crowning ornament
to come-more lightly against the sky. On the occasion




Rude.


205


of an imperial fete during the Second Empire, a temporary eagle was erected upon it with outspread wings, and
when the night came this eagle was splendidly illumirated. It is evident that the most appropriate ornament
would be the same thing in a permanent form,-a gigantic eagle in gilded bronze, with wings displayed and
talons grasping a globe; and it is curious that under
the Second Empire, when such immense expenses were
incurred for the decoration of Paris, this was not carried
into execution. Louis Philippe wanted to put the Gallic
cock on the top of the arch, which would have been an
error for various reasons; and Rude boldly opposed the
king on this point. Rude insisted upon the eagle; his
advice was not taken, but at any rate he saved the work
from the absurdity of being crowned by the noisy little
sultan of the dunghill. The inappropriateness of the
decoration would have been obvious to every one, as the
arch is exclusively a monument to the fame of the imperial armies. Rude did not hesitate to say this plainly
to the king.
The habits of the artist's life in Paris were exactly the
same as they had been in Belgium. He worked all day
incessantly, and refreshed his mind by intercourse with
a few friends and by the still sweet, though now saddened, evenings in his own home. He remained faithful
to his observance of the Sunday's rest, not so strictly,
of course, as a Scotchman would observe it, but still in
entire abstinence from labor and in harmless recreation
with those who knew and loved him. To mark the difference more completely between Sunday and the other




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Jlodcrnz Frenchmez.


days of the week, he rented a little country house in
a very quiet out-of-the-way village in the valley of the
Bievre,* where no Parisians went to disturb the rustic
peace. Rude set off manfully every Saturday evening,
and did the whole distance on foot: his wife and his
youngest niece, Martine Vanderhaert, whom about this
time he adopted as a daughter, followed in one of the
milk-carts returning from Paris to Cachan, the village
where the sculptor's humble "maison de campagne"
was situated. This weekly change of air and surroundings was probably beneficial to his health, which had
begun to suffer from the malady of those who think and
toil too much, and who feel the sorrows of life too
acutely. Notwithstanding his naturally robust constitution, still apparently as strong as ever, the nervous
system had begun to show signs of yielding; and from
1833 to I842 it often tormented him with those severe
sufferings, more difficult to bear than pain, for which
people have no pity because they leave no trace. He
worked on courageously in spite of them, though at
times they became alarming; and it is possible that this
perseverance may have laid the foundation of a later
trouble.
The reader will remember that Rude's devotion to
the family of his benefactor, in the year I815, had prevented him from going to Rome, which his position as
Grand Prix entitled him to do at the expense of the
* The Bievre is a stream which flows into the Seine. It has since
gained some celebrity from the studies of a landscape painter who loved
it, the late Antoine Chintreuil.




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207


state. During the years of his residence at Paris, his
annual excursion had been to see M. Fremiet at Mons.
In I842, he was persuaded to go to Italy, as his wife and
friends thought the journey would be useful and pleasant
to him. We may suspect that there must have been a
little innocent feminine ruse on his wife's part to get
him in motion towards the south, for she accompanied
him as far as Burgundy, as if with the intention of sharing the whole excursion; but, when she got into her
native province, she suddenly discovered that the journey
to Italy would be expensive, that she was not very well,
and had better stay where she was, and that her husband
must go on without her in the society of his friend
M. Camille Bouchet. All this arrangement, probably
planned long beforehand, betrays the craft and subtlety
of a woman, and her affectionate self-denial.
The two friends travelled from Lyons to Aries by
boat on the Rhone, one of the finest voyages in Europe,
now generally abandoned for a corner in the night train.
At Arles, they took boat again for Marseilles, and for
the first time in his life Rude beheld the Mediterranean,
which to his classic mind was like no other water in the
world.  The travellers seem to have gone to Naples
first by steamer, coasting the shores of Italy from Genoa
and Leghorn southwards.   They walked incessantly,
seeing the collections with the greatest interest; but
Rude studied and admired works of art almost invariably
in silence,* so that few of his remarks have been pre* On one occasion, being much tormented by a garrulous Parisian
collector, whom he met in the Sistine Chapel, he endured the wordy




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Modern' Frenchmen.


served. They returned by Rome, Venice, and the Simplon. Unluckily, for the reason just given, the materials
for an account of Rude's impressions are so scanty that
it is not worth while to dwell upon them.
A remarkable result of the Italian journey was that,
after seeing so much of the real antique, the sculptor
could no longer endure his composition of Aristaus
lamenting his Bees, which had won him the prize in
1812. He consequently destroyed this figure, that he
might be vexed by the sight of it no more. The reader
will please observe that it was precisely the clearer perception of the true classical spirit of antiquity which
made Rude unable to tolerate any longer the pedantic
pseudo-classicism of modern academic teaching.
Just at this time, a number of young men, who understood the work of his maturity, and who had been the
pupils of another eminent sculptor, David of Angers,
entreated Rude to open an atelier as a school for them,
since that of David was now closed. Rude had too
much perspicacity not to see the defects of the system;
and, before accepting the proposition, he answered, with
his usual clearness, to the following effect: "The word
atelier, as the habits of the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries have caused it to be understood, signifies a
sort of contract between the master on the one hand
and the pupils on the other, by which the pupils tacitly
undertake to learn, before all things, respect and adoraenthusiasm for a time; but a final outburst about Michael Angelo's glorious independence of the model was too much for him, and he said
simply to his companion, " Allons-nous-en! " whilst he turned his back
on the speaker.




Rzidc.


209


tion for their teacher, to celebrate his merits, and copy
his performances.     The master, on his part, undertakes
to use his official influence in their favor, to get work
for them, and make the road to official honors easier for
them, a contract which reproduces in our day the old
Roman arrangement between the patrician and his clients." After this preface, Rude proceeded to explain
that he would enter into no such tacit understanding,
which appeared to him simply pernicious; and that his
teaching, so far from imposing a set system, would aim
simply at enabling the pupil to think and work for himself as soon as possible in perfect independence. To
this the pupils answered, in a letter which was a model
of good taste, reiterating their request, and that decided
him.*   The students were so numerous that, when Rude
* According to the French atelier system, the place where the pupils
work is not the studio of the master. lie works in his private studio,
uninterrupted by his pupils, who study together on the mutual enlightenment principle, in a bare room, which he visits occasionally, and which
may be miles away from his own residence.
The letter to Rude, mentioned in the text, is worth reprinting: -
" MONSIEUR,-Les eleves de l'atelier David, tous bien convaincus qu'il
n'y a que M. Rude qui puisse continuer ce que leur maitre a fait jusqu'a
ce jour, viennent le prier de nouveau de vouloir bien les accepter pour
eleves. Ils declarent en outre a M. Rude que les paternelles et bienveillantes observations qu'il a voulu leur faire dans un esprit de sollicitude
extreme, les ont vivement touches; mais qu'apres les avoir suffisament
muries dans leur pensee, ils persistent toujours a ne vouloir d'autre
maitre que lui.
" En consequence, ils s'empressent d'assurer M. Rude qu'ils ne cesseront jamais de faire chaque jour de nouveaux efforts pour meriter de
plus en plus les precieux conseils qu'il voudra bien leur donner, et le
prient d'agreer l'expression de leur profond respect et de leur inalterable
reconnaissance.'
(Here follow the signatures.)
I4




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Modern Frenchmen.


admitted them to work under him, they filled two large
rooms. He directed this school of art for ten years, and
through it exercised a great and beneficial influence on
the French sculpture of the present day. The combination of classic grace with a lively sense of reality and a
sufficiently marked individualism, which distinguishes
the best French sculpture now, may be traced, in great
measure, to Rude's precepts and example.
If this volume had been a work on art, I should have
given a chapter to Rude's system of teaching, which I
firmly believe to be the soundest of all systems; and
which, though the art he professed was that of the
sculptor, is in its method and spirit just as applicable to
painting. The old principle or habit was to begin with
the study of detail, by making eyes, noses, ears, &c., to
be afterwards agglomerated in the mind till it possessed
the  concrete notion    of a human     figure.  David   the
painter taught in this way; and no Frenchman, in
David's time, taught in any other. Rude reversed this
by beginning with the study of the whole in its proportions, taking the masses first and the details afterwards.*
* The same principle is applicable to the studies pursued in Universities,- to history, for example,- and it was very much insisted upon
at one time by Jacotot, whose name is connected with it. Hence it has
been inferred that Rude's method was adopted from Jacotot; but this
was not the case. Rude's method was simply the result of his own
artistic convictions; but after I830 he came to know Jacotot personally,
(when they lived as next-door neighbors in the same street, Rue d'Enfer,
at Paris), and then there was a close agreement between them on the
subject of education, and Rude applied Jacotot's method to the general
education of his niece, Mlle. Martine Vanderhaert, the result being so
satisfactory that he was a zealous advocate of the method ever after.




Rude.


2 X I


The reader will now perceive how the principle may
be applied to painting, even to landscape. If Rude had
been a landscape-painter, he would not have begun with
leaves and twigs, but with the great masses of foliage in
their broad relations of light and shade. He taught his
pupils to draw their figures life-size on great black canvases, with a piece of chalk at the end of a stick. This
reminds one of Meissonier, who, though his pictures are
small, makes his studies life-size.
An ardent admirer of Napoleon I., who lived at the
village of Fixin, near Dijon, and had been a grenadier
at Elba during the Emperor's exile there, determined to
erect a bronze monument to his old master at his private
expense. M. Noisot, the enthusiastic Burgundian who
conceived this remarkable idea, was by no means a rich
man; and the mere expense of casting the bronze, not
to speak of the artist's remuneration, was of itself quite
enough to make a serious breach in his fortune. Luckily for M. Noisot, Rude's own enthusiasm for the captive
of St. Helena was equal to the occasion. Rude gave
his time and talent for nothing, M. Noisot found the
money for the casting, and the statue now actually
exists in the place they selected for it. The site had
suggested the work. During a visit which the sculptor
had paid to the rural proprietor in 1844 at his country
home at the village of Fixin, six miles from Dijon, they
had taken a walk together on the elevated rocky ground
of the Cote d'Or, and M. Noisot had expressed his
regret that France had erected no monument to Napoleon since his death. " I should like to buy a statue of




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2Modern Frenchmen.


him, and place it just here," he said, "facing the Alps
and Italy! " The fire of this enthusiasm was contagious;
and the sculptor answered with a positive promise, "I
will make your Emperor myself! "
Very few artists would have kept such a promise,
when it came to the long labor of realizing the sudden
idea; but Rude kept it faithfully, and the recumbent
Napoleon in bronze was actually inaugurated on the
rocky hill in September, I847.
The Dijon people had the good taste to seize the
opportunity and give a public banquet to the artist.
Two busts were placed on the table: one of them was
that bust of Monnier the engraver, which has already
been mentioned in the earlier pages of this biography as
the first commission kindly given to the young artist by
M. Fremiet; the other was that of his earliest friend
and helper M. Devosge, in his grave when the banquet
was held, but succeeded by his son who sat at the head
of the table as the rightful president of the feast.*
The reader may like to know what was the appearance of the hero of the day; he may like to have some
description of him as he stood to return thanks for the
honors rendered by his native city. Since Leonardo da
Vinci, the arts have never been followed by a more
remarkable-looking man. His body, which in earlier
life had been that of an athlete, had now become too
* Rude's father had of course died many years before, but I cannot
tell the reader at what date. It will be remembered that he was struck
with paralysis when the sculptor was still very young, probably in the
year 1803.




Riude.


213


heavy for such feats as that which he proposed to himself when he wanted to paint, without scaffolding, the
weathercock of the royal tower. Still, he was strong
and active for an old man, a vigorous walker, and able to
bear the long day of physical labor without fatigue. He
stood erect, straight as a pillar, and looked as courageous
as he really was. The head was magnificent. It had
become extremely bald, retaining only a fringe of hair,
like that of a monk; and it exhibited a superb cranial
development, grandly modelled, with a great breadth
about the temples. He wore a black velvet cap towards
the back of the crown, leaving the forehead disengaged.
The eyes were lively, frank, penetrating, and looked
every one straight in the face, " but without aggression,"
says one who knew him. The eyebrows were thick and
quite black, in contrast with an immense beard of the
purest white, which fell in broad masses, like a cascade,
over his powerful chest and down to the middle of his
person. The nose was thick and strong, rather than
refined, and the neck was "like that of a bull."
The vast white beard was so grand in its masses that
no painter could see it without wishing that Rude had
been a model instead of an artist, and hereby hangs a
tale.  Ingres, the famous painter, knew  Rude well
enough; but Madame Ingres did not know him: so one
day, when he came to call, she made him sit down in
the entrance, and went to tell her husband. "Who is
persecuting me?" growled the painter, who hated interruption. "It is a river-god who is waiting," answered the
lady, who had taken Rude for a model. The river-god




2 I-4


Modern Frenchmen.


overheard this, and so far justified his title that he
laughed till the tears flowed down his cheeks. But,
however advantageous a noble beard might have been
to a model, such an appendage was, in those days, detrimental to an artist. It was not considered very respectable, it had a revolutionary aspect, the "respectable"
world used the razor.  The shaven Academicians
excluded the sculptor, saying, "We cannot admit the
man with the beard."
I have mentioned the two busts on the table. At
that time, these busts were the only works by the artist
in his native city. Notwithstanding the enthusiasm at
the banquet, the people of Dijon had been sufficiently
cool about their townsman's success in life, and (with
the noble exceptions of MM. Devosge and Fremiet)
had purchased none of his works. There is very little
enthusiasm about the art of sculpture anywhere, so we
cannot blame the Dijon people much. They probably
had little confidence in their own judgment, and waited
till the fame of the sculptor was beyond dispute: besides,
we all know how small a place sculpture holds in modern life, how few private persons buy statues anywhere.
A bust is the usual limit of such private purchasing as
there is.
The common council of Dijon did what the circumstances seemed to require. It took upon itself to represent the public, and gave Rude a commission for a marble
group, leaving the subject to his own choice. The sum
allowed for this purpose was /I,200, not more than a
fair price for the group which now adorns the Dijon




Rude.                      215
museum, yet a considerable sum for a provincial municipality to give.  Rude took for his subject "Hebe
playing with Jupiter's Eagle," and produced one of the
most exquisitely refined, one of the most perfectly delicate and elegant works that give lustre to his native
land. It seems almost a contradiction that Rude, whose
own personal characteristics were pre-eminently those
of power, should have taken especial pleasure in the
grace of unmuscular forms, like the slight limbs of Hebe,
who is only just sufficiently developed to escape meagreness. The same taste, however, is exhibited in other
works of his, especially in the glorious figure of L'Amzour
Doninateur d    MIonde, in which, with admirable tact,
he has chosen to represent Love as frail in himself, but
governing the world by his haughty and imperial air.*
Although Rude had been an ardent Bonapartist in the
time of the first Emperor, and had represented him in
the Fixin monument as on the rock of St. Helena, his
eagle fallen from the clouds and expiring convulsively
close by, the sculptor's Bonapartism ended with the
death of his hero, in whom he did not see the Emperor,
but the brilliant first soldier of the Revolution.t In
1848, this romantic admiration for the hero of Austerlitz
had become simply an historic enthusiasm, such as any
one may feel for a great soldier who will fight no more,
* This beautiful statue is now in the museum of Dijon, to which it
was bequeathed by M. Anatole Devosge, who presided at the banquet
of 1847.
t The Fixin statue is entirely military, not in the least imperial.
Napoleon is draped in the Marengo cloak over the uniform of the
Chwsseurs de la Garde; the military hat and sword lie near him.




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2Modern Frenchmen.


without influencing his opinion about the politics of the
present hour. Rude's democratic instincts threw him
naturally on the side of the republicans, in 1848. He
declared himself " de6ocrate radical," took the warmest
interest in that premature attempt to found a liberal
government in France, and in obedience to a desire of
the new authorities rapidly made a colossal statue of the
Republic to be placed under the cupola of the Pantheon.
In the "journdes de ruin," this statue (which was nothing but an effective sketch on a colossal scale) was shattered, ominously enough, by the first cannon-ball, and
the artist was never remunerated for his labor.
Little need be said about him as a politician. The
whole of his political creed was an enthusiasm for popular rights, which in such a country as France made him
inevitably hostile to the old monarchy. In 1848, French
republicanism had the heat of metal just fused, which
has not yet had time to solidify into its definite forms,
and to cool as it solidifies. Without the enthusiasm of
that epoch, the country would never have possessed the
constituted liberties of the present; but the republicans
of those days, however useful as pioneers, were without
political experience. Whether old or young in years,
they were all politically immature. The republicanism
of 1848 was a creed believed in passionately,-a creed
that men were ready to suffer for and die for, -but it was
not yet a practical philosophy. Silvestre spoke of Rude's
political ideas as "generous illusions."  We know very
little about them, in detail: we only know that he was
passionately earnest in politics on the democratic side,




Rude.


217


and that sometimes, when talking on the subject, he
would explode in such fiery eloquence that his niece
feared it might do him harm. In this as in some other
matters, he remained unaffectedly plebeian.
But, whatever may have been the sculptor's political
aspirations, they never turned him aside from his daily
labor. He was not one of those artists, often met with
in French towns in times of political excitement, who
quit their work to go and talk about politics in cafes,
from  morning till night.  Rude was still, before all
things, the patient and laborious workman; and, instead
of taking rest as old age advanced upon him, he worked,
if possible, harder than ever, having more commissions
to execute, and still resolutely refusing to spoil his work
by hurry. His way of life from 1848 to the year of his
death was that of extreme retirement in the midst of
Paris. He lived as he had lived at Brussels, working
always from sunrise to sunset, even in the longest days,
with only a short interruption for a simple repast. His
amusements, as before, were reading and music, to both
which he was simply a listener, though an attentive
listener.  Amongst the readings which he preferred
were translations from the Greek and Latin classics, and
the history of Napoleon's wars. A sculptor, constantly
at work on clay or marble, has not time to give himself
much intellectual culture; and, notwithstanding Rude's
creditable taste for literature, it would be an error to
suppose that he ever acquired that easy familiarity with
events and ideas which constitutes real intellectual
experience. The letter ill which he makes his political




218


Modern Frenchmen.


profession of faith is distinctly not that of a trained
thinker. He rejects with contempt the idea of shades
of opinion in politics, affirming that he has " never understood them."  A trained thinker would not have
written that: he would have been too well aware that, in
matters of opinion, shades and tints are as various and
as important as they are in Berlin wools; and that the
classification by two or three primary colors, though convenient for simple minds, is both arbitrary and unjust.
These latter years of Rude's life were quietly happy.
His health was regular, the nervous sufferings having
worn themselves out, and left apparently no evil effect
behind. He had given up his little country house in
the valley of the Bievre, because his niece had to be in
Paris for her religious duties on Sundays, and it was not
in the old man's tastes to separate himself much from his
little household: however, as he retained his vigorous
powers of pedestrianism, he often explored his favorite
valley still.
So the time passed with him in the quiet routine of
habit, until the Universal Exhibition of 1855.
Ever since 1848, the Jury for the Salon had been
elective; and such was the general confidence in Rude's
knowledge of art, and in his high-minded probity and
impartiality, that his name always received more votes
than any other, and he came out regularly at the head
of the list. This was a profound satisfaction to him, as
it proved in the most indubitable way how generally
his judgment and his character were appreciated by
artists of all kinds. Accepting the task imposed upon




Rude.


219


him as a sacred trust, he devoted himself, without the
slightest consideration for his own health, to the very
fatiguing labors which it imposed upon him. It was the
same for the Universal Exhibition of I855. He was on
the Jury, and discharged the duties of the position with
such a conscientious attention to the merits of the works
of art before him that a dangerous degree of fatigue
was the result. Instead of resigning his post on the
first symptoms, he went on without regard to them,
trusting to ultimate recovery when he had an opportunity for repose.
The exhibition in the Champs Elysees was at a considerable distance from Rude's home in the Rue d'Enfer,
but he had always been accustomed to go on foot in
Paris. Now, however, he found himself seized with sudden weakness on the road between the Exhibition and
his residence, and this repeatedly, so that he was obliged
to take a cab. Another symptom was that, whilst at
work in his studio, he was observed to stop and turn
pale suddenly.
The hand of Death was on him; yet it kindly, as it
were, refrained from exercising the last fatal pressure on
the organs of life until the old man had received the
reward of his long labors. By forty-seven votes out of
fifty, the members of the international jury awarded to
him the first of the four great medals of honor. It was
a splendid recompense to receive in the sight of Europe,
and it pleased the veteran immensely.*
* He had exhibited his Neapolitan Fisher-boy playing with a Tortoise,
in marble; his Mercury putting on the Talaria, in bronze; and a bust of




220


Modern Frenchmen.


On Tuesday the 30th of October, he was present at
the official dinner given by the Minister of the Interior
to the members of the jury. He felt unwell, and went
home as soon as he could in a carriage. On his arrival,
he had to sit down on the stairs, from an attack of faintness. The doctor recommended rest in bed, and noticed
some symptoms of bronchitis. On the Saturday morning, Rude felt well again, asked for a basin of soup,
dressed himself, and talked of going to the studio.
After having taken the soup, he began to smoke, then
he coughed and complained of feeling uncomfortable.
The expression of his face alarmed Madame Rude, who
sent for her niece's husband and the doctor. "I suffer
here," said the patient, pointing to the heart; then he
stretched out his limbs, and all was over. This happened
at ten o'clock in the morning, on the 3d of November,
I855, in the presence of Madame Rude and her nephew,
M. Cabet.
And now came a trial for that heroic woman, such as
few persons in the world of either sex would have the
resolution to accept or the fortitude to endure. Her
niece, who had been to Rude as a daughter, and loved
him as a daughter may love a tender and indulgent
father, was lying in the same house in a precarious condition, having just given birth to her first child. The
doctors affirmed that, if at that critical time she had
his niece, Madame Cabet, in marble. Madame Cabet had been adopted
by Rude, in her girlhood, when she was Mile. Martine Vanderhaert.
M. Paul Cabet, her husband, was an able sculptor of the Dijon school.
They were married in November, 1853.




Rude.


221


to bear any strong emotion, the consequences would
probably be fatal.  And now let the reader imagine
Madame Rude's position.  If she communicated the
dreadful news, she inflicted certain injury and probable
death: if she simply stayed away from her niece's bedside, the immediate consequence would be to produce a
dangerous anxiety, which could not but go on increasing.
There was only one safe course, but it required a degree
of resolution almost beyond the powers of humanity.
Madame Rude was told that she must hide her husband's
death from her niece, and she determined to obey; so she
went to the bedside day after day, for fourteen long
days, talking cheerfully, hiding her sorrow, never betraying it by a tear or a tone of sadness, answering
Madame Cabet's ceaseless questions about her uncle
with fibs that she had to invent as excuses for his continued absence; wearing, not her widow's mourning,
but the dress of happier days, talking with pleasant
anticipation of the little feast they had all been looking
forward to at the baptism, when Rude was to have been
godfather, —an event which had pleased him as much
as his great medal. All this might have been comparatively easy, if Madame Rude had not loved her husband; but she had loved him from her girlhood with
an unceasing devotion, and his death was the most
cruel blow that remorseless fate could have dealt upon
her. Try, then, to imagine the heroic strength of will
which could go through all that acting for fourteen
days, to save a precious life! In the authentic stories




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Modern Frenchmen.


of womanly fortitude I never read of any thing more
sublime.*
Madame Rude was a well-trained          and able painter.
Partly in consequence of their extremely retired kind of
life, partly because she was overshadowed by the greater
fame of her husband, she never received that degree of
public recognition to which her qualities as an artist
fairly entitled her. She painted portraits well; and she
left at Brussels, in the royal palace of Tervueren, and in
the library of the Duke of Arenberg, works of a more
elevated  character.    Besides these, she painted      other
composed pictures after her return to Paris.
Rude is interesting as a strong and original character,
even for those who take no interest in art. He seems
almost out of place in modern times, with his antique
simplicity and   independence.      In  an  age when     men
struggle frantically for the means of luxury, and use
* I remember a case somewhat similar, which came accidentally,
twenty years ago, within the range of my own experience. I had to see
a man in Paris on business, and was told by the servant that he was not
at home, but that his wife would replace him. She did so, very efficiently, and in answer to my inquiries about him replied simply that he
was absent. For several weeks every applicant was treated as I had
been, -the gentleman was always "absent; " but his wife did what was
wanted as well as he could have done it, had he been there. At last, it
was discovered that the absent husband had really been dead all the
time, and that his widow, who had a family of young children to provide
for, had heroically taken this means of winning confidence in her own
abilities. Had she openly announced her intention of succeeding to
her husband, people would have placed no confidence in her, and gone
elsewhere; but by the time his death became generally known she had
won confidence enough to secure her children's bread. The reader may
imagine the torture this widow subjected herself to, in answering
everybody's questions.




Rude.


223


their utmost ingenuity to advance in the world's estimation by plotting for the praise of coteries and newspapers, Rude concerned himself neither about wealth
nor about notoriety, but was content to do the best work
he could, to preserve his own dignity, and leave the rest
to Fortune. You may often find artists and men of
letters who are content to suffer poverty that they may
pursue a beloved occupation, but the indifference to
notoriety is rarer. Rude was not indifferent to fame,
fairly and honorably won: the great medal of I855 was
joy and gladness to him in the last days of his life; but
he had an absolute disdain for the sort of notoriety which
is procured by scheming and intriguing, by giving dinners to journalists, by elbowing one's way in the saloons
of ministers, by flattering the occupant of a throne. He
belonged so little to his own age that he simply put his
best energies into his work, and was willing to let that
answer for him, never once doing any thing to push himself or advertise himself in any way whatever, either in
general society, in the cliques of artists, or in the press.
There has never been an instance, amongst celebrated
men, of a dignity more firmly and consistently maintained throughout the course of a long life. He did not
refuse to receive public writers into his house, he admitted them even to his friendship; but it was always on
the expressed condition that they should not say any
thing about him or his works in print. This was his
way of protecting himself against the flattery of friends,
or the biassed appreciation of those who were grateful
to him for his kindness. M. Fremiet, his father-in-law,




224


Mlodern Frenchmen.


was an able writer for the press, and wrote on art for ten
years at Brussels, but never once mentioned Rude or his
works, well knowing that praise from so friendly a source
would be displeasing to the sculptor's delicate sense of
what was becoming. He became accidentally acquainted
with an eminent writer in Paris; and they liked each
other so much that a close friendship would have been
formed, if Rude had not resolutely denied himself this
pleasure.  " M. --    is a journalist," he said; " and, if we
knew each other better, the public would believe that
his decisions were those of a friend, and I myself should
think so too."   He disliked camaraderie, which is bad
enough in England, but a monstrous evil in France.*
He had no fear of the venomous e'reinteurs of the French
press, and simply shut his door upon them when they
presented themselves, telling them he would have nothing to do with swindlers. In this way, he paralyzed the
action of his friends in his favor, and increased the
acerbity of his enemies, whom he never attempted to
conciliate.  His conviction was that journalists, even
when honorable and sincere, formed their opinions simply from a literary point of view, quite outside of all
modes of thinking properly applicable to sculpture; and
* Camaraderie is the help given to each other by comrades, to the
detriment of merit outside their little clique. For example, if in an
Academy of Arts the Academicians were to elect comrades for friendship's sake, to the exclusion of more meritorious artists, that would be
camaraderie; and if in a literary journal the books or articles of a friend
or contributor were mentioned as being important, when literary works
of really greater importance, by outsiders, were passed over in silence,
that would be camaraderie also, and of a bad kind, though nothing can
look more innocent.




Rudze.


225


he cared so little for what any writer might have to say
about him that, when a critic presented him with a
reprint of his articles, in two volumes, the volume which
dealt with his own works was found, after his death,
with all the leaves still uncut. "I do my very best," he
said; "and praises could neither make me do more nor
better, whereas censure would trouble me. If my works
are good, they will endure: if not, all the laudation in
the world would not save them from oblivion." This
may be true, but an artist has temporary and present
as well as posthumous interests; and Rude injured both
himself and his wife by his sturdy independence. He
never would do any thing to be elected an Academician,
though it is customary to " poser sa candidature," and
pay visits to get votes. His independence and his prodigious beard kept him out of the Institute.
Rude's philosophy about wealth was remote, indeed,
from that which generally prevails in the nineteenth
century. "I have not yet," he said, "met with rich
people who consider themselves rich enough; and it
has always been so, if we may believe the writings of
the ancients. And why do men desire riches, if not to
arrive at a state of contentment, at a feeling of satisfying possession? But if every man, whatever may be
his wealth, has never enough according to his own opinion, it is proved that this feeling of contentment does
not depend upon riches in themselves. Can I hesitate
between the two lines of conduct before me? One 'of
the two would be to acquire a great fortune, a very difficult thing to do, and I am not certain of success: if I
15




226


Modern Frenchmen.


succeeded, I should be no better off; for the example
of all the ages proves that the more a man has, the more
he desires to have. The other line of conduct would be
to try to consider myself rich enough as I am, which
costs infinitely less anxiety, and disturbs nothing in my
way of life." Having argued the matter in this way
with himself, he made his choice of contented mediocrity,
and adhered to it. Just before Thiers fell from power
under Louis Philippe, he said to Rude: "You have
had a disappointment about the Arc de Triomphe:
cannot I give you some compensation in a commission,
whilst I am still a minister? You have never been to
Italy: would you like a mission to Rome?"*  Rude
answered simply that he needed nothing.  The day
before, he had examined the state of his fortune, and
found that his savings now gave him no less than fortyeight pounds of annual interest. Of course, with so
handsome an income as that, a man needs no favor from
any Government.
The moral and philosophical side of Rude's character
directed his admirations quite as much as his artistic
feeling. When at Rome, it pleased him to retrace the
steps of Nicolas Poussin; and he talked of him continually, not merely because he liked his art, but because
Poussin's character was remarkable for its integrity and
independence.
Rude's disinterestedness showed itself in many actions
of his life, but seldom more prettily than in the matter
* M. Silvestre says that Thiers offered,~1,200 to Rude for his
expenses in Rome.




RudIe.


227


of a statue of Louis XIII. at the age of seventeen, executed for a very generous and high-minded nobleman,
the Duc de Luynes. This statue, which was in pure
silver and the size of life, cost Rude /480 independently
of the cost of the silver, yet he only charged the Duke
~240. The Duke seems to have suspected that his
artist friend was really making him a present, for he
sent him ~400. Here is another anecdote of the same
kind. M. Thiers had asked Rude to let him have a
reproduction of the Mercury for his private collection.
The sculptor accepted the order, and immediately set to
work upon a new and original Mercury, which he sent
to M. Thiers, charging for it as a reproduction. The
reader will remember that he executed the Fixin statue
of Napoleon for nothing, as a tribute to the hero's memory. In estimating the value of these generosities, it
may be well to remember that Rude's time was fully
occupied with remunerative work, and that he did not
give away the valueless hours of an idler.
His temper was full of courage, and singularly independent of surrounding circumstances. When artists
complained to him that they could not find suitable
models, that it was difficult to get a studio sufficiently
well lighted, and so on, he refused to recognize these
difficulties, and declared that he would have carved
statues at the bottom of a well. He accepted all circumstances philosophically, maintaining that they always
presented a favorable side, if we only knew how to seize
it. The result, in many instances, proved that he was
right.  The awkward triangular fragment of marble,




228


Modern Frenchmen.


which anybody else would have rejected, led him to invent the Neapolitan Fisher-boy with the Tortoise, merely
because such a composition would go into the block;
and it made him famous, a success which may have
confirmed him in his philosophy.  However this may
have been, he remained always a disciple of Epictetus,
and maintained that things had two handles, the art
being to seize them by the right one.
Some anecdotes of Rude have an antique flavor, and
seem as if quoted from Plutarch: others remind us of
the turbulent Italian artists of the sixteenth century.
TIe was seldom angry, but it happened to him occasionally to lose patience. Once, when fencing, his adversary
would never confess that he was hit; so Rude said,
"Let us remove the buttons from the foils, and the
blood will show," which it presently did. In I848, a
big policeman was disrespectful to him in the street; so
Rude seized the man, and dragged him by sheer strength
to the nearest police-station to lodge his complaint.
He was occasionally subject to the same outbursts of
passionate energy in intellectual discussions. One day,
when speaking of a public man whose conduct he disapproved of, he became angry, and received this telling
rebuke: " He whom you blame so severely is wiser.than
you, for he never loses his temper."  "You are right,"
Rude answered: "in that he is wiser than I am; but, if
passion did not carry me away now and then, I should
not have the temperament of an artist."
If he had the passionate strength of the artistic temperament, he had, in an equal degree, its tenderness and




Rude.


229


delicacy. On the death of his friend Roman, the sculptor, who had been an Academician, Rude's friends
suggested that he ought to offer himself as a candidate
for the vacant chair. " I could not bear," he answered,
"to sit in poor Roman's place."  We have already seen
what an incurable wound had been left by the loss of
his boy.
He never complained about the past, never uttered a
vain regret. He considered those words idle and profitless which men employ in pleading against irremediable
evils.
Rude's social characteristics were peculiar. In dress
and manners, he was plain and simple; and he belonged
all his life to the plebeian order, which it was part of
his philosophy not to desire to leave. Opinions may
differ about his conduct in this respect: some may think
that an artist, as he rises in his profession, ought to
imitate the manners of the aristocracy. I think there is
more dignity in Rude's adherence to his class. It would
be a complete mistake to suppose that he was vulgar,
that he aspired after no ideal of conduct or manners.
He was plebeian, but not vulgar: the two things are
entirely distinct. Rude had neither the aristocratic nor
the democratic vulgarity.  His difference from other
men may be easily expressed. Most men, as they rise
in a profession, try to push themselves into a higher
class, and become imitations of what is positively or
relatively some sort of aristocracy. Rude preferred to
remain a plebeian, and to improve himself as a plebeian,
in the ways which might be accessible to a plebeian,




230


M2odernz Freznchmezn.


without quitting his own order. He did not electro-plate
himself with silver, but wrought the good steel of his
own nature to a finer temper. He was a workman able
to read his own language, and skilful in such amusements and accomplishments as were accessible without
expense. He worked in iron when young, and afterwards in wood and marble. Whilst still a smith at the
forge, he won a gold medal for ornamental drawing, the
accomplishment of a skilled artisan. We do not hear
much of his labor in wood; but as a less gifted workman
might have carved the flourishes on a sideboard, so
he decorated a pulpit with allegorical figures, and surmounted it with gigantic angels. He had no objection
to make a marble chimney-piece, but where the ordinary
workman would chisel out a few mouldings, and perhaps
a couple of brackets, or a coat of arms, fit for the house
of a private gentleman, Rude carved his chimney-piece
for a Queen's chamber with its frieze of Loves playing
with marine monsters. In all this, he was simply the
working-man developed to a higher perfection. Again,
in his reading, he is a man of the people, who chooses
his readings well: he knows no foreign tongue, he has
no scholarship; but, instead of wasting his time on the
trash of the low journals, he listens to translations from
Tacitus and Plutarch. I have mentioned his amusements, - all costless and accessible to the people. He
is a first-rate skater, a powerful swimmer, a redoubtable
fencer, an indefatigable pedestrian; but we do not hear
that he was ever a good horseman or a good shot. His
one luxury was the workman's luxury, a pipe of tobacco;




Rude.


23I


and he often began the day with a thimbleful of brandy,
a common practice with the French ouvrier. His dress
was generally a tight jacket; or else he might be seen
in his shirt sleeves, and sometimes with bare arms,
enjoying a good wash at the public fountain in the evening, "like a smith who has done his day's work."  He
would sit, of an evening, playing backgammon on the
causeway in the Rue d'Enfer at Paris, just as if he had
been in a country village. The reader may imagine how
difficult it was to persuade a man of this kind to pay
visits of ceremony, in correct costume, with gloves and
a neatly brushed hat.
He retained to the last a sense of fellowship with the
people, and a reliance on them which are rare in the
middle class. When first he used to go to his country
house at Cachan, his friends said, " We cannot go to the
public billiard-table, there are too many quarrymen in
the place, and they will be there, and be uncivil to us;"
but Rude answered for the quarrymen's good manners,
and it turned out that he was not mistaken, as they
behaved well, and soon became quite courteous and
polite, their courtesy being uninterrupted by any unpleasant incident during the ten years of Rude's weekly
visits to the place. When he travelled on the steamer
from Aries to Marseilles, he was hungry, and the steamer
had no provisions for passengers, so the common sailors
invited him to dejeunzer with them. He accepted, and
they behaved admirably, treating him with easy courtesy
and deference.
The grandeur which impresses us in Rude is the




232


Modern Frenchmen.


grandeur of a great character and a great talent; but
we are not to expect, from a mind so constituted and so
occupied, the qualities of a trained and precise thinker.
His belief that mere will and industry can enable any
man to accomplish any thing is a belief common enough
amongst imperfectly educated men who have courage
and industry; but no one of really cultivated intellect
denies the variety of natural endowments.* Sometimes
he expressed the more moderate opinion, which is indisputable, that unless a man works he cannot find out
what he is able to do; and from this he drew the moral
that the artist must look to his own industry, and not to
the criticisms of others, for the true revelation of his own
powers. All that he said in this sense is admirable, and
worth preserving; but he got beyond his intellectual
depth when he denied the inborn gifts.
His method of teaching, and his own technical practice, exhibit a mind both synthetic in its first conceptions, and singularly cautious in its processes of
realization. Though capable of wonderful speed when
pressed for time, he was usually as careful about the
measurements of proportions as a young beginner, and
all the methods of his choice were slow and prudent in
the extreme, making sure of each step with an almost
painful solicitude. His mind, as we have seen, was not
Academic, but in a certain sense it was classical. When
travelling towards Italy with his friend M. Bouchet, he
saw an old woman who sat spinning at her door. Struck


* He used to repeat Jacotot's formula: " Qui veut peut. -Toutes
les intelligences sont egales."




Rude.


233


by the dignity and nobleness of her aspect, he said to
his friend, "She is the mother of Ulysses!" When he
sat at last on the shore of the Mediterranean and watched
the white waves, he said, "Are not those the coursers of
Neptune, and cannot you see out there in the distance
the chariot of Amphitrite?"
Rude was a great man and a great artist. The French
Government has lately (1878) paid a tribute to his memory
by calling one of the rooms in the Louvre by his name.
The next time, reader, that you go to Paris, ask for the
Salle Rude, and see the Fisher-boy playing with the
Tortoise and the Mercury fastening his Talaria.
We may remember Rude's doctrine that the simple
privilege of doing art-work is in itself the artist's sufficient reward, his only real misfortune being whatever
interrupts his studies.
" La grande chose pour un artiste, - c'est de faire."




234


Modern Frenchmen.


JEAN JACQUES AMPERE.
HE maps of France do not always give the villages;
but, if the reader has access to any fairly good
separate map of the Department of the Rhone, he will
find a place called Poleymieux, or Polemieux, eleven kilometres north by west of Lyons. It is in the region of
the Mont d'Or, and a little more than three kilometres,
as the crow flies, from the right bank of the river Saone.
There is a little country house there which has become
famous for its connection with the two Amperes. Andre Marie Ampere, the illustrious scientific discoverer,
was born in it; and his son, Jean Jacques, the writer and
traveller, passed his infancy there. The region about
Polemieux is that of the Mont d'Or, which is one of the
most beautiful parts of France. This famous hill (Alons
Auriacensis) rises to the height of two thousand feet,
and has three zmameons,' the three being sometimes
classed as separate hills under the names of Mont
d'Or, Mont Verdun, and Mont Ceindre. Round about
them are charming little valleys with villages nestling in
them, and from their summits you may see the valley of
the Sa6ne (which in those parts is one of the noblest




7ean 7acques Anmpere.


235


pieces of river scenery in Europe), the mountains of
Dauphine, and the distant ranges of the Alps.  Few
regions in the world are richer in natural charm; and
now, since the publication of the Ampere correspondence, the neighborhood of the Mont d'Or has pathetic
associations for all who love either literature or science.
Although the subject of this biography is Jean Jacques
Ampere, the well-known writer on Roman History, and
our own contemporary, I will first give a brief account
of his grandfather and his father, not only because they
are interesting characters in themselves, but also because the peculiarities of Ampere, the writer, may be
clearly traced to the influence of the two generations
which preceded him.
His grandfather was a Jean Jacques like himself.
This first Jean Jacques had been in trade on a small
scale, and by strict economy had saved a little money;
he was also the owner of the house at Polemieux, and
temporarily discharged the functions of a Justice of the
Peace.
In those days, the days of the great Revolution, it
required not a little courage to accept public functions
of this kind. In the spring of I793, Lyons rose in insurrection against the Jacobin club which tyrannized
over it, and for sixty days the city resisted the army of
the convention.  Jean Jacques Ampere remained at
his post as Justice of the Peace; and, when Lyons was
taken at last by the Republican army, he was one of the
first to go to prison.
Going to prison under such circumstances was simply




236


Mlodern Frenchmen.


entering the ante-chamber of the grave. Ampere was
aware of this, and quietly occupied one of the few days
which remained to him in settling his affairs by means
of written instructions for his wife. His letter to her is
still in existence, and it deserves to be kept as long as
the fibres of the paper will hold together, or the last
trace of the faded ink remain visible; for, in all the
records of human care and sorrow, there are few finer
examples of tranquil courage and thoughtfulness in the
presence of death.
He goes into all the little details of their money matters, so that his wife, so soon to be his widow, may have
as little trouble as possible when he is gone. In his
desire that no injustice should be done by neglecting
the payment of what he owes, he mentions every little
thing which has not yet been paid for, even to a quarter
of a pound of bread; the outstanding accounts together
amounting to about 1~4, besides which he owes something for his keep and that of his sister-in-law during
the siege, when they were fed by a good woman who
trusted them. This statement of his affairs is treated
as a separate document, and signed formally "Jean
Jacques Ampere, juge de paix jusqu'a ce moment."
After it comes a page of explanation about the state of
his small fortune, and towards the close of this is an
expression of feeling, but of feeling under the most perfect control; and the dignity of the just man, about to
suffer an unmerited death, is never for an instant abandoned. This latter part is signed "Jean Jacques Ampere, epoux, pere, ami, et citoyen toujours fidele." These




yean 7aciques Amny5re.


237


are not our usages, - we do not call ourselves faithful
husbands, fathers, friends, or citizens, -but let it be
remembered that these words were written in a time of
high public excitement, when the noblest and basest
feelings were alike in full activity, and that in Ampere's
case they were the simple truth. He was what he called
himself.
"I do not leave you rich," he said to his wife, " or
even in common comfort; but this cannot be imputed
to bad conduct or dissipation on my part. My greatest
expense has been the purchase of books and mathematical instruments which were indispensable to our son's
education; but this expense was in itself a wise economy,
considering that he has never had any other master than
himself."
The son here mentioned is the illustrious Ampere;
and the outlay for books and instruments was to lead
to ultimate results so magnificent that no human imagination could at that time possibly have foreseen them.
It is probable that, since the world began, no money
given for educational purposes was ever better applied.
It is like buying colors for Titian in his youth.
The condemned man had made heavy pecuniary sacrifices in the service of his country, but these he does
not regret: he regrets only that his country should have
" misunderstood " him, - a mild expression under the circumstances, when misunderstanding meant decapitation.
There is nothing about glory in the letter, but we find
that other word which Perreyve called "ce mot austere
et saint."




238


Modern Freznchmen.


"Je n'eus jamais que le gout et la passion de mes
devoirs; je n'ai ni repentir, ni remords, et je suis toujours digne de toi."
Please observe that the word is used in the plural, a
recognition that there are various kinds of duty. The
simple provincial bourgeois who for years past has been
quietly sacrificing his interests to the public weal, and is
now going to have his head cut off because he has been
faithful to the end, cheers himself with the approval of
his own conscience, and can say to his wife, "Je suis
toujours digne de toi." After his trust in God and his
hope of the heavenly rest, his best consolation is that
she will cherish his memory even as she herself has
been cherished by him in life; then he adds, with a sense
of his own rights, " Ce retour m'est du."  He promises
that, if the dead are permitted to concern themselves
about those they have left behind, he will care for his
wife and children still, when he is in heaven. He prays
that the children may have a happier fate than his, and
may ever have the fear of God before their eyes, - " that
salutary fear which can keep us innocent and just in
spite of the frailty of our nature." He says good-bye to
his sister-in-law tenderly by her pet name, calling her
" la Tatan," and wishing her the courage which he feels.
His little daughter, Josephine, is to be kept in ignorance
of the tragic nature of his end. Then comes a word
for his son, intended evidently as a stimulus to the
young man's energy in the battle of life which lies
before him: "As to my son, I expect every thing from
him."




yeant yacques Anzpere.


239


It would be difficult, in a few words, to leave a better
legacy to a son. The praise for his past life is conveyed
so delicately, the trust in his future conduct and industry
is expressed so handsomely, along with an implied confidence in his good abilities, that the boy could have
little nobleness in his nature who was not stimulated
by such an appeal to all that was good in him. Again,
the words are few, and likely to remain in the memory. It is not a long parental lecture, but a watchword
like Nelson's at Trafalgar, the two being identical in
spirit.
The blood of this just man having been shed, his
family was left to lament him. The first effect of the
tragedy on his son Andr6, at that time eighteen years
old, was to paralyze his intellect for a year, during which
he seemed like one in a waking dream, unable to work
or think, unable to interest himself in any visible thing.
At length came the awakening, in a strange, new
pleasure at the sight of flowers; and after that he began
to delight in the verses of the great poets. It was a
new birth into a fairer world after a darkness like the
darkness of the grave; and the freshness of revived
sensation, acting upon the vigorous energies of youth,
produced in Andre that high condition of the feelings
which elevates men to the best enthusiasms, and makes
them poets, lovers, or friends.  And now comes the
prettiest and saddest love-story of which we have authentic record.
It is an idyl of that lovely region about the Mont
d'Or, - a true idyl, not invented like that which haunted




240


MAodern Frenchmne.


Byron at Clarens. Here, at St. Germain au Mont d'Or,
the immortal verse would be true indeed:
" Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought."
The place is a little village, not two miles from Polemieux, and here lived in the summer months, in a simple
little country house, a family called Carron. They were
not rich people: the head of the family was in business
of some kind, probably at Lyons; but, whatever may
have been their social position, we can see quite plainly
from the family correspondence that they were people
of refinement and culture; that the women of the family
were gentlewomen, and that the mental atmosphere of
the little country house was an atmosphere of bright
intelligence, cheerfulness, and purity.
There were three sisters in the family, and one brother.
The eldest sister was married already to a bookseller
at Lyons; the youngest, Elise, was unmarried; and the
middle one, Julie, was the object of young Andre Ampere's affection.
Julie was a fair girl with blue eyes and golden hair.
She had been asked in marriage by a young physician,
who rose to eminence afterwards, and died in 1813; but,
although his love for her was perfectly disinterested, -
for she had no dowry, - she could not return it, and he
was disappointed. Ampere was more fortunate: the blue
eyes answered his, certainly not with any thing approaching to his own ardor, but still sufficiently to keep that
ardor alive. The awakening of the young man's spirit
to life and thought after the dreadful incubus of tragedy




yean 7acques Ampeire.


241


which had oppressed it was like the flowering of a plant
in the gracious sunshine of spring. Intellect and affections blossomed together in wonderful luxuriance. His
power of learning, far surpassing the power of ordinary
humanity, had made him, at the age of twenty, a prodigy
of attainment. He knows as much about geometry and
mathematics as the best teachers of the sciences in
Lyons; he reads Latin and Greek, not as a schoolboy,
but for his delight in noble literature; he writes tragedies
and poems; he studies botany, chemistry, mechanics.
One of the mightiest brains that ever existed was already
in full activity, playing in the upper regions of intellectual endeavor as easily as a young eagle flies between
mountain and mountain. This ardent spirit, so splendidly gifted, sought another of its ideals in love, and,
being too pure and too elevated to satisfy itself with any
of those temporary connections which degrade the mind
and character instead of sustaining them, threw itself
into that which is at once the supreme imprudence and
the supreme felicity of human life, an engagement of
pure affection, a love-match in which money matters
were simply and innocently ignored. The young man
has no trade but the ill-paid profession of teaching, he
is utterly without experience of the world, he is timid,
tender, and modest; but he loves his Julie, and will have
her in spite of poverty.
He kept a diary in the year I796, which gives us the
earliest incidents of this attachment. The first of these
entries is:




242


Modernt Frenchmen.


"Dimanche, Io Avril. —Je l'ai vue pour la premiere
fois."
Then he borrows and lends books, Italian and French,
as an excuse for going to the house where she is. Four
months later, he begins to explain himself, -" to open his
heart," as he calls it, - in consequence of which he is
forbidden to return to the house in Madame Carron's
absence, and has "but feeble hopes."  The mother
comes back; and the borrowing and lending of books
go on, as if the houses were cabinets de lecture. Here
are extracts in September and October: -
" Lundi, 26 Septembre.- Je la trouvai dans le jardin,
sans oser lui parler."
"Vendredi, 30 Septembre. — Je portai Racine.  La
more etait dans la salle a mesurer de la toile."
"3 Octobre. - J'y allai. Je glissai encore quelques
mots i la mere. Je rapportai le premier volume de
S6vigne."
All through the diary, the books come in delightfully.
" Svign " is a capital book for the purpose, being in
nine volumes, every volume giving an opportunity for a
visit: besides which, they make bouts-rinmes, which Andre
is to fill up and carry back, - all which offer chances innumerable, but the timidity of the young savant always
prevents him from making use of them. One day, he
talks to Madame Carron, and has a little hope: another
day, Julie returns to him the "Lettres Provinciales"
"avec grace;" and the mother says, " It is a long time
since we saw you," but the sister Elise speaks coldly.
Julie leaves for Lyons. Ampere ventures to call, knowing




yea-n Yacques Amfdere.


243


she is there; and he calls on her mother again at St.
Germain. She is very cool about him; and he is as
awkward as a schoolboy, always blundering, staying
when he should not stay, and committing those little
social errors which excite the pity of all Frenchwomen,
when they do not incur their contempt.
Science and love are strangely mingled in one of his
entries. On the 24th of June, the Amperes go from
Polemieux to see the eclipse at St. Germain. They
walk about in a friend's garden, where Ampere sits
near Julie, whilst Madame Carron and his mother have
a mutual explanation at some distance. The interest of
the natural philosopher carries the day against the ardor
of the lover, and there is more about the eclipse in the
diary than about Julie. The weather is cloudy, but the
sky becomes clearer "at ten minutes past six, after
the middle of the eclipse; nevertheless," Ampere continues, " I observed the end of it exactly at thirty-five
minutes after six, as I had calculated with my watch
and that of M. Perisse with a telescope belonging to
M. Rapt."
The great and memorable day, however, was not that
of the eclipse: it was the day of the cherry-tree, Monday, the 3d of July, which Ampere entered in capital
letters in his diary.
The Carron family came to the Amperes' house at
Polemieux at a quarter to four o'clock. They remain in
the garden, and Ampere climbs the big cherry-tree and
throws cherries down to Julie. Then he gets down from
the tree and sits on the grass near Julie, with their sis



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Mfodern Frenchmez.


ters; and he eats cherries which have been on her knees.*
She accepts a lily from  his hand; they go together to
the little stream; he gives her his hand to jump over
the wall, and stays with her near the stream, far from
Elise and her sister. They walk a little, and see a
golden sunset; and he gives her another lily, which she
accepts. On the ioth of July, he goes to her home with
a basket of raspberries and currants, and some orchises
for Elise to put in her garden. Julie and Ampere, with
his sister, go together into the garden; and his sister
helps Julie to fold some chemises, whilst he reads to
them (of all things in the world) the discourse of M.
Derieu at the reception of the Ottoman Ambassador:
then he reads from two volumes, which are named.   On
the I8th, he takes another basket of currants.
Can any thing be more exquisite and charming than
these details?  But to see them  really as they were
would need the imagination of a landscape-painter and
a figure-painter in one. Imagine the rich scenery of the
Mont d'Or in summer, the sweet valley far enough from
the city for the most perfect rustic peace, and these
young people in the quaint dresses of the eighteenth
century, enjoying a simple existence in which refinement was gracefully reconciled with industry; imagine
Julie beautiful with her blue eyes and her golden tresses,
Andre full of the liveliest intelligence, the morning light
of genius in his look, the glow of a first pure love upon
* This reminds us of an early love affair of Napoleon I. in Corsica,
when he and his first love "ate cherries together," which was all he
remembered of it in after life. Ampere's finer and better nature clung
more fondly to those sweet reminiscences of the golden time.




yean Yacques Ampere.


245


his cheek, and the gentle sisters and kindly old people
near them to complete the group, to whom after poignant sorrow  now came a happier time!    Never did
painter or novelist adorn his work by the invention of
prettier details than these real ones, - the cherries, the
lilies, the books, the walk by the stream and the garden,
the golden sunset of that golden day!
On the 6th of August, I799, Andre Marie Ampere,
still a minor, espouses " demoiselle Catherine Julie Carron, fille majeure," etc., which proves that she was the
older of the two.
They were married at Polemieux, that fifteenth day of
Thermidor, an VII.; and Ampere's friend Ballanche
delivered an epithalamium on the occasion, which only
shows what a prodigious distance separates our manners
and customs from the manners and customs of those
days. Ballanche begins by quoting,Felices ter et amplius
Quos irrupta tenet copula, nec malis
Divulsus querimoniis
Suprema citius solvet amor die!
and then delivers the epithalamium of his own composition, which is nothing less than a long prose poem about
love in marriage. A modern Englishman would rather
be shot at on his wedding-day than sit to be talked to
in such a strain, yet the whole thing is true enough,
undeniably true, and very well expressed besides, though
the style is old-fashioned now, and it is impossible to
read it without a smile. The epithalamium begins with
a joyous celebration of the happiness of getting married
when one is in love; and it ends with an appeal to duty,




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Modern Frenchmen.


in the anticipation of a life made happy "par la pratique
des devoirs."  There was another lucubration of the
same kind for the evening, and yet a third for the next
day! There were no wedding journeys in those days,
and young couples had to go through these ceremonies
for several days together. Another friend wrote a similar composition as a commentary on the epithalamium,
and it has been preserved.  All these writings look
exactly like translations from antique poetry into prose.
There are two passages which seem prophetic:"Et ces sources limpides, et ce ruisseau solitaire murmurant sous des berceaux de feuillage,.. et la mysterieuse obscurite de ces lieux silencieux....que de
souvenirs seront unjour attachess a tous ces licuxr!"
This prediction is by Ballanche. That which I quote
next is by the anonymous friend and commentator:Ampere, si meme zinze longue et glorieuse carriere hui
est destinee, ne connaitra jamais rien de comparable a
ces heures, a ces courtes et heureuses annees passees
aupres de sa Julie, sur ce pauvre domaine paternel ou
il est ne."
But one expression occurred in the first epithalamium
which, unhappily, was a most mistaken prediction:
" Jeunes epoux, vous serez toujours unis."
Alas! never was wedded pair more cruelly separated!
They were separated almost from the very first by poverty, and soon afterwards they were separated by death.
Their first trouble of this kind was in the spring of
1800. Andre had to live at Lyons to teach mathematics;
and Julie had to go to St. Germain with her mother,




yeant   acques Ampyrere.


247


because her husband could not afford to keep her at
Lyons, she being then in a situation which required
more attendance than his slender purse could pay for.
He went to see her every week, but that was all.
In July, I8OO, she gives birth to a boy, in Madame
Carron's house at St. Germain.  This boy is Jean
Jacques, the subject of our present study. Whilst the
young mother and her child are living in the country,
the father is still at Lyons, earning precarious bread
by giving lessons. " Our income is very uncertain," he
writes, "pupils come and go, and we never know what
may be calculated upon." These pecuniary uncertainties
harass the young husband already, and incline him to
think that, were it not for his wife and child, he would
not much care to live.
The next event is the weaning of the child. Julie
has nursed him herself, which has exhausted her. She
is to come to Lyons, and Andre is full of anxious care
about her journey. The river Saone is in flood, and not
to be thought of; he objects to the diligence, and finally
determines that Julie is to ride on a donkey, with a hot
stone under her feet. He charges her sister most earnestly to remember the hot stone, which indeed she does,
but after Julie's departure, when it is too late. It is a
wonderful proof of the importance of a day's work to
poor Andre that he does not go to fetch his wife himself. Perhaps FranCois Delorme, an attached young
servant of the Ampere family at Polemieux, may have
led the donkey, or otherwise stimulated its movements.
Andre and Julie lived together at Lyons after this, their




248


Modern Frenzchmen.


child remaining in the country; but poor Julie never
really recovered her health. She suffered from weakness and internal pains, so that the doctor had to advise
complete repose.
In the month of December, I80o, Andre Ampere was
appointed teacher of chemistry and physics at the Ecole
Centrale of the department of the Ain. This school
was situated at Bourg. His wife was too unwell to bear
the removal, he too poor to refuse the appointment,
which was worth a hundred guineas a year, so they had
to accept the chronic misery of an involuntary separation.
They were divided then, she remaining in pain and
languor at Lyons, he living in a boarding-house at
Bourg, in a horrible isolation of the heart, eating at a
public table with vulgar people whom he could not endure.* He tried to find a compensation in writing a
diary for Julie, which goes into the minutest details of
his life, day by day, almost hour by hour; and, as with
all his learning he was the simplest and most candid
soul that ever lived, we know him from this correspondence a thousand times better than the people we see
every day. The torment of his life is the ruin of Julie's
health. She, on her part, is constantly fidgeting herself
about innumerable little details, which she thinks her
scientific husband is incapable of attending to.  She
asks a question which could only be addressed to a very
* This was at the beginning. Soon afterwards, he boarded at the
house of M. Beauregard, the teacher of history, who cannot have got
much profit out of him, considering the wondrous moderation of his
charges, which amounted to forty francs a month.




7ean jacques Amtpere.


249


poor man, - " Have you any chairs in your room?"
thinking that it may be unfurnished, and knowing her
husband's entire inability to buy furniture. She inquires,
too, about his fire, - does he make a good fire? - is his
bed comfortable or not? Again, as to his clothing, she
does all she can to keep him decent; but it is not easy,
at a distance.  However, there is the carrier, called
Pochon, whose wagon goes between Lyons and Bourg,
doing the twelve leagues in ten hours when he does not
stick in the mire (Macadam is as yet unheard of in
France); and by Pochon's help things can be sent both
ways. Julie makes a waistcoat for her husband with
her own hands; she sends him an old coat to wear when
he makes his experiments, and strictly charges him not
to go out in it. " Mind about your chemistry," she
says: "your blue stockings are burnt with that horrible
acid which burns every thing."  Try to look like a
decent sort of a man, to please your poor wife." He on
his part boldly affirms that he does not burn his clothes
with acid, and that he carries on his chemical experiments with nothing but his breeches, his gray coat, and
his waistcoat of greenish velvet; but at a later date he
has to confess that his best breeches smell of turpentine,
that his trousers have a hole in them, which gets bigger
in spite of mending, and displays a piece of different
cloth below.
Julie thinks as much about Andre's keep as about his
dress. She urges him to buy a bottle of wine, to keep
it by him, and drink a little when he needs it; and, when
the bottle is finished, he is to buy another. He is not to




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Modern Frenchmen.


sit up late at night, because the next day he has a headache.
The correspondence on his side is less practical, and
dwells more willingly in the region of the sentiments
and affections. He goes minutely into money matters,
however, and recognizes the necessity for keeping a sum
of money by him for unforeseen requirements, this
reserve amounting to no less than ten or twelve francs.
He sends most of his money to Julie, who has doctor's
expenses to meet; but the good doctor knows how poor
they are, and, when she offers him a hundred francs, he
will only accept fifty, though he has paid sixty-five visits.
Notwithstanding all these petty details, which become
beautiful when illumined by affection and self-sacrifice,
Andre's letters are really love-letters yet, and all the
simplicity and tenderness of his nature are revealed in
them. He kisses what he calls " the talisman," which
is her first letter to him; * he kisses " the little picture,"
which is a small frame containing a campanula given by
her three days before the great day of the cherry-tree;
he kisses a dried rose which he had received from her
hand. He keeps these treasures with a feminine fondness in a little portfolio of rose-colored satin, with their
initials in an embroidered monogram on the back. The
rose-colored portfolio is still in existence, the dried rose
is in it still, and the letters, and the campanula; but
where are those true lovers?  Poor Julie! she was
always dreading lest her absent-minded husband should


* He had been ill at Lyons when a bachelor, and had begged for a
letter from Julie as a " talisman." This had been graciously accorded.




7ean 7 acques Anmpere.


251


leave her letters about for other eyes to see them; and
now they are in print, in all the booksellers' shops, and
on the stalls at the railway stations!
She never had strength to go to her husband at Bourg
even for one day, though the distance was but a dozen
leagues. He regrets this bitterly, because, if she had
only been there, she would have left recollections of herself by associating her presence with the locality in his
mind, and he might have gone to seek these associations
afterwards.
Poor Julie gets weaker and weaker.  Her love for
Andre is in a continued crescendo, and her strength goes
down in an equally regular diminuendo, an inverse
ratio which she notices with melancholy humor in a
letter. She can hardly even write now, but is in the
hands of a good, friendly doctor who has known her
from childhood. Her only hope of a permanent reunion
with her husband is his appointment as teacher at the
Lyceum of Lyons; but they have to wait long for this,
and life is ebbing away from her very fast. They have,
however, the vacation to look forward to. It comes at
last, in the late summer of I802, which they pass together
at Polemieux, or St. Germain, with their little boy,two months, two happy and miserable months, in which
the felicity of the present is clouded by the shadow of
coming evil. In November, he has to leave her again
for his duties at Bourg, where he is wretched to think
that she is ill at a distance, but tries to console himself
by the still remote prospect of the Easter holidays. He
cannot even get away for a day to see her, as the exami



252


M2odern Frenchmen.


ners are expected. Then the weight of anxiety settles
down on his mind, and he is " hardly able to work." She
has far the wiser and cooler head of the two, giving him
the most judicious advice about his professional prospects, often treating him in quite a maternal way, and
even playfully calling him her son. Much as she may
desire to have him near her, she sees clearly that it will
not do for him to present himself at Lyons before he is
definitively appointed. Then comes a terrible silence.
The last of Julie's letters has been received: she is living yet, but she can write no more! The next event of
importance is the dissolution of the Ecole Centrale at
Bourg by the government, in consequence of which all
the masters are dismissed. On the I7th of April, 1803,
Andre Ampere, free from Bourg, and now sure of his
appointment to Lyons, joins his wife again, and lives
with her till she is finally taken away from him by
Death.
This reunited wedded life of theirs lasted nearly three
months. He watched her day and night with the tenderness of a lover and the care of a Sister of Charity.
On the 24th of April, they went from Polemieux to
Collonges on the Sa6ne, the loveliest place on all that
river; and here he kept a little diary with brief entries,
like those in that happier diary of the courtship. Now,
alas! instead of fruits and flowers, we have entries about
useless medicines. On the 5th of July, Ampere gives
his first lesson at the Lyceum of Lyons, holding at last
the appointment so long looked forward to by both of
them; but all is joyless henceforward in his darkened




7ean yacques Anmpere.


253


life. On the I3th of that same month of July, he writes
a long earnest prayer in French and a passage from the
Latin Bible. It is the day of their final separation.
"0 God of pity," he cries in his anguish, "join me again
in heaven to her whom Thou hast permitted me to love
on earth! " *
Here ends this tale of love and sorrow, and now let
us turn to Julie's child, Jean Jacques, who is the special
subject of our study.
The child passes his earliest years in the little country
house at Polemieux, tenderly cared for by his grandmother and his aunt, with his maternal relations living
two miles off, at St. Germain. The place was exactly
suited to the needs of childhood, - incomparably better
than an apartment on a fourth or fifth floor at Lyons.
It is difficult to convey to English readers an exact idea
of such a house, because in England nobody has any
thing exactly of that kind; but let the reader imagine a
small, very old-fashioned dcvelling inhabited by people of
cultivated tastes, who lived nevertheless in much simplicity. There would not be very much furniture in it,
- hardly any thing beyond what was absolutely necessary, -yet it was not at all a peasant's house; for there
would be signs of the higher life in books, and even a bit
of tapestry or a picture. There was a charming old
garden for the little boy to run about in, well shut in
from the great world beyond, with plenty of shade for
the hot days of summer, apple-trees on each side the
* One who knew Andre Ampere well, J. J. Bredin, said of him:
"Never did a man love as he loved."




254


ilodern Freinchmen.


walks, and a bower of vines where Andre used to sit
with his books and papers in a state of absolute intellectual abstraction.  There were flowers also in the
cheerful old garden, for the walks were bordered with
pinks; and was it not here that Andre gathered the lily
for Julie? There was the great cherry-tree, too,- a
powerful attraction for a child; and not far from the
garden flowed the little stream. With these pleasant
and healthy surroundings, the little boy had plenty of
feminine tenderness to watch over him, and compensate
as far as possible for the loss of his poor young mother.*
Andre Ampere did not long retain the situation at
Lyons which he and Julie had looked forward to with so
much longing when it was to bring them together. Now
that she was gone, he could not bear the place and
wanted a change of scene. He became so thin and pale
as to alarm his mother, who wrote to him very serious
letters full of strong good sense to arouse his energies.
In his present state of indecision and dislike to his
former occupations, Andre is tempted to go into trade
as a dealer in vitriol. His mother knows his absolute
natural incompetence for commercial pursuits, and
strongly dissuades him. Luckily for all parties, he gets
an appointment in Paris as rep2titcur d'analyse at the
Ecole Polytechnique, where he settles in November, I804.
After this, there is an interesting correspondence between Andre Ampere and his mother, in which we catch
glimpses of Jean Jacques in his childhood at Polemieux.


* All the details which I have been able to include in this imperfect
description are authentic.




yean 7acques Ampere.


255


Andre sends him books; but the savant is unlucky in
this, as in most matters belonging to ordinary life, for
Madame Ampere complains that the books are too expensive and too far beyond the child's years. There is
a correspondence, too, between Andre and his sister-inlaw Elise. She was certainly superior to Julie in intelligence; she certainly understood Ampere better than
Julie ever did, and it may be suspected that she would
have loved him, had she been chosen; but we see her
always acting her sisterly part with perfect tact and
delicacy.
For the next two or three years, Andre's mind is in a
most unsettled condition. He is earnestly religious, yet
his religion only agitates and disturbs him. Then he
becomes perplexed by the painful side of his theology,
and is landed in a region of doubt which harasses his
mind exceedingly. His mental condition may be understood by a single example. He has never doubted the
immortality of the soul, but he looks forward with a
new horror to the moment when his soul is to be separated from his body. Whatever beliefs remain to him,
he can no longer persuade himself that he is a real
Roman Catholic. At the same time, an accelerated
intellectual development is going forward in his mind,
accompanied by intense intellectual labors, and by an
ambition quite new to him, the desire for fame, evidently
a morbid symptom in his case. He is full of all kinds
of regrets: he regrets having quitted his post at Lyons;
he regrets the Catholic doctrines which he is no longer
able to believe; he regrets having left his boy, -all which




256


Modern Frenczhmen.


feelings are really nothing but disguises of the one
supreme regret for Julie. Andre's friends perceived his
profound unhappiness, and thought there was no remedy
for it but a second marriage, so they persuaded him to
see a young lady at Lyons, who, in their opinion, was
sure to restore him to happiness, as she had a great
admiration for talent, and a tender soul. Ampere was
in such a state of mind as to have scarcely a will of his
own, and, being ready to catch at any thing that promised relief from his misery, just let himself be married.
It soon became apparent that his new wife was a young
lady who liked society, and thought that a man of talent
would procure her a foremost place in it. She had not
the slightest sympathy with her husband's intellectual
life, which lay outside the limits of her understanding;
and, when she discovered that he was a recluse devoted
to his studies, she made his existence as uncomfortable
as a disappointed woman could. He took refuge in his
work-room, and they met only at table, where she sat in
a state of perpetual sulk, and would not answer a word
when he spoke to her. His father-in-law informed him
that, if he wanted to avoid a separation, he must sacrifice
all his opinions to those of his wife. In short, after experiencing the pleasant side of the feminine nature in
Julie, he now as fully experienced the disagreeable side,
a cold, sulky disdain hardening steadily into frozen
feminine hatred.  The contrast between the present
and the past threw him into agonies of what he called
" remorse," though he had done no wrong. The worst
was that he became utterly incapable of work. " In spite




7ean 7acques Aimpnere.


257


of all my efforts," he said, " work has become absolutely
impossible for me. I have not faculties enough to put
two ideas together."
Whilst things were in this state, his family was increased by the birth of a daughter, after which event
Andre Ampere reached the lowest depth of mental
wretchedness, and went to his mother at Polemieux for
consolation. There his friend Bredin met him, and listened to the detailed history of that deplorable second
marriage. Madame Ampere, his old mother, saw that
the right thing to do was to accompany him to Paris,
and take the little boy along with them; and this is how
it happened that Jean Jacques, instead of being educated
in a village, under the shadow of the Mont d'Or, became
a sharp-witted little Parisian, - a change in his destiny
highly favorable to his culture, and to his future celebrity, but very probably not so favorable to his happiness.
A formal separation between Andre Ampere and his
wife was declared by the Cour d'Appel in July, I809.
The husband had done all he could to prevent this necessity, but in vain. In the autumn of the same year,
another blow fell on Andre in the death of his mother.
From this time, his life took its permanent shape and
color. The agitations of early misfortunes passed away
and left him in a calm sadness, with his magnificent
intellectual powers quite unimpaired, whilst the practical
power of labor, which had been for a while suspended,
was at length completely restored. He was therefore
able, notwithstanding the desolation of his domestic cirI7




258


2Modern Frenc/hmen.


curstances, to pursue the career of science in which he
became illustrious. Hle had ambition, which was gratified both by his own discoveries and by the honor rendered to him by others. Even so early as I812, he
announced the principle of the electric telegraph; and in
I814 he was elected Mlembre de l'zstitut. Besides these
and other satisfactions of his splendid scientific career,
he had the very exceptional consolation of recovering his
early faith in all the dogmas of his church. In the year
1817, and during the remainder of his life, Andre Ampere was one of the most fervent Roman Catholics in
France, - a remarkable instance of submission in so
powerful an intellect. The explanation is that, although
his intellect was one of the strongest in the world, his
sentiments were at least equally energetic; and they
found no satisfaction in scepticism, whilst Protestantism
had no associations for him connected with the human
affections of his youth.
As for Jean Jacques, he had such a taste for the catechism in his childhood that his grandmother's sister
declared he would become ultimately un pdre de la foi;
but the prediction was not verified. A lady who knew
him at Paris in his youth gives the following lively
description of his character and talents:
" Gifted with the happiest faculties of the mind, young
Ampere inherited none of his father's aptitudes for the
physical and mathematical sciences. He had a delicate
and nervous constitution, a mobile imagination with a
disposition for dreaming, an unsettled temper with sensitive feelings, a great need of affection, and a lively




7ean   y7aczues Amzpere.


259


sense of natural beauty. Though his memory was very
comprehensive, and his intelligence naturally quick, he
was always a very bad learner in the opinion of all the
masters who took part in his education."
The boy's natural incapacity for science astonished
his father, who used to repeat that at eighteen he knew
as much about mathematics as could be taught in those
days. The elder Ampere, who had suffered so much
inconvenience, and sadder troubles besides, from the
straitened circumstances of the family, desired like most
parents that his son should follow some lucrative occupation; but there were difficulties in the boy's natural
character, which was strongly inclined to literary pursuits. The simple truth was that Jean Jacques was a
born man of letters, just as his father was a born man
of science; and neither the one nor the other had any of
those talents which favor the accumulation of wealth.
The studies pursued by young Ampere in his adolescence were not confined to the strict university curriculum.  He worked at botany, he read a great deal of
German, and began to learn English.  Besides these
studies, he looked forward to enlarging his mind by
travel, so that the whole field of his culture was already
mapped out at an early age; for he became afterwards
accomplished in modern as well as ancient languages,
and a traveller.
His father's desire that Jean Jacques should follow a
lucrative pursuit led him when a young man to think a
moment about entering into trade, so he put himself
into communication with a M. Clement, a manufacturing




260


M odern Frenchmen.


chemist, who disenchanted him by what we should now
call his Philistinism. M. Clement began by telling him
that he must forget all he had learned in literature, to
occupy himself with useful knowledge. " Useful, if he
pleases," thought Jean Jacques, " but I shall never forget
Virgil and Racine."  The next thing M. Clement did
was to attack the higher mathematical studies, by declaring that all which was taught at the Ecole Polytechnique was useless in after-life. The only effect of these
bits of worldly wisdom was that young Ampere's dislike
to trade became confirmed into a positive antipathy. If
all the higher attainments were to be cast aside as an
encumbrance, and the mind exclusively concentrated on
gain, he declined the bargain. "What! " he exclaimed
indignantly, " boys are taught all sorts of generous and
elevated sentiments, disinterestedness is preached to
them, their themes and translations are composed of
nothing but maxims of wisdom and moderation, and,
when this education is ended, they are told that all these
principles are un tas de betises!"  The elder Ampere
writes to his son, and talks of mathematics, chemistry,
and drawing for the following year, but omits all mention of literature. "You forget literary studies," was
the reply: "do you imagine that I shall lose sight of
them for a single instant? I hope the omission was
unintentional." In August, I816, Jean Jacques writes
to his father, "The further I go, the more strongly I
feel how wrong I should have been to follow commercial
pursuits."
Young Ampere's susceptibility to impressions from




7eat 7acques A npere.


26


literature was extreme. Byron's "Manfred" produced
such an effect on his imagination that it made him
physically and mentally unwell for a whole week. " My
dear Jules," he writes to his friend Bastide, "last week
a sense of malediction was upon me, around me, and in
me.   I owe that to Lord Byron. I read ' Manfred'
twice. Never in my whole life did reading crush me
like that. It has made me ill. On Sunday, I went to
see the sunset, and it seemed menacing like the infernal
flames. I went into a church where the faithful were
peacefully singing the Halleluiah of the Resurrection.
Leaning against a column, I watched them with disdain
and envy. In the evening, I dined with E, and had
to talk with Madame M-   about room-decoration. At
nine o'clock, I could stand it no longer. I was in a state
of bitter and violent despair, with eyes closed and head
leaned back, devouring my own thoughts."
This is a curious instance of the tremendous influence
which Byron exercised on the most eager and excitable
young minds of that generation.  There cannot be a
doubt that, either from the nearness of the great Revolution and what followed it, or from the intense ferment
of ideas which disturbed Western Europe in the beginning of the century, young men in those days were far
more inflammable, far more ready to catch fire from the
compositions of men of genius, than they are at the
present day. The cool young gentlemen whom we see
around us would read " Manfred," if ever they read it at
all, with the most perfect self-possession; and, instead
of losing their mental balance for a week after, wouild




262


Modern Frenchmen.


probably experience no further emotion than a feeble
impulse toward criticism. I quote J. J. Ampere's account of his own state, because it shows how alive he
was to poetical influences. There is the same vivacity
(it will be called exaggeration by colder temperaments)
in his sentiments towards those who influenced him
personally. He writes from Berne to his friend Bastide,
who had been ill and was now alone: " What are Venice
and Illyria to me, when I am far from him who suffers
in solitude? Never let us be separated: life is so short,
how can we waste it so? What a frightful madness
it is to separate ourselves one from another! And to
think that I am two hundred leagues from you, and am
going still farther into regions where you are not! "
In an earlier letter to the same friend, he expresses a
passionate repugnance to philosophy, and bestows upon
it his hearty malediction: " How I do execrate philosophy: it is that which has brought me to a weariness of
every thing. I really look upon it with horror and contempt. I will bear no more of it! "
I have given these extracts simply to show the intensity of young Ampere's sentiments when on the threshold
of manly life. His letters of those times reveal already
that electric state, with its violent attractions and repulsions, which afterwards made his existence so strangely
and perpetually unsettled.
He started on his first tour in 1820, and was mistaken
enough to imagine that he would never wish to travel
again, he who was destined to be a roamer to the end of
his life! In August, we find him by the Lake of Geneva;




7ean 7acqztes Ampere.


263


and in September he visits the Lake of Brienne, where
his mind is full of souvenirs of Rousseau, especially on
the island. " A storm threatened: I noticed it only
from the light movement of tle little waves which rocked
our boat. When we got near to the island, I heard all at
once an agitated movement in the crests of the highest
trees. We landed; we walked upon the grass of the shore;
we sat down by the water. A sad and sombre border of
fir-trees rose up like a great wall whose base was washed
by the water: round about us all was fresh and gay. I
fancied Rousseau, in his age, broken in health, walking
there at the same hour, a little before sunset, gathering
a few flowers, with pain upon his forehead. When we
embarked again, a livelier wind filled our sail and raised
the most beautiful waves: we passed in the midst of the
reeds without an effort, and as if by enchantment. I was
delighted. Night came, and the moon shone upon the
agitated waters. There was in her peaceful rays, in the
clouds which passed rapidly before her, in the serenity
of a great part of the sky, something sweet and yet
menacing, uncertain as life itself. We returned through
a thick forest, and passed by wooden houses and across
meadows. And now the rain is falling."
This was not written to be printed: it is simply part
of a letter to Ampere's young friend Bastide. I do not
quote it for any remarkable literary merit, but only
because there is a certain elevation in its tone, considering that it occurs in a familiar correspondence between
two young men. There is feeling here, and observation
besides: the traveller both looks and remembers. Most




264


Modern Frenchmezn.


young men of the present day, after such an excursion,
would write much more briefly, and suppress their
thoughts and feelings, if they had any.  They would
say: "At the Lake of Brienne, we took a boat, and
landed on Rousseau's Island.   The weather looked
threatening, and when we got back it began to rain."
This tour in the autumn of I820 included a botanical
excursion in Savoy; and the two companions, J. J. Ampere and his friend Adrien de Jussieu, pushed on as far
as the Italian lakes, crossing the St. Gothard and going
to Lugano by Bellinzona.  Our hero wrote a lively
account of the first impression of Italy to his friend
Bastide. After the treeless desert of the high Alps, they
began to descend, first through the zone of the pine-tree
and then through the zone of the oak, coming finally to
the vine, after which they were surrounded by the full
beauty of a rich, inhabited country, with chateaux and
country houses on the shores of a beautiful lake. This
experience, the change from the arctic desert of the
Alpine heights to the luxuriant southern land of Italy
has been described before and since, but seldom with so
much of the genuine traveller's emotion. Young Ampere does not say now as he said in August, "If our
plan is realized, the desire for travel will never possess
me again." He says now: " I am sure that I shall start
another time. There is a delicious charm in the succession of places and aspects, in the long marches,
in the fatigues and chance opportunities for rest."
These are the words of the real traveller, and from that
year to the year of his death J. J. Ampere was as




yean 7acqzes Ampere.               265
much addicted to wandering as if he had been a born
Englishman.
With these elements, we may begin already to understand J. J. Ampere's nature and character as a young
man. He was a passionate student of several different
literatures; and a new passion, that of travel, had developed itself in him during his first tour beyond the boundaries of France. These two passions already distinguish
him from the purely national Frenchman, who reads no
language but his own, and limits his travelling to his
own country. In these early years of his life, J. J. Ampere, like many young men of an ardent disposition and
high culture, indulged the hope that he might be endowed with poetic genius, and wrote much in verse, even
as a schoolboy. At twenty, he composed a tragedy,
"Rosemonde," the fable of which was founded on the
history of the Lombards in Italy. This tragedy had
the extraordinary honor, considering the age of the
author, of being taken au serieux by the committee of
the Theatre FranSais,* who listened to it with goodnatured attention.  Notwithstanding this degree of encouragement, young Ampere's most intelligent friends
did not think that he was intended by nature to be a
dramatic poet; and when his father asked Ballanche the
direct question, " Do you think that my son is a genius? "
Ballanche was too honest to say yes.  Notwithstanding
* For readers who are not intimately acquainted with Paris, I may
mention that the Theatre Franyais is quite an exceptional theatrical
institution, maintained by the government in order to keep up a high
standard of dramatic literature and acting, which it does very strictly,
as an academy of dramatic culture and taste.




266


Modern Frenchmnenz.


this absence of real poetic inspiration, which of all mental gifts is the most rare, we should not estimate young
Ampere correctly, if we left his poetic labors out of
account. If not a genius, he was still a young man of
most brilliant abilities; and his versifying was a not
unimportant part of his culture, both as an exercise of
imagination and a discipline in the use of language.
We may also take note of a certain success in his college studies, in spite of his want of discipline as a schoolboy; for we find him carrying away the prir d'/hionzezir
in philosophy.
We have now to quit J. J. Ampere entirely for a short
time, and direct our attention to a most remarkable and
very celebrated woman, who had an influence on his
life which has seldom been equalled, for strength and
duration, in the long history of woman's influence over
man.
In the year when poor Julie Carron was born at
Lyons, I777, and almost in the same month, another
child was born in the same city, and soon afterwards
baptized by the name of Juliette.  Julie Carron and
Juliette Bernard are both not merely celebrated, but
sure to be remembered centuries hence for their influence on transcendently great men. Nobody can know
much about the elder Ampere without remembering
Julie Carron; and the history of Juliette Bernard is so
closely interwoven with the literary and social history of
the First Empire that few remarkable women are so sure
of immortality.
Julie Carron was educated in the simplest and most




Jean tirczues A mzpe 2e.


267


unworldly fashion, spending much of her time quietly il
the country, in that sweet homely life of which we have
had glimpses at Polemieux and St. Germain du Mont
d'Or, -a life beautifully occupied, in its retirement, by
household duties, good literature, and the observances
of unaffected piety. The life of Juliette Bernard was a
complete contrast to this. She was shut up almost in
infancy in a convent at Lyons (l'Abbaye de la Deserte),
from which she was suddenly removed at the age of
twelve, and sent to Paris to be dressed as elegantly as
possible and exhibited in her mother's salon, a place
filled with a numerous and artificial society, her father
occupying an important public position as receveur general des finances.
Here Juliette Bernard ripened rapidly into beauty,
and beauty of that especially powerful kind which is
heightened by all the graces of extreme civilization.
Then came the terror of I793; and M. Bernard sought
protection for his daughter by marrying her to one of
his intimate friends, M. Recamier, a banker, chiefly occupied with his own pleasures.
Monsieur Recamier was between forty and fifty years
old at that time, and his wife between fifteen and sixteen. He remained just the same after his marriage as
before it, and the consequence was that husband and
wife saw very little of each other. He was not a companion for her, she never had any children, and she
sought compensation for the want of society in her marriage by forming many friendships, of a kind which, in
justice to her memory, may require a few words of ex



268


iAlodern Frenczhmenz.


planation.  A career like hers is so entirely outside
of common experience that the mere unusualness of it
and the peculiar customs of her own intimate circle
might easily awaken suspicions. Nearly all Madame
Recamier's friendships were with men; but there is no
evidence against her morality, and there is, on the contrary, some evidence in her favor. A lady who lived
with her for years wrote of her afterwards as "the finished type of grace and purity;" another lady speaks of
her untarnished reputation; and after a careful examination of the materials which have come down to us, and
which are sufficiently abundant, my own conviction is that
her nature was passionless, and that the leading motive
of her life was simply the desire to exercise a supreme
influence in a certain limited circle. She liked to be the
queen of a little court, to live surrounded by sympathy,
affection, and admiration. Her self-love was gratified
by the intellectual eminence of those who gathered
around her; and in order to retain them, which she did
with astonishing success for years and years, she had
recourse to certain feminine arts, which a very little
study of that society makes plain to us. The most
effectual of her arts was to take, or appear to take, the
heartiest possible interest in a man's career; so that,
whenever he wanted a little sympathy or encouragement, he came to her and talked about his fortunate or
his unrewarded efforts, about his projects of study or
travel, with the certainty of finding an attentive hearer
and a kindly adviser. It is quite evident from her letters that Madame Recamier was not a person of any




yean 7acqiues Ampere.


269


intellectual eminence herself; and yet she had so much
tact, so much sympathy with intellectual men, that they
remained under an illusion on this subject, which surprises us who never experienced her charm.   The
reader will remember a passage in which Henri Perreyve, by a stretch of imagination, attributed especial
intellectual eminence to the Madonna; and I think it may
be admitted that most men want to look up, if they
possibly can, either to some ideal woman, as Perreyve
did, or else to some real woman whom they innocently
and unconsciously idealize, as J. J. Ampere idealized
Madame Recamier. Let us confess that we want a
degree of encouragement in our labors, which the frigid
selfishness of our own sex and its limited sympathy are
utterly unable to supply! Madame Recamier supplied
this want with a rare degree of completeness, not only
because she had inexhaustible sympathy, or the talent
for imitating it in any required quantity, but because
her stately beauty, her royal grace of demeanor, her
exquisite tact and taste, made her interest in a man's
occupations seem to him such a distinguished honor.
The intercourse between this lady and her admirers
became a sort of barter, in which the courtiers offered
their homage, and the queen paid for it in gracious
audiences and enviable distinctions.  What has been
said in defence of Madame Recamier's moral character
must not be taken to imply that she made no use of her
extraordinary physical attractions: on the contrary, I am
fully persuaded that she knew their value, and availed
herself of them as a means of keeping her singular little




270


Modern Frenchmen.


court together.  Though passionless herself, she was
not sorry to awaken just such a degree of passion in her
admirers as might keep them in a proper condition of
slavery to her will; but she made them control it, or she
controlled it for them, and there were no declared jealousies nor out-breaks. The manners of the Recamier
group were affectionate, and at the same time regulated
by well-bred courtesy; for the queen could not tolerate
errors of temper in her court, and constantly exercised
her intelligence to prevent the development of rivalry
into dissension. Those members of the little circle, who
also belonged to Madame de Stael's little circle at Coppet,
continued their Coppet practice of calling each other by
their Christian names, which produces the oddest effect
upon a reader of the present day, especially as their
intercourse was in other respects guarded by a somewhat formal politeness. The reader who meets with
extracts from their correspondence might greatly misinterpret the degree of their intimacy when he finds
Camille Jordan calling Madame Recamier " chere Juliette," and she replies to him  with "cher Camille."
Sometimes she is called "belle Juliette," sometimes
"aimable Juliette," and sometimes "belle et aimable
Juliette" both at once. Nothing can be more contrary
to French habits of the present day, which are formal
and ceremonious in correspondence between persons of
different sexes; but this is only the free-masonry of a
little clique, which had a fancy for making itself into a
sort of family by this practice.
The question naturally suggests itself, to what degree




ezzn 7aczqes Amprce.


27I


these customs, and the remarkable position in society
which was assumed and maintained by Madame Recamier, can have been agreeable to her husband? He
really does not seem to have cared about the matter.
He took it all with a serenity due partly to his knowledge of his wife's character and partly to the happy
frivolity of his disposition. He thought it was her way
to be a queen and have a court, and it does not appear
that he disturbed his mind about it any farther. As for
the brilliant intellectual talk which Madame Recamier
liked to have going on about her, it probably bored him,
and he felt happier out of its way. She, on her part,
behaved to him with what people call "the strictest
regard for propriety." She conducted herself like a lady
who has duties to perform and means to go through them
with irreproachable correctness. A crisis occurred in
I8o6, which put her good behavior to a severe test.
M. Recamier was ruined, and his young and brilliant
wife was henceforth to be like a picture without its
gilded frame. If any thing could have vexed and irritated a woman who liked to shine in society, it was this.
Financial ruin held out a gloomy prospect for one to
whom social celebrity was the breath of life, and it is
possible that she anticipated a much worse future than
that which really lay before her; yet such was her selfcontrol, and her determination to act the part of a wellconducted lady, that, although there was no affection
between her and her husband, she skilfully avoided all
useless recriminations, resigned her splendors apparently




272


Modern Frenchlmenz.


without an effort, and even consoled him under his misfortune. She got a letter on this occasion from her
friend Camille Jordan, which was most affectionate and
sympathetic; and it is a curious evidence of M. Recamier's freedom from jealousy that she read the letter to
him. for his consolation.
To this brief and incomplete sketch of a most remarkable woman may be added a few words about her peculiar kind of worldliness. She was a worldly person, no
doubt, in her own way; but it was a very refined and
elevated way. To be sought by the distinguished, to be
regarded by them with feelings of admiration for her
beauty and of affection for her character, was the satisfaction which made life agreeable to her, and she was
indifferent to the vanities of the vulgar. She bore misfortune with a dignity which never gave way for a single
instant, and she had many trials. The most interesting
society in Europe had become, from long habit, almost a
necessity of her existence; yet, in I8II, she was exiled
by command of Napoleon to a distance of forty leagues
from Paris, and went to live with one servant and a child
six years old, a niece of her husband, at the dull country
town of Chalons-sur-Marne. The dread of Napoleon's
power was so oppressive in those days that people avoided
a political exile as men avoid a leper, but she bore her
solitude and the dulness of the provincial town without
a murmur. After ten months of this, she went to Lyons,
where she met with one or two friends, and from Lyons
she passed into Italy, where she lived chiefly at Rome.*.
*l 4  e.~  *  *I




7ean Yacques Ampere.


273


and Naples.  The fall of the Empire in 1814 permitted
her to return to Paris after an exile of three years.*
Notwithstanding her poverty, Madame Recamier could
still contrive, by very strict economy, to live upon her
little income, and rent rooms to receive her friends.
Her most serious occupation was the education of her
niece, which went forward under her own eye, in all its
details, even in little household matters which are sometimes neglected by ladies of her rank in society.
Madame Recamier herself, though strict and orderly
about her expenses, had never possessed those practical
household accomplishments which are so common in the
middle classes in France; and she was very anxious that
her niece should be a thorough menaghre.     She was
entirely above the two opposite vulgar errors which
would confine women to ornamental accomplishments on
the one hand, or else to household drudgery on the other.
She believed that the household knowledge was compatible with good mental culture, and she was determined that her niece should be wanting in neither. The
kind of life which Madame Recamier believed to be the
happiest and best for a woman was that which we have
already caught some glimpses of at Polemieux and St.
Germain du Mont d'Or, where the ladies read good literature, were thoroughly and unquestionably ladies in all
their thoughts and ways, and yet at the same time well
* The cause of her exile was simply that Napoleon objected to feminine influence, when it was not exercised in his own favor. For the same
reason, he had exiled Madame de Stael, whom Madame Recamier visited
at Coppet, a visit which irritated Napoleon. The beautiful Duchess of
Cheuvreux was exiled for having resisted an imperial order.
eee..*:  eel *




274


MAodern1 Frenichnmen.


skilled in the useful labors of the house. These excellent home qualities seemed to her worth special endeavors
for their attainment; but what she most desired for her
niece was a marriage of affection, which she considered
far more conducive to happiness than the vanity of her
own splendid but unsatisfying position.  The reader
may be glad to know that she completely succeeded in
these good projects. I mention them because they throw
some light upon what was best in her nature, and also
because they give us a glimpse of that latent unhappiness which attended her singular mode of life.
I have said that Madame Recamier could still live
sufficiently well to rent good rooms; and this implies
that her existence, though regulated by a severe economy, was still not without some of those elegancies
which a lady does not easily relinquish. Unhappily, this
modest degree of well-being was not destined to last for
very long. A second financial reverse threw her into
such a degree of pecuniary difficulty that it was impossible to keep up even this quiet manner of life; and a
second change, a new descent, had to be accepted. She
bore this additional trial with her usual dignity and
patience, and resolved at once to adapt herself to her
altered circumstances. There was a religious house in
the immediate neighborhood of Paris, called the Abbaye
au Bois; and, though she could not become a nun, she
begged or hired a garret in the out-buildings of this
establishment.  Her own religious sentiments were
gratified by the associations of the place; and her choice
of it marked at least a willingness to be considered as. *- -. * ~ -,:




Yean 7acques Amzpere.


275


retiring from the world. She was not sorry, perhaps, to
shield her reputation at the same time by her selection
of a religious building as her refuge. And now came
the most remarkable and (in reality, though not in outward appearance) the most triumphant period of this
extraordinary career. Wealth was gone, youth was gone.
Madame Recamier was now nothing but a middle-aged
woman living separately from her husband, in an out-ofthe-way garret, in a condition of avowed poverty; and
still, with the single exception of Madame de Stael, she
got more homage than any other woman in Europe.
With the materials in our possession, which are considerable, we who have never been brought within the
radius of her influence may have a difficulty in accounting for it. She had the reputation of the most transcendent beauty, and her portrait by Gerard is still in
existence,- a portrait which was accepted as a likeness
by those who knew her, and yet it does not produce
upon the present generation the impression of a remarkably beautiful woman; and it is an open question
whether the lady on the canvas has any right to be
called beautiful at all. She is a fine-looking person,
zine belle femme, but that is different. She looks healthy
and well grown, a well-developed, well-preserved specimen of humanity, which poses in a studiously graceful
attitude, according to what was thought classical under
the First Empire; but it astonishes us to think that her
face could make a fool of any man, yet she turned the
heads of the most experienced, and made slaves of them,
not for a month or a year, but for the term of their
eee ~
ee. -'i




276


loderni Frenchmen.


natural lives. Again, as to her mental qualities, there
can be no doubt that with reference to her aim in life
she generally acted with great judgment; * but this was
more by feminine tact than by what could properly be
called intellectual force. We have her letters, and what
are they? She could write affectionately; she could be
encouraging and sympathetic (it was her habit, her art,
and each correspondent liked his own little dram of consolation); she valued her friends, and made it her business
to preserve their friendship: but there is never a ray of
real intellectual light in all her simple correspondence.
She writes news, she acknowledges the receipt of news,
she expresses her good wishes, she notices some very
visible peculiarities on her travels, such as the numerous domestics of Italian grandees, and some oddities in
their mode of life; but this is all. Now, if Madame
Recamier had really been a superior woman, she had
every imaginable stimulus to exhibit her superiority in
her letters. They were addressed to some of the most
cultivated men then living; and there was always a possibility that they might, at some future time, be made
public.
The date of young Ampere's first meeting with
Madame R6camier has been preserved by her niece,
who was present. It was the Ist of January, I820.
The ladies were in their retreat at the Abbaye au Bois;
and there were only five gentlemen present (which was
below the usual average), when young Ampare and his
* There is, however, one most remarkable instance to the contrary,
which will be mentioned in its right place.
* *". * *.::




Jean 7aczues Am nere.


277


father arrived. Andre Ampere was by this time a great
man; but, besides this recommendation, he had the advantage of being the oldest and most intimate friend of
Ballanche, who was a great friend of Madame Recamier,
and she therefore gave him a particularly gracious reception. As for Jean Jacques, the mature hostess, being
considerably more than twice his age, might have taken
him simply for a boy; but, young as he was, he had
already some reputation for extraordinary attainments,
and his conversational talent, which afterwards became
one of his greatest powers, was already acceptable even
in so exacting a circle as that of the Abbaye au Bois.
He was dazzled by Madame Recamier, notwithstanding
the extreme simplicity of her dress and the absence of
all splendor in the little room; and there is an anecdote
of this first interview which reveals at once his boyish
awkwardness and her delicate womanly tact. As she
did him the honor to talk with him, he took a jasper
paper-knife to play with, and managed so badly that he
broke it. She, observing that the sight of the fragments embarrassed him, managed to get them, one after
another, under her arm, as they lay on a little table, and
to hide them away without his knowledge.
That evening fixed his fate. The hostess had only
intended to be kind to the son of an illustrious man who
was dear to her friend Ballanche; but she was such a
skilful artist in the use of feminine charm and influence,
and her skill from long practice had become so much a
part of herself, that she innocently subjugated poor Jean
Jacques, who had never before talked to so sympathetic




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a listener. From that hour till the date of Madame
Recamier's death, a space of nearly thirty years, Jean
Jacques could never be happy for a week, and scarcely
even for a day, unless he talked with her. Those who
knew the lady already were not in the least surprised by
this fresh evidence of her fascination: they were accustomed to see men subjugated, and an instance more or
less excited scarcely a remark.  Madame Recamier's
niece, who was present, only makes the general observation that " few escaped from that all-powerful charm, of
which the truest and most attentive kindness was the
principal influence, and which, coming from an elevated
and delicate soul, took hold upon what was best and
highest in your own heart."
It has occurred to me sometimes, in thinking about
this remarkable friendship, to wonder how much of it
may have been due to the melancholy event which took
place by the river Saone so far back as the year I803.
If Julie had lived, her child would have found in his own
home that kindly sympathy and interest which only the
tenderness of a woman can ever bestow in its perfection.
His father loved him as a father may love his boy; but
Andre Ampere was absorbed in his own studies, and
was the most absent of men. The grandmother was
dead; and, even if she had been living, still there was a
certain austerity in her character which was not what
Jean Jacques required. Of the maiden aunt, Josephine
Ampere, we know little. The other aunt, the intelligent
and high-minded Elise Carron, had followed her sister
Julie to the grave quite prematurely. It is clear that




yean 7acqules Ampere.


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young Ampere, living amongst men and boys, enjoyed
at the age of nineteen very little sympathy indeed; and
it is equally evident that his susceptible and delicate
feelings, for he had the feelings of a poet without a
poet's creative genius, were waiting to be touched by
the feminine influence, as the strings of a silent harp
are waiting for the fingers of its mistress.  The first
influence of Madame Recamier was evidently maternal.
Jean Jacques had never known what it is to be listened
to with full interest and full understanding by a woman;
and, after all reserves about Madame Recamier's intellect, it is certain that she had acquired the habit of
always seeming to understand her worshippers. Having
once tasted this new pleasure, and felt its strengthening influence, the boy wanted to taste it again, as one
returns to a wine which is at the same time tonic and
delicious. She, on her part, being a mature woman, and
surrounded by middle-aged men, found a pleasant freshness in the enthusiasm of a gifted youth, who, with his
beardless face and simple ignorance of the world, looked
even more boyish than he really was. There is no reason to believe that her culpability went farther than this,
and at first she may have done more good than harm to
Jean Jacques, by stimulating what was best in him, and
by admitting him into the highly cultivated circle which
surrounded her at the Abbaye au Bois; but such a
friendship as theirs was dangerous for him, though not
for her. "It is a great happiness," wrote one of the
wisest clergymen who ever adorned the Church of England, "to form a sincere friendship with a woman; but a




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Modern Frenchmen.


friendship amongst persons of different sexes rarely or
never takes place in this country. The austerity of our
manners hardly admits of such a connection,- compatible with the most perfect innocence, and a source of
the highest possible delight to those who are fortunate
enough to obtain it."* J. J. Ampere was formed by
nature for such friendships, and in the course of his life
he enjoyed the affectionate esteem and regard of several
excellent women, eminent both for their intelligence and
their position in society; but his friendship for Madame
Recamier was too predominant, absorbed too much of
his time and thought, and reduced him to the position
of a mere satellite among other satellites, going round
and round the luminary which had become the centre of
his earthly existence, without any hope of rest in an
ultimate union. Again, whilst she with her passionless
nature was always calm, her influence sometimes agitated
him; and there were times in his life when he painfully
felt his bonds, though he had no more power to break
them than the earth has to liberate itself from the invisible tether of gravitation. Madame Recamier's worst
fault in this intimacy appears to have been that insatiable appetite for homage which was part of her natural
character; and young Ampere's most lamentable weakness was a total want of mental independence.  He
could master himself so far as to regulate his behavior,
he could even, by a strong effort, command sufficient
strength of will to banish himself for months from
her presence; but his thoughts turned to her inces* Sydney Smith, in his Memoir.




7ean 7acques AImipere.


28I


santly wherever he went, and he never had an hour of
freedom.
Towards the close of the year 1823, Madame Recamier
went to Rome, with the intention of staying there some
months, and took lodgings in the Via Babuino, opposite
the Greek Church. It is scarcely necessary to inform
the reader that her evening receptions went on just as
if she had been at the Abbaye au Bois. " Every evening," says Madame Cheuvreux, "she was surrounded by
intimate friends, such as M. Dugas Montbel, the Duke
of Laval-Montmorency, M. de Givre, the Abbe Canova,
Guerim, Leopold Robert, Schnetz, Delecluze, &c. Ballanche and Mlle. Amelie remain with Madame Recamier.
Jean Jacques passes part of his days with them. And
so the Abbaye au Bois was reconstituted in Italy."
Madame Recamier has been compared to a queen
with her court, and the comparison is not inaccurate.
By her beauty and tact, she exercised a sort of royalty;
but this was only a part of her means of influence. She
was also, in reality, though not in name, the president of
a literary club, constituted, as the smaller French clubs
usually are, for the purpose of conversation. The members of this little circle found it convenient to have her
for a centre around which they might group themselves.
She presided admirably well, and the deference with
which she was always treated kept the members of the
circle in order. Wherever she happened to be, any one
member felt sure of meeting other members; and this is
evidently the true explanation of the rapidity with which
her circle reconstituted itself in Italy. If she had been




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an immoral woman, a circle of this kind could never have
held together, for obvious reasons.
Jean Jacques immediately set to work to make the
most of his time in Rome. Young as he was, he already
led his own life, pursuing his studies with great ardor,
and refreshing himself with pleasures as improving as
his studies; indeed, in such happy days as those he spent
in Rome, the distinction between the two becomes difficult to define. " Rome is a very good place to work in,"
he writes to his father; "and, if people spoke French
there, it would be the right place for an Ecole Polytechnique." Speaking of his own way of passing his time,
he says it is impossible for life to be more fully occupied.
He has an Italian master with whom he reads Dante
and practises himself in speaking. He enjoys excellent
weather, the finest winter known in Rome for years;
and he avails himself of it to study the ruins, thus
beginning at his early age those long labors in Roman
archaeology, which were ultimately to be the materials
for his most important work. He had the courage to
begin a new tragedy, entitled " Rachel," which he calls
"La Juive " familiarly in letters to his father. " When
the fire of my admiration for Rome has subsided a little,
I shall take the chisel and give the first strokes to the
marble. I have been working on the plan." His father
took the warmest possible interest in his literary projects; and, when a few pages of verse were composed,
they were sent at once to Paris for the too indulgent
paternal criticism. The correspondence at this time is
interesting, as a picture of the relation between father




7ean 7acques Anmpyere.


283


and son. It is melancholy on the father's side; for Jean
Jacques is every thing to him, and his absence leaves a
dreary void. " Your absence," he writes, " produces in
me the same effect as the longing for the native land
on the Swiss and Lapps. Ballanche has spoken of the
celestial nostalgia, I am tormented by the paternal."
The young man, on his part, writes with the cheerfulness of youth amidst the excitement of new and interesting scenes. He promises to return, so as to pass the
following winter with his father, and talks in a tone of
affectionate pleasantry about the tragedy which he is
just beginning, and which he will read when they come
together. Then there will be the impressions of Italy
to recount; and meanwhile he tries to satisfy the paternal heart as well as he can by letters, those welcome
palliatives of absence.
To avoid the dangerous summer air of Rome, the
travellers go to Naples, traversing the dangerous parts
of the route with an escort of eighty Austrian soldiers,
and marching by moonlight to avoid the effects of the
heat and the malaria from the Pontine marshes. At
Naples, Jean Jacques is in excellent health. "I have
never," he writes, "enjoyed so much health and so much
physical well-being."  His existence is that of a poet:
he passes part of his time on the water after sunset,
when the ripple plays gently about the boat, and every
stroke of the oar flashes phosphorescent light. "I do
not believe there can be any thing more delightful in
any place in the world," he writes: "the nights of Greece
and the East cannot be more beautiful. We shall go to




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see Pompeii by one of these lovely nights. The illusion
will be more perfect in the ancient city at the hour when
all the inhabitants may be supposed to have quitted the
temples and theatres and to be asleep. I hope to write
here, for there is less to be seen than at Rome; and, in
the long, dreamy days on the seashore, the waves will
bring me many a verse."
Jean Jacques found so much happiness in this dreamy,
poetic life at Naples that it was difficult to tear himself
away from it.  The days passed in pleasant study;
the evenings were spent happily on the water, or with
Madame Recamier's little circle; it was still permissible
to dream of a poet's fame, and in the mean while he
could afford to wait a little for the laurel, in the full
enjoyment of his youth. The influence of the natural
beauty around him, and also the still more powerful
influence of the lady whom he conversed with every
day, disposed him to a return towards religious sentiments. "I feel here," he writes to his father, "a return
to religious emotions and ideas, which in reality are what
is best in us; and, although my mind has a repugnance
for what is exclusive and terrible in certain beliefs, my
heart is more than ever disposed to humble itself, and be
tender under the hand of a just and good God." Then,
speaking of Madame Recamier, he says, " I owe her
whatever good sentiments I may possess." The truth
is that this lady, in a gentle, unobtrusive way, tried
at that time and constantly afterwards to bring Jean
Jacques within the influence of religious ideas.  In
reality, the difference between them may not have been




7ean Yacqzes A nmpre.


285


quite so wide as she imagined; for, although he was not
able to give intellectual assent to the dogmas of the
Church, he earnestly desired to believe as much as he
could, having a strong inducement in the pleasure which
his more perfect orthodoxy would have given to his
father and to Madame Recamier.
He left her at Naples early in November (1824), to
return to his father; but the separation was very hard to
bear, and he wrote the most despairing letters.  He
travelled by way of Rome, Ferrara, Padua, to Venice,
his melancholy becoming darker and darker. Imagine
some faithful dog that has been too kindly treated for
its own good, and is now sent away to a distance; imagine what the dog would say if it could only write, and
you have these letters. It is a curious evidence of the
remarkable absence of enmity in the Recamier circle
that one of the first persons Jean Jacques goes to see,
on his arrival in Paris, is M. Recamier himself, to whom
he presents a gift from his wife, a pin, with which M.
Recamier is " charmed."
Having seen for the present enough of young Ampere's weakness, it may be right, in justice to him, to
look now on his stronger side, which was a resolute
intellectual industry. Few men whose lives are laid
open to us in detail will bear so searching an examination as to the use made of the passing days. If
happy, he works merrily, and enriches his mind even by
his recreations; if unhappy, he works with determined
energy to relieve himself from the pressure of painful
thoughts. In either case, the result is always an ad



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vance; and this is how it came to pass that in his mature
life J. J. Ampere was one of the most cultivated men in
Europe. Even so early as the year 1825, the excellent
intellectual habits, the well-chosen intellectual principles,
which led to this result, were already formed or accepted;
and it is scarcely too much to say that by their help he
gained a clear advance of 'ten years over the majority of
intellectual workers, who seldom attain to this steadiness in harness much before middle age. The three
great needs of his life, as he himself defined them, were
"friendship, imagination, and labor." Of these, the most
disturbing was imagination, including the belief that he
was a poet, which led to a waste of effort in versification.
" All my time is my own," he writes from Paris in January, 1825: "my work is prepared, but I have not the fire
necessary for its execution. I sit down to my table and
make a few verses, perceiving soon after that verses so
manufactured are never good; and then I stop short for
fear of disgusting myself with my work in spoiling it."
Soon afterwards he writes, " For some time past, I have
not been able to make a verse; " and again, " It would be
too pleasant if one could always compose: one would
produce many a masterpiece, and life would slip away
happily; but alas! for one hour of poetic fervor, how
many hours are pale and cold!" This intermittence of
productive power would not of itself be a proof that Jean
Jacques had no poetic inspiration, for that is usually
intermittent; but these lost sittings, these futile efforts,
have a discouraging effect upon the mind. Ampare
braced himself, after them, by the study of Hebrew and




Jeant 7acques AmperCe.


287


Chinese. A fairly happy day was a day spent in peaceful work: a perfectly happy day was one in which, after
energetic labor, came the longed-for conversation of the
well-known circle. On the I4th of February, he writes:
"What a good day it has been!    Splendid weather,
which I admired from the garden! I have made verses,
read Chinese and Hebrew. If there had been only a
little of the Abbaye au Bois this evening, all would have
been completely to my taste." As to amusement, like
most men who have tasted the superior satisfactions of
congenial work, he found that mere pleasures were insufficient. "That which is only amusement," he writes,
" is a very poor affair; and, after all my attempts in that
direction, I come back to my books, to my studies." One
of his favorite pursuits at this time was to read the history of France by the light of the principal memoirs or
contemporary chronicles, whilst he followed the literary
history of his country, at the same time, by studying
the principal literary remains of each epoch; and in
this way, at an age when most men are absorbed entirely
by the present, he acquired the faculty, so useful to him
afterwards as an historical writer, of throwing himself
back into the past, and living in it by the intellect and
imagination.
Madame Recamier's maternal interest in young Ampere's intellectual pursuits has been the means of giving
us many details about his ways of work. Here is an
especially valuable paragraph from one of his letters to
her: -
"You like me to speak about my labors, to tell you




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Modern Frenchmen.


all my studies, as a schoolboy tells his mamma.*  Well,
here is what just at present seems to me the finest thing
in the world, and an infallible means of arriving almost
at universal knowledge. It is very simple, and consists
only in remarking in each book that I read what are
the most important points, to concentrate all my attention upon them, to engrave them in my memory, and
endeavor to forget all the rest entirely. To this I add
another condition, which is to read, on each subject and
in each language, nothing but the best books. It seems
to me that by this method it may be possible, without
uselessly overburdening the mind, to acquire very accurate and very various knowledge. I have begun to
apply this system to various works, and am delighted
with it."
There is nothing very original in this, though Jean
Jacques may have discovered it for himself; but the
wonder is that he should have paid attention to such a
matter so early in life. Young men rarely have any
conception whatever of the necessity for economizing
intellectual effort; and they seldom realize the truth that
the carrying power of the memory is limited, and that a
wise man will not burden it uselessly.
With all his love of learning, Jean Jacques hated
pedantry, both in early life and afterwards. His tone
was that of a genial, cultivated man of the world, who
read much and observed much without losing the elas* The reader will observe how this confirms what has been said
about Madame Recamier's art in attaching people to her by taking an
interest in their occupations, and also about the maternal character of
her friendship for Jean Jacques, which he recognizes himself.




yeanz jacques Ampere.


289


ticity of his mind. His love of ladies' society may have
saved him from the hopeless dulness which is often the
penalty of learning, and the intelligent conversations at
the Abbaye au Bois may have given him a distaste for
intercourse in which there was less of sweetness and
light. At the end of January (I825), he dines with some
of the cleverest young men in Paris, "l'elite de la jeunesse francaise," and they seem to him "terribly pedantic."
He is irritated by the disdainful tone which they adopt
with reference to their own epoch, he is vexed by their
scornful inquiries, "Where is poetry to come from?
Who has genius?" He feels tempted to answer, "Have
genius yourselves, and let us see what you can do!"
When we remember that those learned youths were
despising the natural gifts of their countrymen exactly
five years before the brilliant epoch of I830, it is enough
to deliver us from the gloomy forebodings of pedantic
criticism at all times.
Madame Recamier returned from Italy in May, 1825,
and went to spend the autumn in a rural retreat at the
Vallee aux Loups, which had been arranged by Chateaubriand when he composed "The Martyrs."  From what
the reader already knows of J. J. Ampere, he will at once
infer that the young gentleman would exhibit strong
rustic tastes at the same time, and so it turned out; for
he went to stay at the village of Aulnay with one of his
friends, M. de Latouche, a dramatic author. Aulnay
was quite near to the Vallee aux Loups; so Jean Jacques
could easily walk over and take his place in the friendly
circle, which, wherever Madame Recamier happened to
19




290


Modernz Frczic/mzen.


be, immediately gathered around her, as bees do round
their queen.
That Vallee aux Loups seems to have been a dangerous place, not on account of wolves, but from the facility
with which a sentiment will grow and gain strength in
the retirement of the country. Sainte-Beuve said that,
in the summer or autumn following the first presentation
of Jean Jacques at the Abbaye au Bois, Madame Recamier spent some time in the valley, and Jean Jacques
went to stay there too with his friend De Jussieu, who
had a small residence there.   He returned to Paris a
fortnight before she did; and, when he met her again at
the Abbaye, she delicately hinted that country walks were
somewhat dangerous, - that, if their stay in the valley
had lasted longer, "there might have been a reason for
apprehending the beginning of a romance for a poetic
heart." Madame Recamier, at that time, had no notion
that her young guest would make himself miserable
about a middle-aged woman like her; but with a remarkable want of feminine perspicacity she imagined that
J. J. had fallen in love, or had begun to fall in love,
with her young niece, Mlle. Amelie Recamier, who was
always by her side.*    Thrown.off his guard by the
suddenness with which such an entirely new idea was
presented to him, Jean Jacques lost for a moment his
* Sainte-Beuve, who knew Madame Recamier, believed that she
really imagined her niece to be the attraction; but there is still a possibility that a clever woman like her might have feigned such a belief
simply in order to clear up the situation. It is possible, too, that she
might have looked with favor upon a marriage between J. J. Ampere
and her niece, and that she may have taken this means of suggesting the
idea to his mind.




canz 7acqzues Ampere.


29I


habitual self-control, burst into sobs, and exclaimed,
"Ah! it was not for her!" That crisis over, he had
recovered, as we have seen, his modest position as one of
the members (the youngest member) of the Recamier
circle, and had had courage enough to deny himself even
that satisfaction by returning from Naples to Paris, from
a sense of duty to his father. The visit to the Vallee
aux Loups in I825 renewed the old danger.   Jean
Jacques could control his feelings in Paris, where he was
simply one of a conversation party; but in the country
he saw more of the lady, and this did him harm by
making him feel too keenly the painful nature of his
position, and that fatal throwing-away of his youth in
a hopeless attachment, which in moments of bitterest
frankness he acknowledged to himself, without having
the power to withdraw finally from its influence. "What
can I become," he asked, "with the faculties that I feel
within myself, this need of activity, this energy for work,
and that other something, I know not what, at the bottom
of my soul, which extinguishes all, and is inflicting dull
death upon me gradually? Oh! I know well what it
is: it is a life badly begun, a wasted youth. Oh! if I
could but have seen in her a friend only, if my heart had
not worn itself in painful dreams, it would not have been
languid and broken as it is now. I suffer through my
own fault, but I suffer horribly. Full of the wish to
work, I can do nothing. I try all the old remedies,
languages, sciences, conversation, reading; and all has
less hold upon me than in the past." Elsewhere he
says, " In my purgatory, I do like Dante, who stimulated




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Modern Frenchmen.


himself when traversing the circles of pain by pronouncing the name of Beatrice."
Such a condition as this could not have lasted for
very long without weakening the foundation of the
mind and character, and it may have been a good thing
ultimately for the patient that his stay near the Vallee
aux Loups in 1825 brought his malady to an acute
crisis.  The lady, on her part, remained as cool and
self-possessed as ever. She had her own policy to follow, which was to maintain her power over as many
subjects as possible; and she was not going to sacrifice
this policy to the folly of the youngest of them. Her
married life with M. Recamier was merely nominal. He
had given her, at her father's request, the protection of
his name in the terror of 1793, a time when she was a
mere child; but he had lived his own life since then, in
complete independence of hers, and with scarcely even
a pretension to the position of her husband. For a moment, Jean Jacques conceived the hope that this marriage might be dissolved by a divorce, and that he might
profit by the dissolution of the tie, - an idea which only
betrays his boyish ignorance of the lady's nature. In
8I I, sh,e had refused a royal suitor, Prince Augustus of
Prussia, who had indulged his imagination by the same
project. Later in life, when a widow, she refused even
Chateaubriand, who had certainly more influence over
her than any one else. As for J. J. Ampere, she looked
upon him simply as a clever and interesting boy, whom
she patronized by encouraging his studies, and by developing in her circle his considerable talent for conversa



Yean   yacques Ampere.


293


tion. He was a part of her state, as a young groom is
part of a rich man's state, in a house where there are
twenty servants (with the difference that he would not
have been so easy to replace); and she did not wish to
diminish herself by the reduction of her establishment,
which would have resulted from his dismissal.  She,
therefore, whilst giving him little or no encouragement,
used all her tact to calm him, and yet retain him in her
service; and, as she knew him better than he knew her,
she so far succeeded that, from that day to the day of
her death, he contented himself with her friendship, and,
though he might be neither husband nor lover, remained
devoted to her in age and infirmity with an unshakable
fidelity. Poets have used the simile of brooks or flowers and the moon: such a simile could never have
been more aptly applied than to the lives of this man
and that woman. The uneasy current of his existence,
twisting hither and thither, vexed by many obstacles,
owed the lights which sparkled upon it and the shadows
which were cast upon it to a luminary, cold, remote,
unattainable, which shone with equal lustre on his
rivals.
The moon looks
On many brooks:
The brook can see no moon but this.
The elder Ampere infinitely regretted to see his son's
strength of affection wasting itself year after year on a
friendship in which he gave all and received a mere
fraction in return; and remembering the days of his own
wedded life with Julie, the happiest of his existence, he




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Mlodern Freznczhnen.


said to himself that if only Jean Jacques could be persuaded to love some good girl who would accept him,
all might yet be well, the young man's life would have
its centre in his own home, and his sentiments towards
Madame Recamier would subside into a reasonable
friendship.  Andre Ampere had found precisely the
young lady whom his best judgment approved in Mlle.
Clementine Cuvier, daughter of the famous naturalist.
All accounts agree in describing her as a person to
whom a prudent man of cultivated intelligence might
gladly intrust his happiness.  She had inherited
some of her father's rarest intellectual powers, as he
himself acknowledged; and, though not beautiful, her
countenance had the "sweetness and light" which
always win regard. Andre Ampere had an absolute
confidence in her, and it became the strongest wish of
his life that Jean Jacques should be her husband. The
young lady herself, in the opinion of an observant
witness (Mlle. Amelie Recamier), would not have
been averse to this project. Her manners, like those of
every well-bred young lady in her nation and class, were
extremely modest and retiring; but she still betrayed a
certain preference for Jean Jacques in talking with him
about literature or science more willingly than with
any one else. The same witness is of opinion that Jean
Jacques had a sentiment of "very tender respect " for
the young lady, which might easily have gained power
over his heart, had he not disliked Baron Cuvier's domineering spirit, which made him aware that to become
his son-in-law would be equivalent to the sacrifice of his




7eanz.acyz7cs Ampere.


295


independence. A passage occurs in a letter to his
father, written about a year after his first meeting
with Mile. Cuvier, in which he says, " I had for a moment an idea which passed away like so many others,
as others may possibly take its place. This is my nature; and it ought to be a reason for you to look with
apprehension on the irrevocable state which you are
anxious that I should enter upon. My head must have
time to ripen and my character to form itself before I
can engage myself for ever without madness." Behind
these objections, the reader perceives the real one, which
was the difficulty of finding in any young lady's society
the charm of Madame Recamier's conversation. This
was a terrible disappointment to Andre Ampere,
whose letters about this time to his friend Bredin are
quite painful to read. He speaks of being "torn" by
these circumstances, of being "smothered with sorrows," and says that his scientific labors, successful
as they are, cannot console him for the loss of all the
happiness which he had dreamed of for his son. This
grief lasted permanently; and when in July, I827, Andre
Ampere learned that Mlle. Cuvier was engaged to be
married to M. Duparquet, the news cut him to the
quick. "I cannot express how much sorrow this has
caused me," he writes to his son. A month later, before
this project of marriage was realized, the young lady
was suddenly taken ill, and began to spit blood. Andre
Ampere saw her a few days after this, and was struck
with her extreme paleness, and with an expression of
melancholy upon her face. " Her sister had put a rose




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Modern Frenchmen.


in her hair, which seemed half faded. All this gave me
a gloomy presentiment." During another visit, he saw
the young lady lying on a sofa, paler than ever, and with
a great difficulty of breathing. Notwithstanding her
engagement, she gave a painful pleasure to Ampere by
showing, through her questions, a great interest in his
son, then travelling in the north of Europe. "I felt," he
wrote, "that I was listening to her for the last time; and
her interest in you touched me the more, that the arrival
of her betrothed did not prevent her from continuing
her questions." She was never married, but died at the
end of September, 1827, as much to the grief of Andre
Ampere as to that of her own parents. During her
illness, Jean Jacques said, "I would give all in the world
to know that she was out of danger and happy with
M. Duparquet." This last expression shows how completely he had abandoned the project of marriage for
himself.
On the intellectual side, notwithstanding temporary
suspensions of mental power which resulted from the
troubles of his affections, Jean Jacques had the satisfaction of equipping himself very sufficiently. In 1825,
he wrote the following account of his studies: " Now,
for the first time in my life, I find leisure to do nearly
all that I desire. I have applied myself to the study of
mathematics, not to become a mathematician, but to
open my mind to this sort of conception, and gain an
entrance into a world of new combinations."
"As to languages, I am nearly sure now of knowing
all which are worth studying. I read history to gain a




7cazn 7acques Amp5ere.


297


conception of each epoch, and in order to interest myself
in every thing which belongs to it."
These are few words; but they trace out a very extensive field of study, already in the writer's possession,
though not yet so fully cultivated as he intended it to be
in course of time. His projects of study and labor were
always on a great scale; and although he retained a
youthful absence of pretension, and was never at any
time a pedant, or any thing like one, still he had vast
intellectual ambition. Even so early as I826, he had
conceived the idea of a general history of literature,
involving almost infinite study in different languages,
and in different countries; for long journeys were never
an impediment to him, and he knew the importance of
working on the spot. His Italian labors had already
been well begun in Rome; but Rome was too closely
connected in his mind with certain experiences of sentiment for him to return to it willingly in I826, so he
prudently took the virile resolution of bracing his mind
by a student's life in Germany, far from the Vallee aux
Loups and the beloved Abbaye au Bois, in a land, too,
where the circle of the Abbaye would not be likely to
constitute itself, as it did in Italy. He quitted Paris on
the 6th of August, I826, without revealing this grave
determination; simply informing his friends that he
was going to the Mont d'Or, near Lyons, with the De
Jussieus.
When Jean Jacques travelled with his young friends
Alexis and Adrien de Jussieu, they went a great deal on
foot and out of the beaten tracks. Ampere was an
o




298


Modern Frenchmen.


excellent walker; but Alexis de Jussieu was much more
than that, he was a wonderful runner, and could keep up
with a diligence for hours. He did almost all the road
between Mende and St. Jean du Gard (twenty leagues)
on foot, running before the carriage except up hill, when
he rested; but it was especially down hill that the postilions admired him. One of them, wanting to leave
him behind, whipped his five mules to a gallop, but
Alexis kept ahead of them.   Who would not rather
possess that young man's physical powers than the
handsomest equipage in Paris?
At Avignon, they were rather horrified by learning
that the room they occupied was the very chamber in
which Marshal Brune was assassinated.*    The innkeeper had sustained a siege of five hours to defend the
Marshal, and was himself wounded by the stroke of a
hatchet.  His wife, his mother, and his daughter all
died in consequence of the fear and excitement of that
day.
The travellers went to Grenoble, through the mountains, sometimes travelling where there was not even a
foot-path. In one outlandish place, they became objects
of suspicion, and nobody would give them a lodging.
When they begged to be allowed to lie on straw, the
suspicions increased, and they were surrounded by fifty
peasants and a policeman.  At length, the maire appeared, luckily an intelligent man; and, when he had
* Marshal Brune was shot in August, I815, by the ringleaders of
a royalist mob, in the White Terror. The murderers were powerful
enough to intimidate the local authorities, who signed a declaration that
the Marshal had committed suicide.




7ean z7acques Ample2re.


299


talked a few minutes with the young gentlemen, he
solved the difficulty by inviting them to his own house,
gave them a supper and three excellent beds, and detained them afterwards for another twenty-four hours.
This maire was a character, famous in those parts as
the "King of the Mountains," where he exercised a
beneficent despotism singularly independent of the
Government, which he sometimes resisted in the interest of his people. Ampere speaks of him as a character
whom Walter Scott might have invented, "simple, frank,
loyal, and full of natural good sense." Jean Jacques
next visited the Chartreuse, which strongly impressed
him.  Here is his description of the night service
there:"We came back to a frugal supper (from a walk
amongst the rocks), and then they put us in our cells
till eleven o'clock. The sound of bells awakened us in
our first sleep; and, whilst still dizzy with the sudden
awakening, we passed through the long corridors, guided
towards the chapel by religious chants. One little lamp
burned by itself in the midst of the immense nave. All
those pale faces under white cowls, lighted by a few
lanterns; the gravity of the voices; the lugubrious monotony of the litanies; the thought of these lives of solitude, prayer, and sacrifice, - oppressed the heart."
Each of the brethren has a bedroom, a little study
with bookshelves, a workshop, turner's tools, and a little
garden. Had it not been for their meagre fare, Ampere
said he would almost have consented to become one of
them.




300


Modern Frenchmen.


After a six weeks' tour in France and Switzerland,
he arrived at Strasburg on the 8th of October, I826, and
afterwards wrote an interesting letter to Madame Recamier from Coblentz, where his sense of landscape beauty
was enchanted with new experiences in his boat voyage
on the Rhine from Mayence. "There was not a minute
to lose." he said, "for every stroke of the oar brought us
to a new picture." This boat voyage lasted from dawn
till moonlight; and during the whole of it, whilst seeilng
the castled crags and vineyards of the Rhine, Jean
Jacques was travelling again in memory and imagination
through those Italian scenes which were dangerously
dear to him from their association with Madame Recamier. "Almost at every instant," he wrote, "the contrast of the climates, of my situation then and now,
awakened in me melancholy recollections."
Ampere began by establishing himself at Bonn, where
he was introduced to Schlegel, who received him well,
but seemed at first to avoid literary conversation as a
sort of pedantry, and to pose as knight and gentleman
with servants in livery and the yellow ribbon of Sweden;
but soon afterwards he invited Jean Jacques to meet an
Englishman, and these representatives of three nations
talked together for six hours at a time " like magpies, or
like people who have known what conversation is at
Paris, and are transplanted together to Bonn." Ampere
was lucky in arriving at Bonn just when Schlegel was
about to begin a course of lectures on the German language and literature; and he was still more fortunate in
being there whilst Niebuhr lectured on Roman History,




7eaCn 7aczes Azpyere.


301


a subject of special interest and importance for our hero.
He had not been long at Bonn before he got into regular habits of life; and, as his self-imposed exile in Germany was intended to be a course of discipline, he had
the courage to take it as such from the first, and to
seek his satisfaction in the strict fulfilment of his duty
to himself as a student. The regularity of his labors
soon produced a beneficial effect upon his mind; and he
not only made good intellectual progress, but he also
found himself calmer and stronger morally than he had
been during the two or three preceding years. He gave
himself the innocent pleasure of writing an account of
his studies to Madame Recamier, but there is no painful
agitation in his letters.
"I have not an instant of ennui. I follow four courses
of lectures every day, each of which gives me the same
pleasure that you find in a new play. I frequently meet
men of the highest merit, who are most kind and attentive to me. I read numbers of new books which interest me. I have the pleasant sense of progress. My
imagination, which for several years has painfully tormented me, seems to be cured. My mind, given up to
itself, is disposed for all tranquil sentiments, for all wise
and generous resolutions. Well, in this equilibrium of
the faculties, so long desired as a dream, in this life of
my own choice, my thoughts still turn to Paris, to the
time when I shall be there again. I hope that it may
be possible to bring back with me the calm which I
enjoy, and to embellish it by friendship."
"I have learned three things here," he says, towards




302


3Mlodern Frenczhmen.


the conclusion of the same letter, "the extent of my
ignorance, what I had to learn, and how to set about
learning it."
"One is confounded," he says elsewhere, "with the
indispensable equipment of knowledge that we dispense
with in France." In February, 1827, he says, "For the
first time in my life, I understand what it is to learn."
His life at this time had the regularity of clockwork.
" At Bonn, all my days resemble each other perfectly.
At half-past six, they come to light my stove and my
lamp. I put on a dressing-gown, and read in bed till
eight; then I get up and work. At noon there is
Niebuhr's lecture, at one o'clock I dine, at two there is
Schlegel's lecture; then I take a walk, and attend two
other professors. At seven I study at home, and go out
in the evening when I am invited to tea at some professor's house.  Once a week, I go to the theatre.
Voi/d tozte ma vie."
Ampere's visits to the theatre were not likely to disquiet Madame Recamier; but he was apprehensive that
she might be rather alarmed by his attendance at the
lectures of German theologians, who then as now were
pursuing their exegetic labors. On Shrove Tuesday, he
went to hear a lecture on exegesis given specially for
himself, and wrote to Madame Recamier that, even if it
scandalized her, such theology was edifying enough for
the mardi gras.  This is only one of many little evidences that the lady tried to exercise a theological influence over her admirer, and keep him within the limits
of Roman Catholic orthodoxy, but not, it must be




7ean 7acques Azipere.


303


admitted, with much success; for Jean Jacques had a too
comprehensive intellectual curiosity to confine himself
easily within the teaching of a single sect: and as he
visited other countries and learned other languages, so, in
the same spirit of inquiry and comparison, he interested
himself in other theologies than that in which he had
been born.
He accompanied Schlegel's English friend Bonnard
to Cologne in the Paris diligence, the very same diligence which was actually to arrive in Paris on the following Friday; and he felt it hard not to go on, but
manfully returned to Bonn, in spite of momentary weakness. He quitted Bonn in April, after having formed
several friendships with Germans whom he greatly liked,
as soon as the difficulty of language began to be surmounted.   He had met with so much cordiality and
kindness that it was impossible to quit the place without
regret. However, he was leaving interesting Germans
to meet the most interesting man in all Germany. "In
a fortnight," he said, " I shall be with Goethe."
It had happened some time before that Jean Jacques
had written two articles in the Paris Globe newspaper
about Goethe, which the poet had himself translated for
his Weimar journal. "I found the great man very kind,"
says Jean Jacques, "very simple, in very good health,
and very amiable." During his stay at Weimar, Ampere
saw Goethe very frequently, dining three times with him
in the course of a single week at those select little
dinners given to few friends, to which strangers were
seldom invited. What astonished Jean Jacques most in




304


Moderin FrezcZhmzez.


Goethe was his general interest in every thing, and his
knowledge of all that was going on both in France and
Germany. Jean Jacques heard him talk for several
hours together with a fire and verve " fifty years younger
than his age." He talked about the last French vaudevilles as if he had just seen them acted, knew by heart
the songs of Beranger, and missed nothing that was
going on in Germany. Goethe, on his part, was greatly
pleased with the distinguished young Frenchman.
"Ampere," he said, "has placed his mind on such a
high level that he has left far beneath him all the
national prejudices, all the apprehensions, all the confined ideas of many of his fellow-countrymen: by his
ways of thinking, he is much more a citizen of the world
than a citizen of Paris. I foresee the day when there
will be thousands of men who will think like him."
This prediction is already to some extent fulfilled, the
highest culture becoming daily more cosmopolitan, because it must necessarily take account of what other
nations contribute to the common stock of knowledge or
production; and we have now the inestimable facility of
railways. Unfortunately, war comes to counteract the
reconciling effects of the nobler studies, and to revive
national hostility, even towards neutrals. The war of
I870 not only made Frenchmen hate Germans, but it
made them sore against the English, because they had
remained neutral; whilst the Germans despised the
French because their army had been beaten, and they
despised the English because their army was too small
to be set against the forces of Germany.




yean 7acques Amjpere.


305


"Goethe is prodigious," said Ampere: " he interests
himself in every thing, has ideas about every thing, and
is ready to admire whatever may be worth admiring.
With his pure white dressing-gown which makes him
look like a great white sheep, between his son, his
daughter-in-law, and his two grandchildren, who play
with him whilst he talks of Schiller, of their labors in
common, of all that he wished to do, of all that he would
have done, of his -wn works, his intentions, and his
recollections, he is the most interesting and the most
amiable of men. He is naively conscious of his fame in
a manner which can displease no one, because he concerns himself about the talents of others, and is really
alive to all good things which are produced in all departments of literature."
Ampere's last interview with Goethe left a strong impression on his mind. "The last hour that we passed
together was really solemn and touching.  We were
seated on the same bench in the garden of a little rustic
house, from which there is a view of the park, and where
he wrote 'Iphigenia,' forty years ago. All the trees
were planted by him: we were seated under them looking at the park, as it was lighted by the last rays of
evening, the hour that you love best. He was serene
and even gay, talking to me with that delicate irony
which suits him so well. I thought to myself that this
kind and amiable old man was the greatest of living
poets, that he was very old, that it was perhaps a farewell; for who knows if I shall ever come back to Weimar,
and, if I come back, who knows if I shall find him there?"
20




306


Modern Frenchmen.


"In the evening, I went to walk with several other
people in the park; and we went near his little house.
The window of his room was lighted: he was reading
and working still. I was pleased to quit Weimar with
this impression."
It was with reference to these letters about Goethe
that Madame Recamier committed a lamentable and
almost inconceivable indiscretion, which vexed Jean
Jacques more than he could have thought it possible
for any action of hers to vex him. Her niece gives some
account of this, but omits all mention of his irritation.
Madame R6camier had shown one of Ampere's letters
from Weimar to Henri de Latouche, who asked her permission to print an extract from it in the Globe newspaper. To this she foolishly consented, and the extract
appeared immediately, with some modifications which
were any thing but improvements. Nothing could have
been more disagreeable for Ampere. He had written
to his correspondent in the abandon of intimate friendship, wishing to amuse her, and therefore talking about
Goethe in a manner which would have been most unbecoming, if addressed to all the edlie of Europe,-especially unbecoming on account of the great man's recent
hospitable attention to him. Ampere had lightly criticised, or rather attempted to describe, a very fanciful
work of Goethe's old age, which the poet had permitted
him to read in manuscript. His description was by no
means unfavorable, on the whole; but he happened to
mention "bizarrerie" and "obscuritd" as amongst its
characteristics, and he did not exactly like to see these




7ean facques Amnpere.


307


words printed in a newspaper which was read by Goethe
himself. The most distressing bit, however, in the reprint, was the following:" But you will believe, if I go on, that I have caught
the manie admirative of the Germans for Goethe: nevertheless, I have not yet got to the point of the good lady
with whom I am 'living here, who fell into raptures
because the abundance of the great man's thoughts was
such that he required a secretary! To have a secretary,
-that was unexampled!"
The words " manie admirazive" were enough to wound
the feelings of all literary Germany; and the anecdote
of the " good lady," though amusing, was not a thing to
be printed, because she could be so easily identified at
Weimar. "Do you think," asks Ampere, "it is agreeable to me to expose to the ridicule of a small town a
respectable person in whose house, or rather in whose
family, I have lived a month, who has bestowed attentions and cares upon me which are almost maternal, and
wh6 has given me several letters of recommendation for
Berlin, for which she has been strangely rewarded? In
Weimar, it is as if her name had been printed; for everybody knows where I lodged."
The letter goes on in quite a severe tone, and contains even this terrible sentence: "The moral is, that we
must stick to principles; and that if stealing is never
permissible, which I have some little difficulty in admitting, it is far more certain that it can never be allowable to print fifteen hundred copies of what is written in
the abandon of confidence and friendship."  This from




308


Modern Frenchmen.


J. J. Ampere to Madame Recamier! This from the
worshipper to the goddess! Can there be any more
cultus after this? Is not the idol overthrown, and seen
to be only a woman, unreliable and indiscreet?
The irritation was extreme, and the foolish little feminine treason very hard to bear; but it did Jean Jacques
immense good by loosening a little the chain which
bound him to the Abbaye au Bois. He wrote immediately to the Chancellor Muller to beg his intervention to
set matters right with Goethe. It is easy to see from his
letter what a torture the whole business was to him.
He arrived at Berlin before the end of May, and
remained there till the 7th of July, greatly enjoying the
hospitality of the Prussian capital, where his father's
European fame procured him an immediate welcome to
the most interesting society, opening all doors. His
own personal qualities, and the interest which intellectual people always take in young men of high attainments who evidently have a brilliant career before them,
enabled him to use these opportunities to the utmost.
"Your name is a talisman everywhere," he wrote to
Andre Ampere. " People ask me if I am a relation of
the famous Ampere, and I answer, as modestly as I
possibly can, 'I am his son,' and then they make me a
profound bow, of which I am very proud." As Jean
Jacques lived with the most intellectual people in Berlin,
and as at that time some of these happened to be in
very high social positions, he saw Prussian high life also,
dining several times with Prince Augustus (another
worshipper of Madame Recamier), and meeting Hum



yean yacques Ampere.


309


boldt at the royal table. He knew both the Humboldts,
and most of the literary celebrities who were their contemporaries in Berlin.  These social pleasures were,
however, but a part of his occupations during his residence there. Wherever he happened to be, he had the
happy faculty of setting to work immediately, and making
the most of his opportunities for study. He was ardently
pursuing all through this year his vast scheme of a general history of literature, and gathered in Germany an
immense number of notes about antique European and
Asiatic poetry; whilst he endeavored at the same time
to get light on Scandinavian literature, but found it
more difficult, from a certain lack of materials. It may
have been for this reason that he determined to visit
Sweden, where he landed at Ystad on the Ioth of July.
He wrote as follows from Malmo, two days later, giving
his first impression of the Swedish landscape, and of that
northern sensation which one feels immediately on approaching the higher latitudes:" It is really a decisive step to cross the Baltic. The
north begins here. These strong winds, this pale sun,
that moon which I saw last night coming out of a dark
cloud like the moon in Ossian,-all this has the northern
character already; and, when I remember that last week
I found the climate of Florence at Berlin, it seems as if
that were a recollection of another year."
The long northern twilight impresses him strongly
when he lands at Gottenburg.
"We arrived here this evening at half-past ten, it.being still light enough for us to distinguish every thing




3io
J'


Modern Frenchmen.


perfectly. This twilight has a great charm, and produces a singular effect upon the mind.* The coast is
covered with rocks: we seem at the end of the world,
and are then delighted to find a noble river, on which
we enter a town which is quite new, with great, regular,
well-built, white houses."
The traveller's instinct of pushing on was strong in
J. J. Ampere, and we soon find him   at Christiania, "a
little farther to the north than the Orkneys," as he writes
to Madame Recamier. Christiania is, in fact, in the same
latitude as the mainland of Shetland; but Ampere, being
in a travelling state of mind, was not satisfied without
seeing the interior. With four companions, he pushed
on as far as Drontheim, beyond the latitude even of the
Faroe Islands, but did not receive a very favorable impression of intellectual culture in those parts, as the
librarian showed him a Koran in Arabic, and affirmed
that it was in the Chinese tongue! A comparison between Sweden and Norway, being brief and interesting,
is worth quoting:"When you travel in Sweden, do not fail to go to
Norway; for Sweden is very inferior to it, so far as I
have seen. Here and there you may find some fine
views, but in general hardly any thing picturesque and
much uniformity.    Nevertheless, I may say that the
* It would be difficult to speak of it more truly in a few words. The
northern summer twilight seems to turn the landscape into an ideal
world. Nothing in the course of my experience has left a more poetic
impression on the memory than whole nights passed slowly sailing with
faint breezes on a Highland lake in that weird and wonderful light
which is like the ghost of day.




7ean 7acuzes Ampere.


3I I


uniformity itself had its charm, for that which is not
pictorial may be poetical. I found great pleasure in
being carried rapidly along in an open carriage amongst
rocky heaths and pine woods without number. From
time to time, a waterfall, a lonely lake, the sea advancing
amongst the rocks, came to break the monotony of our
impressions. But Norway announces itself quite otherwise. Christiania is placed in an admirable situation;
and when, after having passed three days posting over
bare lands, we saw its environs on the seaside all fresh
and green, with country houses scattered about like
those of Geneva, we felt something like the enchantment of travellers just arrived at Palmyra after having
crossed the desert.  If there were sunshine here, these
fine coasts, these islands and promontories gently sloping
to the sea, might, without profanation, remind us of
Mole di Gaeta, or the Bay of Baiae."*
This northern excursion ended by a return through
Stockholm, which the traveller reached in September.
In October, his letters were dated again from Berlin; and
he returned to Paris through Saxony and Bavaria, after
an absence of sixteen months.
The reader will remember that a more serious reason
than a taste for travel had determined Jean Jacques to
leave Paris and its neighborhood for a long absence.
His real purpose was to bring his sentiments towards
a The reader who takes an interest in human sentiment about landscape will observe with some interest how southern and essentially
classical the sentiment is here: he will notice the dislike to bare wild
nature, the love of pleasant places with agreeable human habitations,
the regret for the southern sun, the turning of the thoughts to Italy.




312


3Modern Frenchmenz.


Madame Recamier within discipline, so that they might
no longer be a source of torment and agitation in his
life. In this he at last succeeded. It may have been
partly the effect of absence and change of scene, partly
the consequence of that indiscretion about the letter
from Weimar; but, whatever the cause, the effect was
produced, and it was permanent. Jean Jacques remained
for Madame Recamier a most devoted friend, and this
friendship prevented his marriage, so far keeping him
unsettled; but from the end of the year 1827 his attachment to her was no longer painful or dangerous, and his
fine mind, by this time very richly stored with material,
was free to concentrate its energies on great intellectual
labors.
In the autumn of 1828, Jean Jacques went to Normandy to study the traces of Scandinavian influence in
France. He fixed his residence for this purpose in the
old castle of Bretteville, near Cherbourg, on the seashore,
making excursions in various directions. He came to
the conclusion that " a little Scandinavia" existed at the
most northern extremity of lower Normandy. Here he
found Danish and Swedish words in the patois, popular
superstitions resembling those of the north, stone altars
like those often found near Copenhagen and in Norway;
and so he got valuable materials for a chapter on Scandinavia in France, all which delighted him exceedingly.
Soon after his return to Paris, he was called away
again by other considerations. His father suffered from
chronic bronchitis, and was ordered to pass a winter in
the south. They were neither of them in very easy




yean Yacques Ampere.


3 I 3


circumstances, but Jean Jacques managed to buy a carriage for twelve pounds, a "caleche," and they set off in
this vehicle with    a friend.   Andre Ampere was very
talkative during the journey, notwithstanding the state
of his throat, and his talk is said to have been marvellous; the subject being that immense one, the classification of human knowledge. They went to 1Hyeres,
where Jean Jacques frequently visited the great historian
of the Norman conquest, Augustin Thierry, whose labors
had cost him his eyesight, and besides that brought on
a nervous malady which compelled him to allow his
brain some rest. "It is a most painful spectacle," wrote
Jean Jacques, "to see him     dragging himself along, supported by a companion, without eyes, almost without
legs, yet with a healthy mind and clear thoughts." Young
Ampere made it his business at Hyeres to devote himself absolutely to his father, keeping the accounts of
their little expenses,* playing eight or ten games at
* Much to J. J. Ampere's credit, he seriously endeavored on several
different occasions to make himself master of the difficult art of housekeeping, but always with little success. The most astonishing stories,
well authenticated, remain to testify to his singular natural incapacity
for managing the affairs of common life. His father's household was
very badly managed at all times; and it needed all the respect felt by
his guests for such distinguished scientific talents, to enable them to
pardon the roughness and want of form in his hospitality. On his
return from Italy in 1824, Jean Jacques was determined to show how
useful he could make himself as butler, so he went to the cellar to fetch
wine, but found that the key would not turn in the lock. He had
another key made, and things went on very well for some time, when, lo!
one day he observed that the stock of wine was diminishing with a
rapidity which suddenly surprised him. The day following, to his still
greater surprise, the empty bins were full again: yesterday, only twentyfive bottles could be counted; to-day, several hundreds! He rushes




3I4


MVIodern Frenchmen.


chess every day with him, and even allowing himself to
be upset in their drives; for Andre was singularly rash
in a carriage, and his son thought that filial piety required him to be upset too, for company.
Our hero's money matters at this time were not in a
very satisfactory condition. He had possessed a little
capital, but this gradually melted away with the expenses
of his studies and travels. That journey to Hyeres with
up-stairs to tell the wondrous tale, -two witnesses go down with him,
and confirm it,- they count hundreds of bottles!
The explanation was that Jean Jacques had with the most perfect
innocence got a key made to open the door of a neighbor's well-stocked
cellar, whilst he kept the old key of their own, thus going one day (just
as it might happen) to the meagre Ampere stock, and another helping
himself freely to the more abundant supplies of a neighbor and tenant
called Fresnel. " I ought to have been tried for it at the Assizes," said
poor Jean Jacques; "but the affair was hushed up, and restitution
made."
He did worse than this, if possible, in Rome, in 1862, where he became a house-breaker avec effraction. It was in the month of March, at
two o'clock in the morning; so he took a fancy to smoke a cigar on his
balcony. The night was dark, and the wind high: he believed that he
had turned the key in his glass door to prevent it from slamming behind
him. After walking and smoking on the balcony a quarter of an hour,
he thought he would go in again; but the door was completely shut
against him, and no key to be found! In order not to pass the night on
the balcony, he boldly takes the resolution of breaking a pane of glass,
so as to get at the inside handle: this done, he enters and strikes a light,
when, lo! he is not in his own apartment at all, but in a bedroom belonging to some neighbor,-the bed, most fortunately, unoccupied. His
own door was wide open all the time!
This absence of mind may have been hereditary, for Andre Ampere
had it in a still worse degree, as a hundred legends tell. One of the best
of these is that he once at a cab-stand began to calculate with a piece of
chalk on the back of a stationary vehicle; and when the cabman got a
fare, and drove away at the usual slow pace of the French fiacre, the
philosopher, not to be interrupted by so little, ran after it unconsciously,
and (in a double sense) pursued his calculation.




yean 7acaues Ampere.


3x5


his father was paid for with some of his last bank-notes,
and ruin seemed very near.  Jean Jacques looked it
calmly in the face, and said, " When I am utterly ruined,
I hope to make a fortune." One of his latest steps on
the downward road was to pay his father's most pressing
debts; for Andre, entirely absorbed in his scientific occupations, was quite unable to attend to ordinary household economy. There is nothing at all surprising in
these pecuniary difficulties. Jean Jacques lived in the
best society in Europe; he earned nothing; he was
always ready to make a sacrifice of money in favor of
his mental culture; and, as his capital from the beginning
had been small, of course it rapidly melted. In October,
1830, he got an honorable situation as Maitre de Conference at the Ecole Normale. He kept this appointment for three years, and was also appointed to replace
M. Fauriel and M. Villemain at the Faculte des Lettres.
In 1833, the chair of French literature at the College de
France became vacant, and J. J. Ampere was chosen as
Professor.  By these and other employments suitable
for a man devoted to literary pursuits, he contrived to
get through life without positive inconvenience from
poverty; and by good luck he found in J. Mohl, the wellknown Orientalist, a friend who both could and would
take charge of his money matters for him, and keep them
clear and straight.
This appointment at the College de France prevented
Jean Jacques from accompanying his father to the south
in I836, on his tour of inspection of the southern lyceums. Andre was not in good health when he started.




3i6


M6odern Frenchzmen.


He had almost lost his voice, and was troubled with a
constant cough. He arrived at Lyons in a state of extreme weakness, and when he got to Marseilles was quite
unfit for his duties as inspector, and took refuge in the
college infirmary, where he was tended with the most
anxious care. Then came a violent inflammation of the
throat, strong fever, and finally pneumonia. The pneumonia was overcome, and on the 6th of June the patient
was able to write a letter on matters of important business; but the effort was immediately followed by a
burning fever, which began with the chest, and finally
attacked the brain with a fatal result. Jean Jacques
received the sad news at Paris, and had the misery of
thinking that, after travelling so much about Europe at
different times, he had been prevented from taking that
one journey which would have enabled him to watch by
his father's death-bed.
Bredin, an intimate friend of the elder Ampere, was
with him as he passed through St. Etienne, and told an
anecdote afterwards, which is finely characteristic of a
great thinker. Bredin tried to avoid conversations on
the important subjects which most interested his friend,
from a dread of the effects on his precarious physical
condition.  "My health! my health!" said Ampere.
" What does my health signify? There ought to be no
consideration here, between us two, about any thing but
the eternal truths, about the men and things which have
been useful or hurtful to humanity!"
When the elder Ampere died, he left hardly any
money, having always been generous to poorer friends,




yean 7acques Ampere.


3o7


and an unskilful economist also. Jean Jacques was himself ruined, or very nearly so, as we have already seen, in
consequence of his travels and unremunerative intellectual pursuits. But the situation was even worse than
this simple statement implies. The reader may remember that Andre had a daughter by his second wife. This
daughter, Albine, had been married at the time of her
brother's return from Norway; and she and her husband
were a constant burden to Jean Jacques. It was a
most unfortunate union in every way. The husband,
whose name was Ride, turned out idle, drunken, and a
gambler, and finally lost his reason in consequence of
his evil habits. His wife, being ruined and wretched,
fell into bad health and low spirits, finally becoming half
insane herself. Jean Jacques had to keep both of them;
and, since his little capital was gone, this had to be done
out of his earnings.  Besides these relations, Jean
Jacques was afflicted with another, a cousin named De
Soutiefres, an eccentric being, of no use to any one; who,
without being precisely mad, had a wild imagination,
which education, instead of sobering, had excited. In
his youth, he had tried to make use of chemistry to transmute substances into gold; and, at a more advanced age,
he studied algebra with a view to winning money by
its help in gambling. Besides this unlucky tendency to
make the most foolish possible use of whatever knowledge he possessed, this De Soutieres was intensely disagreeable, perfectly uncompanionable, utterly incorrigible,
and simply an affliction to his friends. Andre Ampere
had helped him from 1812 to I836, and from that date




3i8


Modern Frenchmen.


till 1848, he was kept by Jean Jacques, who finally paid
for his interment. With these burdens, and the narrow
income of a French professor, it is not surprising that
our hero should have desired some piece of good fortune
outside of his ordinary resources. There was a chance
that he might win the Gobert prize of 9000 francs for
his historical labors, and luckily he did win it in the year
1840. Not only did he receive the prize once, but it was
accorded to him for two successive years on account of
the same work, his " Literary History of France before
the Twelfth Century." This work was itself a result of
his labors for his professorship. His labors in teaching
were indeed useful to him in various ways, both by
solidifying his own acquirements, by making him better
known in Paris, and also by revealing a great special
talent for lucid oral exposition, which had been unsuspected even by himself. Few learned men have ever
been so much liked by their audiences.
The remainder of J. J. Ampere's life is a tangle of
various threads, which it may be more convenient to
follow separately. The most important of these threads
are: i. His intellectual pursuits; 2. His friendships;
3. His travels.
He was naturally gifted for all three; naturally a hard
student, a devoted friend, an eager, observant, and courageous traveller.  By simply following these natural
instincts, he lived in a state of constant activity, so that
the current of his existence was always swift and clear,
without repose enough for stagnation at any time.
Every year, every month even, was filled with the




7ean 7acques Ampere.


3I9


labors which instruct and elevate the mind, and brightened by those pleasures which keep it cheerful and
healthy. J.J. Ampere, so far as we can judge from the
abundant materials in our possession, escaped the dulness of the ignorant, because of his extensive knowledge,
and never suffered from the listlessness of the learned,
because, so soon as one pursuit became somewhat less
attractive, it was immediately succeeded by a fresh object of enthusiasm. Whilst his studies led him to a
minute and careful exploration of the past, his daily
habits brought him into contact with all that is best and
most interesting in the present. He read the best literature in many languages, visited the most remarkable
scenes and cities of many countries, and had for his
intimate friends the most cultivated and companionable
people wherever he went. He retained to the last a
quite youthful power of enjoying all the advantages
which were opened to him by his scholarship, his travels,
and his friendships, so that there has seldom been so
complete a realization of an intelligent bachelor's existence.
I will endeavor to give, in a short space, some faint
idea of Ampere's intellectual activity. If all his studies,
on the one hand, were pleasures to him, so on the other
his pleasures easily became studies. He increased the
interest of his travels by having some special intellectual
object in each excursion: for example, in September,
1838, he went with two learned friends to Italy, where
they carried into execution what they called a " voyage
Dantesque," a scheme of travel guided entirely by the




320          MJodern Frenchmen.
wish to elucidate some points in the life and works of
Dante.  His travels in Germany and in Sweden and
Norway had for their leading motives the German
language and the history of Scandinavian literature;
his residence in lower Normandy was suggested to
him by the desire to follow up the traces of Scandinavia
in France. Every journey which he undertook in after
life had in like manner some intellectual object; and
that not a mere pretext to add the pleasures of dilettanteism to the charms of travel, but a serious purpose
connected with the traveller's labors as a writer and
professor. Whilst actually on the road, he was always
thinking and observing; and, when the body had its
necessary intervals of rest, the mind was active in
literary studies. At Malta, for example, in 1841, when
condemned to an involuntary repose by the quarantine,
he settled down to sedentary work at once. "I feel a
sort of pleasure" - he wrote to a dear friend - " in
being imprisoned, in no longer having to go and see,
but in resting body and mind. This rest is far from
being complete; for I had hardly time to re-establish
myself in sedentary life before the rage for work took
hold of me again. I am arranging part of my studies
on Greek poetry in Greece. I am preparing my lectures
in studying Rabelais. The Chinese language, which I
had abandoned for some months, and which it would
have been an impiety to remember in Greece, has put
in its claims again. With all these, time passes quickly
in my magnificent prison." Whilst travelling in Southern Italy, in the burning month of August of the same




Jean   tacques Ampyere.


32I


year, and soon afterwards in Turkey and Greece, he
read and wrote in every available interval. " If ever I
have been without liberty," he said, " it has been in this
journey, so constantly filled by the impressions of the
mind and the fatigues of the body." In the same letter,
he says, "I hope that God will preserve to me strength
and sufficient length of years for me to concentrate all
my labors in a work, -labors various in their purpose,
but which have a tendency to unity." Even the facility
with which he resigned appointments that were of value
to him was generally dictated by the desire to allow
himself more leisure for his studies. When he gave
up the post of Maitre de Conference at the Ecole
Normale, it was in order that he might the better investigate the early history of French literature. "At
all times of his life," wrote Madame Lenormant, who
knew him well, "Ampere, whose disinterestedness was
unequalled, was ready to resign any employment which
did not seem strictly necessary, for the dissemination
of the ideas or doctrines which were dear to him."
He had in an equal degree the two distinct enthusiasms
of literature and archaeology. Even so recently as the
days of Ampare's activity, archaeology was an infant
science.  It has since then wonderfully grown and
developed itself, but in those days the few archaeologists there were had comparatively little aid from the
investigations of others; and they were not helped,
as in the present day, by innumerable photographs.
Ampere was a most industrious archaeologist, and seized
on all opportunities. For example, when detained by
21




322


Modern Frenchmen.


a contrary wind at Leghorn, he immediately hunted up
antiquities; and, having discovered some hieroglyphics,
lay down amongst spiders and dust for six days to
copy them. "It is not merely notes that I take," he
says, "but texts. I am in the position of copyists,
before the invention of printing; and, as the manuscripts I have to deal with are in stone, it is still
more necessary to copy them completely, as there is
no means of carrying them off." He wrote from Paris
to Alexis de Tocqueville: "I have great need of
breathing a little, -of breathing the air of the fields
with you. I have just written two articles, one of
which required much study. At the same time, the
subjects I lecture upon compel me to undertake great
labors. I sleep very little, and am ready to drop with
fatigue."  This weariness was only temporary; for, even
so late as the year 1862, he was still capable of feeling
all the glow and enthusiasm which animate the energies
of the best workmen. "I felt within me an extraordinary entrain. Rome had become the sole object of
my toils. I buckled myself to the Roman History at
Rome, and intended to enlarge the plan."  The prodigious activity of Ampere's mind alarmed his friend,
De Tocqueville, who sent him this good advice:
"Whatever may be the great facility which God has
given you, be careful not to abuse it; and mind you
do not tire, if not the angel, at least the animal, which
is necessary to the angel. You have appeared to me
for the last twelve months in the condition of an intellectual volcano.  This sort of over-excitement, with




yeant 7acques Ampere.


323


the admirable sureness of taste which you have acquired, makes you in my opinion very superior to what
you have ever been. But life should be so ordered that
it may last: one should keep his strength, and be careful of his verve, so that neither the one nor the other
may become weary." Advice such as this may be
listened to by those to whom work is difficult; but
Ampere had such facility that he never could properly
distinguish between work and play.  De Tocqueville
once asked him the question, "Que faites-vous, vous
qui avez l'art de faire beaucoup, vite et bien?"  Some
people can escape from work by a simple change of
place; but this resource was denied to Ampere, for the
peculiar reason that he had the gift of working in all
places with equal facility: so that the first chance room
in an inn became like his own study for him in five
minutes; that is, as soon as he had spread some books
and papers on the table. He did not get enough sleep,
being a night-worker, and in the constant habit of reading and writing till four or five o'clock in the morning.
Far from betraying the slightest sign of cerebral exhaustion, he was never so productive as during the
last decade of his life. He used society as a tonic
and stimulant, and had a complete belief in its efficacy;
but we must remember that the society he frequented
was the brightest and most animating in Europe. On
his return to Paris from a country house near Compiegne,
he lectured better than usual, and said about this
success: "M. Hochet, who had not approved of my
first manner, told me that it was my best lesson.




324           Modern Frenchmen.
That's what it is to have passed several days in the
country with dear friends, to have good conversations,
and hear beautiful readings. All that electrifies one, and
enables one to do well in public." From his infancy,
Jean Jacques had been surrounded by eminent men;
and half his ability was due to the constant influence of
this society. Much of that talent for exposition, which
made him the best professor of his time, may also
have been due to his constant practice in conversation.
He hardly ever passed a day, except on those rare
occasions when he was travelling alone, without talking
to some listener who was capable of appreciating him
at his best; and he thus became one of the most
perfect talkers in the world. When once a certain
natural modesty and diffidence had been overcome by
his interest in the subject, his talk became inexhaustible, -full of imagination, yet accurate in matters of
fact, with an ardent enthusiasm, a power of lively indignation against what seemed wrong to him, always
tempered by good taste and an exquisite sense of what
was delicate and becoming. He represented in all the
capitals of Europe the perfection of French grace and
culture, yet remained to the last without vanity, though
petted by the best society everywhere. You may seek
through all that he wrote, and through all that was
written about him, without finding any trace of that
self-importance which success in the pursuits of literature and erudition so often develops in those who have
attained it. He had, no doubt, a natural satisfaction
in success; but the delight of his life was first in his




7ean 7acques Am5pere.


325


affections, and after that in his labors for themselves,
with little reference to the external rewards they brought.
The unfailing charm of his society, which was acknowledged by all who knew him, would have been entirely
incompatible with any thing approaching to conceit.
Jean Jacques was remarkable for many things, but
chiefly for having reconciled, with the happiest facility,
certain qualities which it is hard to reconcile at all.
He was at the same time one of the most learned men
in the world, and one of the least pedantic; one of the
most brilliant ornaments of society, and one of its most
simple and unassuming members.
Ampere's warmest friendship, and probably that in
which his affections were placed most wisely, was his
friendship with Alexis de Tocqueville. His name is
known beyond the limits of his native country, but only
those who have attentively studied his character can
know how near he came to realizing the ideal of a highminded, liberal, and accomplished gentleman. The best
and finest qualities which belong to an aristocracy were
joined in De Tocqueville to the open intelligence of a
fearless thinker and the wide sympathies of one who
really desired the greatest good for the greatest number.
His manners, though distinguished, were somewhat cold;
yet Ampere loved him from the day of their first meeting at the Abbaye au Bois, in I836. Soon afterwards,
De Tocqueville took possession of his ancestral estate
and chateau of Tocqueville near Cherbourg; and in 1839
he invited Ampere to go and visit him there. The invitation was gladly accepted, and the visit cemented their




326


lModern Frenchmen.


friendship. Alterations were going forward in the chateau; and the host in subsequent letters affects to believe
that it must have been difficult for the guest to enjoy
any quietness with the noise of hammers going on about
him. He is to be protected from disturbance in future
visits by having a room expressly prepared for him, to
be called "la chambre d'Ampetre."  The room is prepared accordingly in the first floor of a tower, because
the guest is likely to find it warmer and pleasanter there
than higher up; but he is to be allowed to climb up
into his " roost," whenever he likes. " What a pleasant
life it is at Tocqueville," wrote De Lomenie, dating his
letter " from Ampere's tower," " where the hosts impose
upon you no other duty than those of 'l'Abbaye de
Theleme,' Fais ce que voudras! The kindness and
serenity of the master harmonize perfectly with the
peaceful beauty of the place. Here nature seems to
invite you to throw off every care: the nerves take rest,
the blood is refreshed, one passes happily from reverie
to work, and from work to reverie, only to recreate and
renew the faculties by gay and varied conversations."
De Tocqueville himself wrote to Ampere long afterwards: " Whenever you come, you are sure to find open
arms ready to receive you. Summer or winter will be
alike to us; and 'la chambre Ampere' will never lose its
name, even if you do not inhabit it for years."  This
kindness produced in Jean Jacques so strong a feeling
of affection that he declared he was bound up in the
lives of De Tocqueville and his wife. The happiest time
they ever spent together appears to have been a space




7ean 7acques Ampere.             327
of between two and three months at Sorrento, at the end
of I850 and beginning of I851. De Tocqueville rented
a house with a " chamzbre d'Aimpere" in it; the chosen
dwelling being above the road, a little before Sorrento,
on the first slope of the hill. The roof was terraced; and
from it they could see Naples and Vesuvius to the right,
with valleys of orange-trees to the left. This roof was
a favorite place for their conversations, but they also
walked a great deal upon the hills. Ampere speaks of
the charm of De Tocqueville's society, of his inexhaustible mind, which allowed itself free play in the company
of his friend, and of his admirable style of expression,
which, though easy and unstudied, was just as pure and
refined with a single hearer as if he had been in a salon
or at the Academy. Elegance and perfection in language were a necessity to the refined taste of De Tocqueville. Whilst he talked as they were seated together
on some rock on the hillside at Sorrento, his sentences
were so pure and perfect that they might have been
reported word for word. "He hated phrase-making, yet
I have never heard him begin a phrase without finishing it."
One of the best and most characteristic passages in
De Tocqueville's letters to Ampere is that in which he
speaks of the aristocracy that he liked, and another kind
of aristocracy with which he had little or nothing in
common:
"You have seen that M. Mole was gone. His death
will shut up one of the last salons where people could
talk. With him we had the aristocracy which loved ideas




328


3M odern Frenchmen.


and letters, with others we have the aristocracy which
likes equipage, fine liveries, great names, titles, holy works,
all mixed zip and kneaded together."
De Tocqueville's health began to break down in 1858
from bronchitis, and in I859 he was seriously ill at
Cannes. This disquieted Ampere, then in Rome; and,
in the month of April, he went to Cannes on purpose
to see him. When he arrived, his friend was already
dead. And so ended a life of perfect dignity, which had
been brightened by well-deserved fame, but never lowered by any unworthy condescension,-the life of a philosopher, who, though his name was celebrated, knew the
value of tranquillity, and loved the penumbra of personal
obscurity, estimating public opinion at its just value,
and taking fame for no more than what it is really
worth.
I may now tell what remains to be told about the
friendship between Jean Jacques and Madame Recamier. We left that subject soon after her indiscretion
in publishing part of a letter from Weimar. When
Ampere returned from Sweden, the friendship was reestablished, but from that date it was never any thing
more than a friendship on either side. The evenings at
the Abbaye were a necessity to Ampere when in Paris,
and he remained pathetically faithful. He had now,
however, sufficient liberty of heart and mind to permit
occasional absences for travelling; and Madame Recamier "knew that, to retain one's friends, it is necessary
above all things to respect their liberty, and not to clip
their wings." She still exercised her old arts, and with




7ean   7acques Amn5pere.


329


the old success; the whole of them being reducible to
the one principle of taking an interest in what interested
her friends, and giving them the sympathy of the most
agreeable listener in the world. Nevertheless, life was
a disappointment to her as she drew towards the close
of her extraordinary career.  After having received
adulation from royal and noble personages, and (what
she probably valued more) after having been the centre
for many years of the most brilliant little circle in
Europe, infirmity came to her at length in the shape of
increasing blindness; and her life was saddened by the
death of some friends and the failing health of others.
An operation partially restored her sight, when, having
heard that her friend Ballanche was seized with inflammation of the lungs, she committed the imprudence of
going to see him, and lost her sight altogether. BaIlanche died. Chateaubriand (the friend she really cared
for most) was old, dull, melancholy, and almost helpless.
Her own health confined her to a sedentary existence,
and nothing remained for her but the thickening dregs
of life. In the dark hours of these latter days, Jean
Jacques devoted himself to her like a son. Instead of
being jealous of Chateaubriand, he respected him as his
friend's friend; and, when Chateaubriand died in 1848,
Ampere, who had been recently elected Academician,
represented the French Academy ostensibly and Madame Recamier privately, and accompanied the remains
to their final resting-place on the rock in the sea near
St. Malo. In his speech over the grave, he spoke of the
long friendship between the author of " Atala" and the




330


Modern Frencnhmen.


lady whose sightless eyes shed tears for him at the
Abbaye au Bois.*
After this loss, Madame Recamier was more than ever
cared for by her surviving friends, especially by Ampere,
who, to remain near her, accepted the post of librarian
at the Bibliotheque Mazarine, thus binding himself to
renounce his travelling propensities. So her life went
on in sadness, yet cheered by the fidelity of her friends,
till 1849, the cholera year. It was the only malady that
she dreaded, but she dreaded it with ungovernable fear.
There were many cholera cases round about the Abbaye,
and soon the contagion penetrated even within its walls.
In her alarm, she went to stay with a niece at the National Library in the Rue Richelieu; and, after living
there a month, she herself was seized by the terrible
disease, and died, after frightful tortures, on the I ith of
May. The shock of the final separation produced in
Ampere, as did all violent shocks of sorrow, an immediate desire for travel as the only possible way of partially escaping from the pain. He at once threw up his
appointment of librarian (which in many ways was exactly suitable for him), and set off to Spain and Portugal. From Cadiz, he sailed for England, thinking that
the bustling civilization of London might be of use in
turning his thoughts away from the misfortune which
had befallen him; but in London the same need of
* Notwithstanding its intimacy, there had always been a curious
formality and ceremony in this friendship. For example, every evening
Madame Recamier formally inquired, in two separate questions, if Monsieur de Chateaubriand took cream and sugar in his tea, and always
received the same formal and polite replies to both interrogatories.




7ean 7acques Anzpere.


33I


change pursued him, and he went to Scotland, seeking
forgetfulness even amongst the Highland glens and
mountains. We may vainly ransack the records of the
human heart for another instance of a man who throws
up his employment and crosses seas and kingdoms because of the violence of his grief for the death of a blind
old woman of seventy-two, who had only liked him, and
to whom he was bound by no tie of relationship. Yet
Thiers was right when he said that Madame Recamier
was all Ampere's family. Jean Jacques had a most
affectionate nature. In his own family, he had nothing
but wretched burdens: his father was dead, his sister
Albine was dead, his poor young mother had died long,
long ago; he had no wife or children of his own, and he
lavished on Madame Recamier the affection which might,
in happier circumstances, have been divided amongst
his own kindred.
The best proof that the affection which Jean Jacques
bestowed on Madame Recamier was rather an outcome
of his own nature than the result of any unique attractiveness in hers is that she had a successor. He
could not live without being part of a circle; and, in
the year 1853, he gave himself in this way to a whole
family, who accepted and returned his affection with
the most perfect good-will. This family, whose home
was in the south of France, near Pau, but who passed
much of their time in Italy, were intelligent and cultivated people, with that social ease and frankness which
suited Ampere's taste. There were three generations
in the little circle, and he soon gave his affection to




332


Modern Frenchmen.


all three. When in Rome, he kept up an appearance
of independence by dining occasionally at a restaurant,
which his friends laughingly called "the rival;" but
at length a member of the household, Madame L.,
whose health was the reason for their stay in Italy,
became so much worse that the shadow of coming
sorrow made him a less inconstant guest. As it became more and more evident that the lady would
soon be removed from those who loved her, Ampere's
friendship for her quickly ripened into a sentiment of
melancholy tenderness. The most austere of judges,
provided that his austerity did not develop itself into
calumny, could find nothing to reprove in this sad
friendship in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Even so pure a mind as that of Perreyve only spoke
of it as " most sacred," his allusion to it being in these
words: " tous les amours les plus sacres."
Madame L. was the daughter of M. and Mme.
Cheuvreux. Her own narhe is not printed in full in
the Ampere correspondence, a discretion which shall
be imitated here. Her influence on Ampere was like
that of some calm and beautiful summer evening, when'
the night comes on in peace, and we feel saddened and
sobered, yet strangely near to an ideal happiness; when
visible things are mysterious, and things unseen are no
longer hopelessly remote,-nolonger beyond the reach
of imagination. Ampere, who, with all his good breeding,
was often vehement and violent when very much in earnest, learned from this lady, though late, a delicate temperance. "Thanks to her," he said, "I feel that I can




cneal _acques Ampere.


333


change my ways and habits, that my violence may be
subdued, because I so much loved her mildness, —her
mildness, which was not weakness, which extinguished
neither the fire of her soul nor the charm of her intelligence."
The winter of 1857 was passed at Rome, and Madame
L. was sufficiently strong to bear society. In April, it
was decided to go to Como, where a charming villa was
taken near the lake. The journey from Rome began
pleasantly in a great travelling carriage; the party taking
lunch every day in the carriage on a silver picnic service, and enjoying themselves as people sometimes contrive to do, by shutting their eyes to an approaching
evil. At Venice, Madame L. seemed wonderfully well;
and the week they passed there was strangely happy,
with that too perfect happiness which northern superstition (or perhaps simple experience of life) considers
of evil omen. Her worst month every year was August.
They were at Como in August, and it seemed as if this
year the malady would deal with her more gently. It
struck her, on the contrary, with redoubled severity; and
they had to leave Como suddenly, travelling hundreds of
miles to Rome, full of anxiety for their suffering charge.
They reached at length the end of their weary journey,
and after that no illusion was any longer possible. Ampere, in alluding to these sad recollections afterwards,
speaks of the sleepless nights which he vainly tried to
turn into nights of labor, disturbed by the most opposite
sounds, the thrilling song of the nightingales in the
shrubberies, the discordant voices of the contadini, the




334


Modern Frenchmen.


barking of the dogs, and then the sun rising radiant and
gay whilst they were all so sad. The dying lady retained
her clear intelligence to the end, and occupied much of
his thoughts by her undiminished interest in others,
both in public matters, such as the future of Italy, and
in the private affairs of those nearest to her. At length,
the end came; and the event left Ampere in a sort of
religious melancholy, not unsuitable for the later years
of life.  Henri Perreyve delivered to him        a message
from Madame L., which was her desire that Ampere
should be a Christian. He was one already in sentiment
and conduct, but was unable to give his assent to the
dogmas of the Church. Perreyve neither exaggerated
the interval which separated Ampere's religion from his
own, nor affected to consider it nearer to Catholic orthodoxy than it really was.    "I well know that you are a
Christian," he says, " but you are so by the intellect;
and it is not by the intellect that one can come near
to God."*
* The question of J. J. Ampere's religious belief is settled by a
written paper found since his death. He says, speaking of the Roman
Catholic faith, -
" This faith would alter nothing in my way of life: it would not require me to renounce any one kind of happiness, and it would introduce
into my life the only happiness which I could now enjoy. I have no
pride in not possessing this faith. Such a pride would be an absurdity.
The greatest geniuses, the greatest philosophers, the greatest savants,
the greatest poets, the greatest artists, have had this faith. One must
be stupid to despise it, to find in it a limit to the intelligence, myself
especially, since I have seen my father believe, and believe as a Catholic,
-and Ballanche, and Ozanam, and Madame L., and the Abbe Perreyve."
"I believe in God, in his providence, in a future life, in the recompense of the good, in the punishment of the wicked, in the sublimity and




7ean 7acques Ampere.


335


After the death of Madame L., Ampere looked upon
the house of her father and mother as his own home.
Besides these friends, he had an unfailing resource in
the two allied ducal families of De Mouchy and De
Noailles, who in that generation belonged-to the same
order of cultivated and intelligent nobility as the De
Tocquevilles. In the year 1856, the Duchess de Mouchy
offered Ampere a set of rooms in her town house at
Paris, to be his own town residence; but he declined,
on the ground that it was too distant from the libraries,
where he worked. Jean Jacques was always rather a pet
of great ladies, who treated him as they generally treat
nice priests.   The above-mentioned      Duchess got the
tailor at Mouchy to make him a comfortable dressinggown out of the cloth of the country: it was a fancy of
hers to give these garments to men she esteemed, just
as Oriental potentates bestow robes of honor. Her
truth of the Christian doctrine (he means moral doctrine, not dogma), in
a revelation of this doctrine by a special inspiration of Divine Providence for the salvation of the human race; that is to say, in an action
of God upon the soul, producing in it what it is not in our own power
to produce therein. But I do not indulge the illusion that I am a
believer in the exact sense which the Church teaches."
"You know that I do not exaggerate the power of reason. My own
humbles itself before the mystery where it stops short; that is to say,
very near to its point of departure. What it does not see is infinite;
but, where it does not see, it does not believe."
From this and the passages immediately following, the conclusion is
that J. J. Ampere was what we in England should call a good Unit-arian;
yet as his father and most of his friends were Roman Catholics, and as
he was baptized and confirmed in the Church of Rome, he continued to
conform to her rites in some measure externally, but with a minimum of
hypocrisy, as his real opinions were not at any time a secret, though he
did not obtrude them on others.




336


Mfodernz Frenchmen.


mother, the Viscountess de Noailles, was another great
friend of Jean Jacques. After a dangerous illness in
I846, he first went to stay a month in the pretty valley
of the Rille; but after that he went to be nursed in the
magnificent chateau at Mouchy, during his slow and
tedious convalescence. He had to lie down constantly,
and was hard to manage; but the noble ladies who took
care of him maintained the severity of the prescribed
regimen, and gradually brought him round. After this,
they assumed something like parental rights over him,
and remained his faithful friends till death separated
them. Madame de Noailles was a woman of uncommon
intelligence, and quite superior to the political prejudices
of her class, whilst she had sufficient strength of mind
to resist the prejudices of other classes. Her intellectual position enabled her to see the faults of both sides.
She saw the evil done by the fanaticism of the first
republicans; and she clearly perceived, at the same time,
both the degradation of the monarchy and the imminence of what she called "an American era" for France,
that era in which the French people are now actually
living.
I have already mentioned Ampere's friendship with
J. Mohl, the Orientalist, who, being a better economist
than Jean Jacques, very kindly took charge of his money
matters for him. They first met in Cuvier's drawingroom in 1824, when Ampere had just returned from
Italy. Mohl, who belonged to Stuttgart, had come to
France to study Arabic and Persian; and he found in
Ampere a nature which, though entirely different from




7ean Jacques Amnpre.


his own, pleased him so much that a lasting friendship
followed. The two even lived together under the same
roof in the Rue du Bac, from      I831 until Mohl married
Miss Clarke, in I847. There are some good stories of
their housekeeping, which was not always without inconveniences. Amongst other incidents is the following:
Jean Jacques, coming home on a very cold night in January, lighted his fire with waste paper, and so successfully that he set fire to the chimney, thereby much
disturbing Mohl, who was lying in bed with the toothache, and exclaimed, as he came to the rescue, flushed
with pain, anxiety, and annoyance, "Decidedly, the situation is intolerable!/" *
I have purposely, for the reader's convenience, postponed till now the consideration of Ampere's rank as a
traveller, and have even intentionally omitted one or two
of his most important journeys, when we were occupied
* Mohl was not only a distinguished Orientalist, he was also master
of several European languages; and I remember receiving a word of
encouragement from him, which the reader may thank me for communicating. I was at his rooms in the Rue du Bac (I am afraid to think
how many years ago); and, as at that time I spoke French imperfectly, I
preferred English, which Mohl spoke very correctly. He asked me if I
found that I made progress in French, and, on receiving an uncertain
reply, asked if I understood French conversations thoroughly when I
overheard them. " Yes, every word." " Very well," he went on to say,
"then rely upon it that you will soon speak fluently yourself; for, when
the ear misses nothing, the tongue is sure to follow, but it always lags
a little behind. For the present you should listen attentively." The
encouragement and advice here given are excellent, and founded on
accurate observation. People are generally very ready to say that they
understand a foreign language when they can catch about one word in
three; but I never knew any one who really understood every word
spoken by natives, without being able to speak well himself very soon
after having reached that point.
22




338


Modern Frenchmen.


with other matters. We might easily underrate him, in
an age which has been astonished by the discoveries
of the great African explorers. Amp&re made no geographical discoveries: his travels were never any thing
more than excursions, or periods of residence in foreign
countries, but they have an important peculiarity which
ought not to be overlooked. He was one of the first
Frenchmen, he was even one of the first Europeans, who
made travelling an integral part of an intellectual life;
one of the first men who would go hundreds or even
thousands of miles at any time, merely to get more perfect light on an object of intellectual pursuit. His interest in Roman history was fed and strengthened by long
study on the spot, and study so painstaking and accurate that he came to know the remains of ancient Rome
better than any of his contemporaries. His studies of
Grecian literature led him to Greece itself, that he might
read the Greek authors with the light of Hellas on the
page and its own scenery around him. He studied German literature in Germany, in personal intimacy with its
living leaders. His interest in Scandinavian lore took
him, as we have seen, to Sweden and Norway, as far
north as Drontheim. After that, instead of contenting
himself simply with the historical fact that there had
been a little Scandinaviain Northern France, he went to
live in it, and explore it as a linguist and archaeologist.
In 1843, he studied Egyptian hieroglyphics in the Italian
museums; but, not being satisfied with that, he went
in 1844 to study Egypt in Egypt itself. It is easy, of
course, for people who never felt any noble intellectual




yean 7acques Amipere.


339


enthusiasm to depreciate these studies as different varieties of dilettanteism; but what do they say to this?
Ampere, when in Egypt in 1845, was reduced to great
physical weakness by a dangerous attack of dysentery;
but there were certain tombs which he greatly desired
to see, and, to reach them, he had to cross a burning
plain of sand. Being determined not to leave the country without accomplishing this purpose, he had his body
covered with laudanum, and made his attendant tie him
on the back of his camel, that he might not fall from
weakness, having for his only consolation the company
of an unhopeful doctor, who told him that in the Egyptian climate dysentery was generally fatal, but that
human life was not worth much at the best, and that
dying was less difficult than people generally believed.
The visit to the tombs cost Ampere fifteen months of
acute suffering, but it clearly proves the vigor of his
resolution as a travelling student. It was rash; but the
rashness was the heroism of intellectual energy, which
will be turned aside by no fear of personal risk or inconvenience.
Travelling usually produced a good effect on Ampere,
both physically and mentally. "Les voyages," he said,
" me donnent toujours de la force." Besides this, he
had an intensely sensitive nature, which caused him to
feel the need for travel at certain times of trial, as an
escape from the pressure of grief. We have seen that
the death of Madame Recamier sent him into Spain and
Portugal, and thence to London, and thence again to
the Highlands of Scotland, in the mere restlessness of




340


Modern Frenchmenz


sorrow. "I dread Paris," he said at such times, "and
yet I have true friends there." Even after his return, he
finds it impossible to settle in Paris permanently, and
takes flight across the Atlantic in 185I, lands at Boston,
and makes an excursion of more than a thousand leagues,
including Quebec, Illinois, and Cincinnati; then he sets
off on another great excursion southwards.
The cause of many travels which Jean Jacques undertook as he advanced in life was one very familiar to all
wanderers. A peculiar form of nostalgia seized him from
time to time,  not the nostalgia which desires home and
the native land, but the longing to see once again the
scenes which are associated with recollections of other
years, the longing to roll back the mist which gathers
between us and the past.* This desire came upon the
affectionate, regretful nature of Jean Jacques from time
to time with an irresistible force. When tired of the
straight and monotonous streets of Paris, with their
wearisome succession of ever similar splendors, his
thoughts would turn to the tortuous but picturesque
vicoli of Rome and her horizon of distant hills.  Rome
called him in this way repeatedly: it was the place he
loved best in the world; and he went there many times,
always to work. " Unluckily," he said, " I cannot imitate the hurried tourist, who said to Madame C. in Rome,
'In order to see more, I have made up my mind not to
look at any bas-reliefs.' Now it so happens that there
are many bas-reliefs in Rome; and, when one has to
* Tennyson has exquisitely described this melancholy satisfaction in
one of the most perfect of his minor poems, " In the Valley of Cauteretz."




7ean  Yacques Ampere.


34I


study them in detail, it is a long business."  The desire
to do again what one has done before was curiously
manifested in 1854, when Ampere wanted to go and
study again at some German university.
At length, all these wanderings drew towards the
inevitable rest. Ampere was working again at Rome,
early in I86i. "I am lodged," he wrote, " on the Tarpeian Rock, in the German house. I have certainly the
most beautiful view of Rome, - the mountains in the distance, the Forum at my feet, the Palatine, the Aventine,
the Tiber. Through my window I see the palm-tree of
Saint Peter in Vincoli. I am next door to Henzen. I
have all the books that I can wish for. Alas! how
much more beautiful all this would be, and lighted by
another light, if my friends were in this Rome where
they are no more!" The next year, I862, he revisited
his favorite city, and lodged in the same rooms, working
still with the energy of youth,-" Je travaille de toutes
mes forces." This was his last residence in Rome; and
afterwards he remained more faithful to his friends at
Pau, telling them that formerly he had never dreaded
the possibility of dying on the road, to which every
traveller is exposed, but that now their affection had so
spoiled him that he wanted to die "en famille."  This
event was nearer than he may have anticipated. One
night in March, I864, he had been working as usual, and
was seized with sudden pain about the heart. It passed
away; and he resumed his ordinary life, saying that he
had still ten volumes in his head on Rome. Nevertheless, being warned by the attack of pain, he now made




342


Modern Frenchmen.


his will, and was seized again in the night preceding
Easter day. He rang the bell violently; and, when his
friends ran to his assistance, they found him unconscious and dying, his lamp still burning, the counterpane
of his bed all covered with books and papers, and the
pencil he wrote with just fallen from his hand. He died
in harness, laboring to the last.
In the month of August in the same year, a good man,
well known to the readers of this volume, Henri Perreyve, preached a sermon in the chapel at Stors, in
which he gave his best eloquence to celebrate the virtues of Jean Jacques Ampere, dwelling chiefly on his
courageous probity, his generosity, his gracious and
simple goodness, and, above all, on " the infinite delicacy
of his sure friendship, which, once given, was never
retracted. He was faithful in sorrow as others are in
prosperity." "I do not fear," said the preacher, "to recall his beloved face even in Thy presence, 0 Jesus! for
Thou wert, in Thy mortal days, an incomparable friend."
It is evident from this and other passages in the same
sermon that Perreyve saw no evil in Ampere's friendships with women. We all seek happiness in some form;
and Jean Jacques Ampere sought it chiefly in friendship,
choosing his friends in both sexes. Amongst men,
he was warmly attached to De Tocqueville, Mohl, the
learned Italian Marquis Capponi, and others; amongst
women, to Madame Recamier, Madame L., the Viscountess de Noailles, and the Duchess de Mouchy.
Honi soit qui mal y pense. It seems to me that, when
a man of Ampere's brilliant intellect and all but bound



yeain 7acques Ampere.


343


less learning delights in endless conversations with
cultivated women, such intercourse may be honorable
to both parties.
The life we have been following was one of the best
adapted for culture that could be led by a human being.
From his childhood, J. J. Ampere lived in the kind of
society which is at the same time the best informed and
the most perfectly communicative. His time was so
beautifully divided between acquisition and communication that the blue mould of ignorance could never grow
upon him, and his intellectual armor could never be
rusted by reserve. He was neither, on the one hand,
the silent scholar, incapable of imparting what he knows,
nor, on the other, the copious chatterer, whose words are
empty and vain. His acquirements were so great that
the strongest epithets are not too much to express the
vast extent of his knowledge: it was enormous, prodigious, what you will; and his facility of utterance, in
public speaking, in private conversation, or by means of
books and articles, was like the flowing of perennial
springs. He had access to every thing: he was not tied
down, like many an earnest student, to the wretched
resources of some third-rate provincial city; he was not
even limited to the noble museums and libraries of Paris
or to the help of the learned men who lived there.
Every country in Europe was open to him, and he was
at home in many capitals. Though never wealthy, he
contrived always to have money enough for his wants,
including a reserve for sudden journeys of great length,
which he undertook as readily as a queen's messenger,




344


Modern Frenchmen.


whenever Minerva commanded. His health was not
what is called robust, and yet his physical powers were
always equal to his large and incessant demands upon
them. He could travel night and day, with little regard
to comfort, before railways were common on the Continent; whilst all places and all hours were alike to him
for his intellectual work. His life, therefore, as a perpetual student, was one of rare advantages,- a life of
extraordinary powers in conjunction with extraordinary
opportunities.
Nevertheless, if a wise man were asked whether he
would accept or decline such a life, with all its advantages, I think he would surely decline it, and for this
one sufficient reason: that it had no centre of its own.
Jean Jacques-Ampere was a homeless being; so homeless, that merely to write or read his biography gives
one a feeling of restlessness, which only ends when he
is quiet at last in his grave. The need of affection,
which in others so often leads to the happiness of
marriage and the inestimable benefit of a settled existence in quiet independence of society, was always
compelling Ampere to revolve like a satellite round
somebody.   Had he been the only satellite, as the
moon is to the earth, the situation would have, been
more acceptable. Had he been even the nearest, as
Mercury is to the sun, the position might have been
tolerable still.  But he was an outer satellite, like
Jupiter, without the planet's happy unconsciousness
of cold.  Not only this, but his imperious need of
family life compelled him to be a parasite. I use the




7can JacTues AmnpYre.


345


word, in reference to him, without either contempt or
blame; for he certainly never attached himself to any
house or family where he was not heartily welcome
when he came, and sincerely regretted when he went
away.  His friends, too, being chiefly French people
of the best kind, had too much real delicacy to let
him feel any thing approaching to patronage; and his
high Academic rank, added to the scientific fame of
his illustrious father, gave him a social position which,
in France, is really and substantially equivalent to that
of a great nobleman. Nevertheless, he was a parasite
still, —not for the sake of money, which he earned
honorably by labor, but for the sake of that human
love and affection without which he found life a desert.
Most men would rather die under their own roof than
as a guest in the house of another; but Jean Jacques
wished more than ever to be near his friends in the
last hour, although they were comparatively recent
friends; and he passed away, surrounded by those
who were not of his kindred, and who had only known
him in his age. So lonely was he, except for their
kindness, that he left them all he had, to be employed,
after some posthumous publications, in any work of
charity they might prefer. Small as are the earnings
of the highest intellectual labor, and small as were
Ampere's talents for money-making, with his large generosity, he owed no man any thing when he died, and
even left a little peculiunm, now yielding an annual interest of eighty pounds, which is employed as a prize
held for two years by a young writer, artist, or savant,
chosen by the Academy of Lyons.




346


Modern Frenchmen.


HENRI REGNAULT.
JACOTOT'S theory that all intelligences are equal,
and Rude's simple belief that the only difference
between men is that occasioned by labor, were alike
disproved by the childhood and early manhood of Henri
Regnault, who gave evidence from the first of natural
gifts so visibly different from those of ordinary humanity, that only the strongest prejudice could refuse to see
a special favor of nature in his singularly artistic organization. Labor, indeed! Why, there are old artists in
every capital of Europe who have gone through three
times the amount of labor that Regnault ever gave to
his art, and who at sixty have not attained either the
skill or the knowledge which he possessed at twentyfive. Industry is a good practical virtue, and a habit
which, no doubt, is useful in enabling us to make the
most of our time; but genius, or inborn faculty, whatever moralists may say, is more effectual as to results
than the most laborious application. Landseer, who led
the life of a London bachelor in easy circumstances, was,
I believe, very generally in bed during those morning
hours which it is the pride of Industry to utilize; and,




Heieri Regnault.


347


instead of working late at night, he generally went into
society. His work was done in a few hours between
his late breakfast and his ride before dinner. A very
highly gifted etcher of my acquaintance - there can be
no harm in naming Paul Rajon-works a couple of
hours or so in the best daylight, and then rides out in
the Bois de Boulogne, doing more work in a year, and
better, than some laborious and respectable followers
of the craft who wear out their eyesight under the lamp.
But it is needless to multiply examples. Both for acquisition and for production also, natural faculty and aptitude are worth any quantity of toil. The gifted man
will work, of course, because he can'not help it, and
sometimes he will work with tremendous energy and
magnificent perseverance; but the difference between
him and the dull struggler is that he simply exercises
a power, whilst the other tries painfully to acquire
one.
Dulness and difficulty are so common in the world,there are so many aspirants whose natural gifts are manifestly insufficient for the tasks they undertake,- that
we all feel a profound satisfaction when we see a man
whose powers have authorized his desires. We feel,
with regard to Regnault, that he had a clear right to
lead the kind of life he chose, and to indulge the hopes
which encouraged him. Seldom has any artist been
more abundantly endowed with all the aptitudes which
belong especially to the painter. His passionate delight
in the pleasures of the eye was the first and most necessary gift of the true painter which he possessed; but,




348


3Modern Frenchmen.


besides this, he had that close sympathy with the physical half of life, which is so much rarer in our civilization
than it was in ancient Greece, to our great loss and
detriment as artists. In these days, it is rare to find a
painter who can keep sufficiently clear of literary influences, who can really live the life of a painter, in the
frank enjoyment of his eyesight, without half-blinding
himself by thinking. Again, that closeness of sympathy
with the physical, which I have just alluded to, is impossible for any one whose own bodily frame is not capable
of a very high degree of activity; the habits of sedentary
life are injurious to it, confinement in a great modern
city may easily extinguish it altogether.
Henri Regnault was born in I843, at the end of
October, and was the second son of Victor Regnault,
whose name is as famous in the scientific world as his
son's name has since become in the world of art.
The reader may have observed that, as some evidence
of the facility with which talent becomes hereditary,
every subject of the biographies in this volume had a
more or less distinguished father. Victor Jacquemont's
father was a man of great acquirements and stoical
courage, an able and voluminous writer, a patriot, with
manhood enough in him to bear prison and exile rather
than sacrifice his political convictions. The son, in
turn, was also a man of great acquirements and stoical
courage, was also an able and voluminous writer, and,
though he lived in milder political times, proved his
manhood by his unflinching resolution as a traveller.
The father of Henri Perreyve was not celebrated, but he




Henri Regnault.


349


was able and learned. Rude's father was not learned,
being in humble life; but there is evidence that his
intelligence was above mediocrity, as he introduced an
invention into France which at the present day is most
extensively useful. Jean Jacques Ampere had for his
father one of the most illustrious scientific discoverers
who ever lived. And now we come to Henri Regnault,
whose father rendered such services to science that a
mere enumeration of them occupied, when he died, three
or four columns in each of the leading newspapers.
I have not space to enumerate them here; but a very
brief outline of Victor Regnault's career will not be out
of place.
He was born in I8io at Aix-la-Chapelle, where his
father, who was an officer in the French army, happened to be stationed with his regiment. By the time
the child was eight years old, his father and mother were
both dead; and he was left with all the difficulties of
youth and poverty before him. He became a shop-boy,
and carried parcels; but, notwithstanding what appear
all but insuperable obstacles, he worked so resolutely at
his own education that in 1830 he accomplished the feat
of getting admitted into the lEcole Polytechnique, as one
of the first on the list of candidates. As this book is
intended for readers outside of France, I may pause to
explain that the Ecole Polytechnique is a mathematical
college, which has a limited number of vacancies every
year, and that admission is won by a severe competitive
examination, which only the most brilliant students have
a chance of passing at all, - mediocrities never attempt




350


Modern Frenchmen.


it. The story of a poor parcel-carrying shop-boy in a
provincial town getting into "Polytechnique" * by dint
of hard labor, and in amongst the first, would be scouted
as utterly improbable in a novel. However, Regnault
got in, as we see; and, when he came out again, he was
a student of mining (/dve des minies). He advanced so
rapidly in this profession that he became, in 1847, Ingeniezur en chef des Mines. After that, his labors were
purely scientific. His splendid experiments on the carburets of hydrogen, which, according to Berthelot, have
become classical in the history of chemistry, led to his
nomination to the chair of chemistry at the Polytechnic,
and elevated him to the rank of Member of the Academy of Sciences in 1840. Thus he won, at the age of
thirty, and at the very beginning of his scientific career,
a position which others are happy to attain as the reward
of a long life.
Then came a series of important researches on heat,
and in I84I he was appointed Professor of Physics at
the College de France, where he set up his elaborately
furnished laboratory; and in this laboratory he continued
his investigations on heat, with practical studies relating
to steam-engines and the dilatation and compressibility
of elastic fluids, investigations which have since led to
marvellous results in the liquefaction of gases. His
study of steam advanced the theory of the steam-engine;
and the practical tendencies of his scientific intellect led
to his appointment, in 1854, as Director of the National
Porcelain Factory, at Skvres. The great scientific dis* Into " Polytechnique " is a customary form in France.




Henri Regnault.


351


tinction of Victor Regnault is (according to those who
are capable of judging these things) that he was one of
the best makers of experiments who ever lived, that he
made thousands of experiments with the greatest acumen,
patience, and care.
In his own departments of intellectual labor, he was
so eminent that he is constantly called "illustrious," an
epithet always reserved for the greatest. He was a
foreign member of the English Royal Society, and received the Copley and Rumford medals. He was also
Corresponding Member of the Academies of Berlin and
St. Petersburg.
Even this hasty sketch is enough to show that Henri
Regnault was born in the aristocracy of intellect; that
the sentiment expressed in the glorious old motto,
noblesse oblige, was likely to make itself felt in the young
man's consciousness, so that he would desire "nothing
common to do, nor mean."  There is no place in the
world where the son of a man of great intellectual eminence feels that stimulus so strongly as in Paris, because
there a reputation stands firmly on its own basis, and is
real substantial greatness in itself without the adjuncts
of rank and wealth. Young Regnault, then, came into
the world very like a young prince who has a great name
to maintain by personal courage and effort.
His passion for drawing displayed itself very early, for
when quite a child he would draw from memory what he
had seen in his walks, especially horses and dogs. This
love of animals lasted through life, and even influenced
his choice of human subjects, directing his attention




352


Modern Frenchmen.


more especially to those Oriental races which, by their
indolence in repose and their violent ferocity in action,
most nearly resemble the wild beasts. In his childhood,
Henri was constantly asking to be taken to the Jardin
des Plantes, where he delighted in watching the animals
in their dens. He observed their movements with' persistent attention, so that it was difficult to get him away.
So early as I857, he wanted to be an artist, but at that
time thought of sculpture rather than painting. His
father did not put any obstacle in his way, did not try
to prevent him from becoming an artist, but, knowing
the value of a good general education, required that
Henri should complete his classical studies before entering upon the special education of art. M. Victor
Regnault fixed upon the degree of bachelier es lettres
as the point to be attained before abandoning literary
studies. It is the lowest of the university degrees in
France, and requires a very thorough knowledge of
French, much Latin, and a little Greek, besides many
other matters. The paternal intention was simply to
prevent his boy from growing up illiterate, as so many
do who are carried away by a passion for the fine arts.
Henri submitted to this as readily as Henri Perreyve
submitted to pass his examination for the bar; and, more
than this, he gave his best efforts to his work, and succeeded in winning a good many prizes at the Lycee
Napoleon, where he was one of the cleverest pupils. He
left school in I859.
His father did not like him to enter one of the great
studios of Paris, so he applied to Ingres and Flandrin for




Henri Regnault.


353


advice. As Flandrin could not take him, he being at that
time occupied with th-e frescoes in St. Germain des Pres,
he recommended M. Lamothe as a master. Lamothe
was an old pupil of Ingres, and had the classical and
religious traditions.
Henri Regnault set to work very ardently, and was
admitted in 1862 to try for the Prix de Rome. He
missed it twice, but had the courage to present himself
a third time, in I866, and succeeded. The subject was
"Thetis brings to Achilles the arms forged by Vulcan."
There is a pretty story connected with this success.
He worked at first with great energy, but soon became
dissatisfied with his composition, and expected a third
failure. He lost hope, indeed, to such a degree that he
thought it useless to go on. After he had renounced
the attempt, but before the expiration of the time allowed for the contest (a few days yet remained), he went
with his friend, Arthur Duparc, to pass the evening at a
friend's house, and met a young lady whose face struck
him forcibly by its uncommon aspect and its remarkable
expression. He immediately made two sketches, and
his friend observed that he became pensive. The next
day he went back to his cell,* and resumed the abandoned picture, changing its form from an upright to an
oblong, and "giving Thetis the delicate and distinguished profile of the young lady he had met the evening
before." He worked like one in a fever: in twelve days,
the new picture was finished, and it won the prize.
* The competitors are shut up in cells, and have to paint from
memory, in complete isolation.
23




354


Modern Frenchmen.


He had been working very hard in the year 1865,
rising early and making the best of the daylight hours.
This application had compelled him to renounce the
pleasures of society. "I tried at first," he said, "to
bear both the day's work and the fatigues of soirees, but
found it impossible, and have decided to give up le
monde."  After winning his prize, he went to Brittany,
where he passed the month of September, and early in
October he was called to Sevres by a telegram which
informed him that his mother was-dying from inflammation of the lungs. He set off immediately, of course,
but was stopped at Nantes by an inundation of the
Loire, and obliged to go back to take the line from
Quimper to Paris, so that he only arrived at Sevres on
the night of the I3th. By that time, his mother was
lying in her place in the cemetery. On the 2Ist of the
same month, an old aunt, for whom he had the most
lively affection, was suddenly carried off. At five o'clock
she was walking about, at six she was lying dead. So
that the year which was brightened by the Prix de Rome
was grievously darkened afterwards by these losses,
which were dreadful blows to Henri, with his affectionate disposition.
He set off for Rome in March, I867, suffering dreadfully from the cold on the line between Paris and
Marseilles, a night journey which he afterwards compared to Napoleon's retreat from  Russia. "I never
was so frozen," he said, "in my life."
I may here remark that it was a peculiarity of his
physical constitution to be exceedingly sensitive to cold,




Hellri Regilaut/l.


355


a fact of some importance, as it inclined him always to
prefer southern regions, such as Italy, Spain, and Africa;
and this preference had a great influence on his destiny
as an artist. Besides his physical dislike to cold, he
had an intense natural repugnance to bad weather of
all kinds, and would have been utterly incapable of any
sympathy with those English and Scottish landscapepainters who delight in effects of rain. " Bad weather
has followed us everywhere," he wrote. " We have been
drowned at Nice, drowned at Genoa, drowned at La
Spezzia, drowned at Rome: Florence alone had a kind
smile for us."
The life of a Prix de Rome, when once settled there,
is as charming as any existence that can be imagined.
He lives with his comrades in a beautiful palace, with a
fine park and garden; a life adorned by painting and
music, without a single material care, for the repasts
in the refectory are better than those of the Roman
restaurants.
The love of practical jokes, which is a defect of boys
in general, and of young artists in particular, led to a
very curious and cleverly imagined custom in former
times, now fallen, I believe, into desuetude. New comers
from Paris arrived generally in a carriage, and the old
pupils went to meet them at Storta, fifteen miles from
Rome. Then they escorted them to the Academy, where
every thing was purposely made as wretched as possible
for their reception. The rooms which were shown to
them had been previously cleared of all but a little miserable furniture; they dined in the worst room that




356


Modern Frenchmen.


could be found in the whole building, on a poor table,
surrounded by broken chairs and lighted by dirty tallow
candles, stuck in common glass bottles. The plates were
all cracked, the forks were pewter, twisted and broken.
The students quarrelled during dinner-time to make
matters as uncomfortable as possible; and one of them,
dressed as a monk, read out aloud from the most tiresome Italian book that could be found.
Whilst Henri Regnault was at Rome in 1867, a story
got about in Paris to the effect that he had been assassinated. Hebert received almost daily telegrams from
Paris, asking if it were true. Regnault at last answered
himself that "his monument would not be erected, this
year at least, near to the one which was to be inaugurated
to the memory of his comrade Deschamps," a ceremony
for which he was requested to sing a requiem. What is
really remarkable in this answer is that it looks prophetic to us, who know that a monument to Regnault's
memory has been erected subsequently in that very
church, and close to that of the above-mentioned Deschamps!
There is a time in the life of all intelligent young men
when they are sure to idle, if they have the opportunity;
and, although such times are often bitterly regretted in
after-life as lost months or years, the probability is that
they have a special utility, and contribute an element
not otherwise obtainable to the ultimate development
of the man. I have touched upon this subject in the
" Intellectual Life," and will not quote myself; but I will
quote once again the excellent assertion of T6pffer, that




Henri Regnault.


357


" a year of downright loitering is a desirable element in
a liberal education." If it is so in the training of men
devoted to what may be called positive pursuits, it is so
still more decidedly in the education of authors and
artists, who require impressions and materials which are
often only hit upon by accident, and are not always to
be come by at the easel or the desk. In I867, Henri
Regnault spent a great deal of time in intelligent fladerie
at Rorme. He rose early, and immediately set off on
horseback for a long ride, coming back to dejzuner at
eleven, and visiting galleries and churches in the afternoon.  These explorations of the neighborhood of
Rome, and of the artistic treasures in the city itself,
occupied the whole of his time till dinner; and then,
after a little music, he went early to bed. This is not
exactly the life of a hard-working painter: it is rather
that of a tourist of independent fortune, who is making
the most of a residence in the historic city by diligently
seeing what is to be seen; but it was of use to Regnault,
who, of course, was incessantly observing. The mere
physical exercise was good for him also, even as an
artist, because it kept up his sympathy with animal life,
and also with human activity. I may mention as evidence of his interest in what was to be seen that he
and some comrades went to a country fair purposely to
observe the popular types and costume. They found
very little costume and very little beauty, the only feminine beauty discernible being that of some English
ladies, who had gone there, like themselves, from curiosity.
En revanche, if the people were not beautiful, they were




358


Modern Frenchmen.


dirty, being obstinately conservative, if not of costume,
at least of the ancient antipathy to cleanliness. "Our
Bretons of Plogoff," said Regnault, "are refined marquises in comparison with them.  What a distance
between the peasant women of Rome and the fine,
tall Breton women of the Pointe du Raz and the Isle
of Sein!"
Soon after the opening of the Universal Exhibition
of I867 in Paris, the French art students of the Villa
Medicis (the French Academy at Rome) obtained leave
of absence. This was granted for two reasons, both in
order that the young painters might see the collection
of all the schools of Europe at Paris, and also because
the cholera had attacked the Roman population, and the
inhabitants of the Villa Medicis were in some danger of
contagion. This upset Regnault's plans, and he returned
to Paris, where he remained from June to December.
He was in Rome again before the end of the year; and
in January, I868, he, with eleven of his fellow-students,
went to see the eruption of Vesuvius. Seven of them
ascended, including, of course, our hero, whilst the
mountain was in full eruption; and he compared it to
climbing coke in a coal-scuttle with a very steep slope.
Regnault used his pen very cleverly, and described his
impressions well. Perhaps the reader may like to have
his description of this wonderful scene in the original:"Pour nous recompenser de nos fatigues, nous etions
devant un spectacle vraiment infernal. La lave sortait
en bouillonnant d'une sorte de tunnel, et coulait comme
un torrent, avec l'eclat d'un metal fondu, rougi a blanc.




Henri Regnault.


359


Par moments elle ralentissait sa course, se soulevait a
plusieurs reprises comme ]a poitrine d'un geant essouffle,
et chaque fois laissait echapper comme un gros soupir
de vapeurs sulfureuses que le vent chassait loin de
nous.
"Au-dessus de nos tetes s'etendait un grand panache
de vapeur eclaire par les reflets rouges de la lave.
Toutes les dix ou quinze secondes le cratere vomissait
un immense plumet noir-fonce qui s'elevait comme un
arbre colossal et retombait en cendres. Du milieu de ce
jet noir sautaient des pierres enflammees qui montaient
a une assez grande hauteur et retombaient en roulant sur
les flancs du petit cone; c'etait en grand un bouquet de
feu d'artifice partant avec un vacarme proportionne a sa
taille.
" Nous sommes restes la a peu pres une demi-heure,
jusqu'a ce que la nuit fut venue. Nos batons, trempes
dans la lave, flambaient immediatement comme des allumettes, et le courant etait si rapide qu'il entrainait
la pointe des batons sans qu'il fut possible de resister a
sa force."
Regnault had been painting the portrait of a lady
(Madame Duparc); and Hebert, the Director of the
French Academy at Rome, was so pleased with this
performance that he invited many great ladies to come
and see it at the Villa Medicis.
"My humble student's rooms," Regnault wrote to a
friend, "are always full of people, and my bare straw
chairs have the honor of carrying Polish princesses in
ska, the Princess de Sc, the Countess de G ---, the




360


Modern Frenchmen.


Marchioness de No —, &c.   The prettiest ladies of
Rome and the world in general (especially of America)
pass before the portrait. This enchanting public makes
me compliments which I am not going to repeat. They
are too much exaggerated. I content myself with virgin blushes; and, truly, I am sometimes much embarrassed."
The interest which Regnault took in every thing at
Rome led him to produce a great number of drawings
on wood, representing the life and aspects of the wonderful old city. Luckily for his purpose, the Pope had
not yet in those days quite shut himself up in the
Vatican, and Rome was still the unique ecclesiastical
city, with that wonderful mixture of majesty and oddity
which is not to be found elsewhere. Regnault, who had
explored every corner, and noted down in his retentive
memory every bit of originality in the people, from the
Pope and Cardinals down to the dirtiest beggar, found
it a mere amusement to make many drawings on wood;
but he did them with so much vivacity and truth that
he had a right to expect some recognition. The woodcuts were exhibited at the Salon of I868; and, by a
strange caprice of the jury, the wood-engraver got a
medal, whilst no notice whatever was taken of the
brilliant designer, without whom it is probable that the
wood-cutter would have been able to do very little. As,matters were, the original drawings were not improved
by his treatment; for one who had seen the drawings
before they were operated upon by the burin and scalpel
says that they were full of delicacy and intelligence




Henri Regnault.


36I
1)


when fresh from Regnault's pencil, but became heavy
and vulgar when translated.
An odd accident happened to a picture which he had
nearly completed in June, I868, "Automedon breaking
the Horses of Achilles." This picture was on a large
scale, and was painted in a studio at a considerable
height from the ground. The paint was not sufficiently
dry to allow of its being rolled, the window of the studio
was too big for it to pass on the stretching-frame, so it
had to be detached, and then nailed by top and bottom
to two cross-pieces, so that it might be neatly folded
without creasing it, and then put out on the roof.
Once there, the canvas was stretched out again, and let
down by cords into the yard below. The operation was
the more delicate that the figure of Automedon was not
dry at all. Unluckily, there was a wind; and everybody
who has managed a sail knows what wind on ca-nvas is.
A single gust was enough to tear off the heads of the
nails, to twist the canvas like a dish-cloth, and send it
rattling down on the pavement far below in a state not
at all adapted for public exhibition, the figure spoiled,
and the rest cracked with great fissures. Regnault immediately decided to paint the whole over again in dead
color, and send it to the exhibition as a sketch; but
afterwards he resumed work upon it; and, as soon as
it was finished, there was another fall, -not of the
picture, this time, but the painter.
Henri Regnault had from childhood been passionately
fond of horses, and now in the freedom of his student
life at Rome he indulged this passion as much as his




362


AIoaodern  Frenzchmen.


time and means would allow. There was an exceedingly
handsome horse in Rome, belonging to a French officer,
a commandant of Zouaves.    This lovely but lively
creature nearly killed its master on the day of the Fete
Diezu, and when Regnault saw this outburst of equine
energy he admired the animal more than ever, and the
temptation to get upon his back became absolutely
irresistible. He tried him, and found him "charming,
-charming again the next day, pretty as the heart's
desire, elegant, docile, graceful; just.a little lively, but
well deserving a prize for irreproachable conduct."
After that there were some little difficulties.  This
union of all perfections had a temper, and began to show
it by stopping in an unreasonable manner, which led to
some use of the spur. One day, Regnault had made an
appointment for a ride with a gentleman and his wife,
and they were waiting for him on the road at Ponte
Molle. To his vexation, the horse kept him in a contest
which lasted three-quarters of an hour, after which he
rushed into the Via Flaminia as if he were racing.
Regnault avoided the first carriage he met, but came
into full collision with the second, which was a cart full
of sand. The horse stopped as a cannon-ball stops
when it hits a bastion, but Regnault was projected
forwards with terrible force, alighting on his head near
the feet of the cart-horse before him. He was brought
back to the Villa Medicis covered with blood, but not
insensible.  His servant, Lagraine, nearly fainted on
seeing him. The doctor found no bones broken, and
put his head for forty-eight hours under ice, "like




Hetri Regzallt.


363


canmpagne frappe."  Four days afterwards, he left his
bed.
The accident was of importance, because, in combination with frequent attacks of Roman fever, it led to a
decisive medical order that the young painter should
quit Rome. Persistent rumors had gained currency in
Paris to the effect that he had been assassinated, a revival
of the same rumor which had been so generally believed
in 1867. Fortunately, a telegraph was there to admit of
an early contradiction, and Regnault amused himself by
writing a letter in the character of his own ghost. There
is something sinister in these rumors, idle as they were;
for they too soon associated the name of Henri Regnault with the idea of violent death.
Having quitted Rome on the 6th of August, I868,
Regnault first went to Marseilles by sea, and, after staying a week in a chateau in the south of France, went to
Bayonne to join his friend Clairin, with whom he was
to go to Spain. Clairin, who had been waiting a whole
fortnight, lost patience, and pushed on; but they met
afterwards.  Regnault reached Bilbao some time in
September, just in time to see a bull-fight, in which he
took a passionate interest. The reader would, I believe,
mistake the character of Regnault, if he concluded that
horrible things had an attraction for him because they
were horrible. Feats of strength and activity delighted
him immensely, so much so that, although he disliked
horrors, he could not tear himself away from them when
they were associated with human or even animal agility
and courage. This, I believe, is the true explanation of




364


3Modern Frenchmen.


what has frequently been taken for a morbid pleasure
in horror in Regnault's choice of studies and subjects.
The following expression of his feelings about bullfights, in a letter to his father, will, I think, set this in
its true light:"I confess that the struggle with the picadors is very
disagreeable to me; the disembowelled horses, the men
knocked down at every instant, and who run great risks
in falling, all that produced a painful impression upon
me. But the game of the matadors, banderilleros, espadados, &c., is really very effective. There were costumes
marvellous for the richness and originality with which
the tones of color were arranged. Unhappily, all the
bulls were not completely killed. It is frightful to see
the poor beasts tormented and made quite giddy by
their enemies with cloaks and by the cries of the crowd.
All this seems to me very sad, and yet I was glad to
have seen it, and shall return to-morrow. The bull has
sometimes fine movements, and amongst the men there
are some who present themselves with such ease and
such elegance that, although one regrets from the moral
and humanitarian point of view that such things can be,
one finds in them a most interesting spectacle from the
artistic point of view."
Nothing can be clearer than this expression of opinion, which is evidently an exact account of the state of
Regnault's mind. He could and did feel pity for suffering and a repugnance to the sight of even animal pain;
but his artistic admiration for courage, fine movements,
and brilliant costumes, overcame his repugnance (with



Henri Regnaullt.


365


out by any means extinguishing it) just sufficiently to
attract him to the dreadful and beautiful scene again.
I feel it necessary to insist rather strongly on the artistic side of Regnault's strong and ardent temperament,
because, if we lost sight of it, we should so easily misunderstand him. No men are so much exposed to this
kind of misunderstanding as artists. Their interest in
certain kinds of material for their art often becomes
an overmastering passion, and impels them to frequent
places for purposes of study which no one but an artist
would select. In this way, landscape painters often bury
themselves in the most outlandish villages, where there
is no society, where there are no books or intelligent
amusements of any kind, and they easily acquire a reputation for unsociableness and a desire to shun their kind,
when the real explanation is probably nothing but the
irresistible attractiveness of a very picturesque spot
where a painter may work in peace. Figure painters
are liable to misinterpretations of a still more damaging
kind; for, when they have a taste for the picturesque in
figures, they may be led, not to "talk with rocks and
trees," "on lonely mountain ground," but to talk with
very low people in dirty dwellings and popular drinkingplaces. Henri Regnault, who was one of the most
thorough gentlemen of his time,-Henri Regnault, who
was perfectly happy and at ease in the highest society
in Paris and Rome, -had a passion, at Madrid, for the
very lowest society that could be found, simply because
it was so interesting to him as an artist. There was one
place especially, no better than a hovel, in the Plaza de




366


Modern Frenchmen.


la Cevada, much frequented by horsebreakers, coachmen, porters, and fruit-sellers. " Frightful types are to
be seen there," said Regnault, "but there is a certain
Dolores, who sings Seguedillas, Gitanas, Malaguenas,
Rondenas, Palas, with a splendid contralto voice, such
as one can hear nowhere else, for it is almost a tenor,
and what a tenor! a voice that makes the whole place
vibrate! She is beautiful as the most beautiful antique
statue, more beautiful even, for she has eyes that see, a
mouth and lips that breathe, hair whose locks undulate
like serpents, and of a brilliant black. I want to make
a study of her for my 'Judith.'
" The Spaniards are truly a strange people. You cannot imagine the native distinction and politeness of all
these rascals, whom one would not be happy to meet
on the outskirts of a wood. They live enfamille in that
wine-shop. The other evening, an Aragonese offered us
preserved fruits at the end of a navaja as big as a cavalry sabre. Every time we go there, we exchange little
courtesies. Theyare very hospitable, and in the low
class I find few who are not cordial and frank. They
are elegant and handsome, with their silk kerchiefs and
their vests of majo. They offer you their glasses to
drink from. Listen to the beautiful Lola, listen to her
singing, with her superb contralto-tenor voice, long
melancholy ballads, Gitanas, or Juguetas, interrupted by
great sighs on the lower notes, whilst the guitar embroiders its variations on the same monotonous theme, which
transports you you know not whither. Then hole, hole,
hole, the audience become excited, the hands applaud,




Henri Regnault.              367
and keep time as they applaud. One hears the footsteps
of a handsome picador who stands up to dance, showing
his white teeth and his broad silken girdle, on which
fall two great chains of gold. Then Lola jumps on a
bench or a table, and begins the same rhythmic movements."
Soon these picturesque people gained confidence
enough in Regnault and his friend to come to the studio
and pose in their curious costumes. Regnault went so
far in the way of sociability that he actually became godfather to a little gitano, and here is a description of the
manner in which the family lived: -
"I have been to see the mother, under the guidance
of her husband, a good fellow, who took me to the little
town inhabited by the gitanos, close to Madrid, near
Retuan. It was night. We entered a large house all
in a ground floor, divided into many small chambers.
Each family occupies one. A fire of embers was in the
middle of the room, on the brick floor. On.one side
were the straw mattresses they sleep upon. They were
seated round the fire, the children with nothing on but
ragged little shirts. The donkeys walk about freely in
the rooms, and pass from one to another, eating the bits
of straw which they find. We had brought three bottles
of wine, which we distributed to these good folks. A
handsome young man played the guitar, another sang,
the women marked the rhythm by clapping their hands,
the children danced. We sat on the ground in the biggest room round the fire, except the mother, who was ill
and lay down. The scene was lighted by a little antique




368


Mlodern Frenchmzen.


lamp, and the wine went round. Nothing can be more
curious than these interiors, where the most wretched
poverty reigns. The men are almost all dealers in asses
and mules. They have the reputation of being able to
bring dead donkeys to life, and of riding at full gallop on
the corpses of mules. I belong to the family now, and
they treat me in the most friendly way, wishing me
health every time they mneet me. They talk like highpriests, with a certain emphasis, and noble, majestic
gestures. They often repeat to me ' SeNor Don Eizriqne,
vaia usted con Dios y con sahid.' They never jest; and
one has to be very careful not to treat them too lightly,
for they are prodigiously proud, and fear nothing."
Regnault lived so much by the eyes when in Spain that
his letters are almost incessant descriptions of external
things, touched lightly and rapidly with a master hand;
for he had a great literary gift, though there is no reason
to suppose that he ever suspected it, absorbed as he was
by the more attractive and amusing art of the painter.
Every thing strikes him. He puts himself in the way of
the popular festivals, and is glad to be out in the streets,
seeing all that goes on. There is at the Academy of
San Fernando, in Madrid, a little picture by Goya representing an episode of the popular fete, the Burial of the
Sardine. Regnault witnessed the same festival, and saw
on Shrove Tuesday another episode, thoroughly Spanish,
very strange and very paintable.
" In Spain (at Madrid at any rate), when the last sacraments are taken to a sick person, the priest gets into
a cab, and is escorted to the house of the dying person




Henri Regnault.


369


by men who carry torches and ring little bells. It was
almost night: the crowd was leaving the Prado, and
going down the Carrera San Geronimo, when the tinkling of the little bells became audible. The cortege
passed; and, according to Spanish usage, both men and
women fell on their knees. It is impossible to imagine
any thing more grotesque than these maskers, with heads
of camels, heads of monkeys, heads of devils, and big
heads of Englishmen * in cardboard, throwing themselves
on their knees."
The same Shrove Tuesday five frightful masks came
bursting into the studio, and shook hands violently with
Regnault and his friend. One of them represented a
horrible-looking marquis, and turned out to be the beautiful Dolores, the enchanting singer, accompanied by
her guitar-player, her father, her cousin, and her cousin's
cousin. After this, the whole party went the round of
the cafes, in the low quarters of Madrid.
Regnault had a strong admiration for the politeness
of the lower classes in Spain. "What astonishes me
most," he said, "is the inborn distinction of all these
good people. They are truly elegant, generous, polished.
Oh, if I were king of Spain! "  And again, in another
letter: "The lowest has something of Don Quixote
about him. He is never canaille, never mean, and a
grandee does not consider himself dishonored because
he allows a beggar to light a cigarette at his. I like the
* I hope the English reader feels flattered by the association with
devils, monkeys, and camels. This may be taken as an illustration of
international caricature.
24




370


3Modern Frenchmen.


people much: their politeness is exquisite, and they are
obliging to a degree which is absolutely unknown to the
French. For a whole fortnight, the town was in the
hands of the lowest class, armed to the teeth, and yet
there was neither a single robbery, nor any excess whatever. As I said to my father: Put Paris in the same
state, and you would soon see what would happen." *
The costume of the women pleased Regnault as much
as the popular manners. "The dress worn by ladies is
very simple; and, as the work-women wear it just as
gracefully, with the same ease, the same natural distinction, different classes can mix together in public without
incongruity, and even an inhabitant of Madrid may mistake one class for another."
I have mentioned already the ominous rumors which
were current at Paris in two different years, to the effect
that Regnault had been assassinated in Rome.    In
Madrid, he was nearly poisoned. One day, being very
hungry, and at the same time too much interested in
his work to take a regular meal, he took a piece of bread
and cut it with his palette-knife whilst painting. The
same evening he was in convulsions, and suffering from
horrible pains, poisoned by some color which had been
transferred from the palette-knife to the bread. The
next day, fortunately, he was well again; "but"- he
wrote with a foreboding which (with our knowledge of
his ultimate fate) seems prophetic-" it is written that
I shall die a violent death! "
* This has been since confirmed by the outrages under the Commune,
though even that was, on the whole, better than might have been expected.




Henzri Regnault.


37 I


Our hero was at Madrid during the revolution, which,
in comparison with French ones, turned out to be a remarkably quiet affair. He called it "a model revolution,
-the first wise and reasonable revolution that ever was."
Not a drop of blood was shed, and the principal occupation of the people was the protection of property, the
working-men and shopkeepers doing duty everywhere as
armed policemen. We have just said that no blood was
shed, but there was one exception. A thief had stolen
an Englishman's gold watch, and was immediately shot.
The watch was laid on his body in the public street, and
left there till the owner claimed it. The incidents of the
revolution delighted Regnault, because of their incessant
picturesque interest.
"We do not lose our time," he wrote: " we visit all the
corps de garde and the bivouacs; we take notes, and on
our return to the studio we sketch all that has most
struck us in our walks. Madrid, just at present, is full
of superb pictures; the variety of costumes, the mixture
of arms and rags, the courtyards, the streets, often very
picturesque, are so many interesting motives.'
The reader will observe in all the passages which I
have quoted a remarkable combination of delicacy of
taste with a spirit which does not shrink in the least
from contact with the common people, but greatly enjoys
its own interest in the living world around it, as we can
imagine Shakespeare doing, or Cervantes. Himself a
thoroughly well-bred person, and yet at the same time
overflowing with a vigorous vitality, the young artist is
delighted with a populace which gratifies his love of the




372


Mlodern Frenchmen.


picturesque and his sympathy with life and movement
without offending his good taste. It would, however, be
a complete mistake to conclude from what has just been
said of Regnault's interest in the common people that
he abandoned his own rank in society. At the very
time when he would pass an evening with the gitanos, to
whose child he had become godfather, he would spend
two or three evenings in the same week in the saloons
of great ladies amongst the most aristocratic society of
the Spanish capital. These contrasts amused him, as
they generally do amuse men who have sympathy and
versatility enough to adapt themselves easily to such
widely different surroundings. It was in one of these
aristocratic drawing-rooms that Regnault first made the
acquaintance of General Prim. " He is very simple and
distinguished," Regnault wrote in a letter: "he has told
us all his adventures in detail; his life is a perfect
romance."
Regnault's friends, Count and Countess B —, saved
Prim in I866, and induced him to come back to Spain in
I867. In I868, they brought him from London to Spain
in the character of their domestic. He played his part
admirably and with imperturbable coolness.
"In their first retreat," Regnault wrote to his father,
"they ran great risks. Catalonia was full of spies
seeking for Prim, and orders were given to shoot him
wherever found. He had shaved his beard, and he
served the Count and Countess as if he had done nothing
else all his life.
"At table d'hote in the hotels, he heard (with a napkin




Henri Regnault.


373


on his arm and a plate in his hand) all that was said
about him; and at that time people talked of nobody
else. He knew how he was tracked, and it was only by
discretion and precaution that he crossed the frontier.
Even in France, he was not safe; and he was not at ease
till he got to London."
In I868, Prim came to Spain as a domestic, with a
livery and a yellow waistcoat, and lived with his own
servant, who was wretched at being compelled to treat
his master as a comrade. At Cadiz, he changed his
menial uniform for that of a general.
As soon as Regnault had made Prim's acquaintance,
he wanted to paint his portrait, and obtained the Marshal's consent. I defer for the present what will have
to be said about this work, when we have to consider
Regnault's labors as an artist. The portrait is equestrian, which interested the young artist all the more, as
he was so passionately fond of horses. All the horses
in the royal stables were placed at his disposal as models to choose from, and this delighted him. His canvas
was set up in a great coach-house; and near it there was
a riding-school, in which grooms exercised the animals.on purpose for the artist to observe their action. These
facilities, in combination with Regnault's passion for
the animal and his intense sympathy with and full understanding of noble horsemanship, made the Andalusian
horse in the picture, as well as the movements of its
rider, a striking and unquestionable success; but Prim
disliked the picture, and refused it somewhat roughly.
All the reasons for this refusal are not precisely known;




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Modern Frenchmen.


but it is thought probable that the principal one was
because there were a number of armed Catalans in the
distance, peasants with flags, recalling the revolutionary
origin of the Marshal's power, which his aristocratic
feeling did not quite like to be reminded of. Another
reason was probably because his military love of smartness was rather hurt by an absence of neatness in the
painted hero. Regnault had represented the general,
not as he might appear at a review, but as he most
probably was in real warfare, his hair not neatly brushed,
but rather blown into disorder by the mountain wind,
his hat off, and that general appearance of untidiness
which every officer has in a real campaign, and which
every officer is so careful to avoid in times of peace.  It
is highly probable that Prim's artistic sense may have
been much inferior to his faculties for ruling men (the
two gifts, as Leslie remarked, are scarcely compatible),*
and that the picturesque element in the portrait may
have offended a taste which was more military than
artistic.  Regnault resolutely  refused  to  make   the
slightest alteration, and the picture remained on his
hands.   He and    the Marshal exchanged letters, in
which the forms of politeness were duly maintained on
both sides; but there the acquaintance ended. Before
leaving the subject, I may mention a remark about Prim,
which Regnault quoted as sagacious. He was really
* "The abilities required to govern a country are so far from including the accomplishments necessary to the formation of a fine collection
of works of art, that it may be safely asserted they are scarcely compatible." - Preface to the " Handbook for Young Painters."




Henri Regnaull.


375


sovereign of Spain, -too much the sovereign, and some
people were remarking that he committed mistakes
which he mighat perhaps pay dearly for some day.
Regnault had left a good deal behind him in Rome,
— his servant and model, Lagraine, his dog, a black
greyhound, and a little collection of artistic properties,
such as carpets, tissues, &c., all which he desired to
bring away. Besides these things, there was his unfinished picture of Judith and Holofernes, which he was
now anxious to complete. He therefore returned to
Rome in the spring of I869, with the intention of doing
what remained to be done, settling his affairs finally,
and removing his effects to Spain. During this his
last residence in Italy, -a country which had strongly
interested him at first, but which now held a secondary
place in his artistid affections, - he received from Paris
the news of the effect produced by his portrait of Prim
in the Salon of I869. There are a good many clever
portrait painters in France; but, notwithstanding the
great merit of much that they do, the Parisian public is
not accustomed to performances of such unquestionable,
irresistible power as the masterpiece which the Marshal
had refused. No sooner had it appeared than it made
a sensation from which no visitor escaped. Some were
delighted, others perplexed and astonished, as people so
often are by decided, self-asserting originality, - " indifference alone was impossible." Victor Regnault, with
paternal exultation, made a collection of the newspaper
articles in which his son's work was mentioned, and sent
them all to him in a packet. The effect was different,




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Modern Frenchmen.


perhaps, from what the reader may imagine. Notwithstanding the audacity of his manner of painting, which,
though it is only due to the strength and vivacity of the
young artist's sensations, may easily be mistaken for
effrontery, he was really and truly modest, -far more
modest, it is probable, than many whose ability and natural genius were considerably inferior to his own. In a
letter which occupies more than four pages of print, he
gives five lines to a commentary on his critics. "Those
Parisians must be mad to concern themselves so much
about me: they must have very little to do."
He left Rome in the beginning of August, his sentiments about the place having undergone a complete
revolution since Spain had so much enchanted him; and
his passion for Spain, though strong enough already,
was weak at that time in comparison to what it was
soon afterwards destined to become. He landed on
Spanish soil on the 9th of August, and at Alicante
divided his time between painting and photography.
Nothing could be more remote from the rigidity of the
photograph than Regnault's style in painting; 'but he
despised nothing that could help him, and applied himself to the photographic business, which was new to him,
with his usual entrain and energy. His father, as a man
of science, knew all about the scientific details of photography, and gave his son instructions by letter. A local
photographer kindly'helped him over a great preliminary
difficulty, occasioned by the use of unsuitable water.
" We lead," he wrote, "the existence that I love. At
six in the morning, we set off with a guide and a donkey,




Henri Regnault.


377


laden with an apparatus for painting and photography.
We remain out all day; and it is hot, I assure you. The
evening, at nine o'clock, we return to Alicante: we
plunge into the sea, and come back to supper at the
hotel. After supper, we go up to develop our proofs in
our own room."
"The country is superb: it is Africa, Egypt. Arid
grounds of a marvellous form and color, a dazzling light,
mountain outlines, wild and grand, palm-trees, nopals,
fig-trees! There is work enough for ten years, without
going two leagues from Alicante."
This is from a letter to his father. At Elche, he writes
to a friend, M. Cazalis, about delightful baths by moonlight, or when there was no moon; but the sea was so
starred with phosphorescence that there were times when
he thought he was swimming in the Milky Way. "The
beautiful country! It is Africa already! The nopals
are familiar to us, and for the last three weeks we feed
on delicious fruits, which must descend in a direct line
from those of the Promised Land!"
The two friends then travel over the mountains to
Granada. They were by no means rich, having for the
moment, between two of them, a sum of less than three
pounds to take them about two hundred miles; but
they expected to find money at Granada. This temporary poverty was caused by a voyage to Majorca, which
I have passed in silence, as it gave little satisfaction to
Regnault.  Though naturally rather expensive in his
tastes (having those of an artist and those of a gentleman in combination), he could live gayly enough on
~6




378


i Modern Frenchmen.


short commons, when the occasion required it; and the
two friends, with their servants (four persons to keep),
managed not only to do the journey on the sum just
mentioned, but actually arrived at Granada with a
balance of eighteen francs in hand, a feat of economy
which has few parallels even in the biographies of
artists.
Not only was the journey surprisingly cheap, but it
was a constant intoxication of delight. They slept on
the ground, wrapped in their cloaks, by the side of their
carriole (hired for a small sum for the journey); they ate
bread and figs, and it is probable that they drank nothing more expensive than water: yet notwithstanding
these little privations, which the exuberant good spirits
of youth and health only considered amusing, they were
in a state of such passionate enthusiasm about the glorious scenery, that they enjoyed their days of travel immensely, and might have sung after them with Byron:"Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed.
Fresh we awoke on the morrow.
All our thoughts and words had scope;
We had health, and we had hope,
Toil and travel, but no sorrow."
"We have seen marvellous things!" he wrote to his
father from Granada, "of an incredible grandeur and
novelty. We must come back to them! Cular de Baza
and Guadix! they are written in my memory. I shall
never find in any land, not even in Africa and Syria,
any thing more imposing or more beautiful. What a




Henri Regnzazut.


379
'3 `


country! The inhabitants are not remarkable, but the
country! the country!"
At Granada, Regnault found the supreme delight of
his life as traveller and artist. The enthusiasm of poets,
in their most powerful verses, has never surpassed in
strength and intensity Regnault's fiery but careless
prose, written rapidly in letters to his most intimate
friends, and as little intended for the public eye as the
Indian letters of Jacquemont. As Tennyson declared
himself a Mussulman when his imagination was filled by
the Arabian Nights, so Regnault fancifully affirmed his
adhesion to Mahomet, because he had " inspired such a
work as that!" The eloquence of his enthusiasm filled
his letters with all the hyperbole of Oriental fancy. He
wrote like one possessed by the Muse, and with splendid
though unconscious ability. The temptation to make
quotations is here stronger than ever; but I resist it for
the present to advance with the story of the life. The
same shadow of early death, which we have noticed once
or twice already, broods even over these, the most brilliant of all his letters. "And then," he says, speaking
of his companion, " Clairin and I are destined to a short
existence. We lead too vagabond a life, we spare ourselves too little, we have too much ambition, too many
desires, to attain old age. It is probable that we shall
not die together."
He had always this mournful sense of the shortness of life in general, and the special, exceptional
brevity of his own. Here is a note, written by him in
Spain: -




380


Modern Frenchmen.


"Life being short, one must paint as much as his
eyesight will permit. Consequently, one ought not to
fatigue them by reading stupid newspapers."
Here is another extract, evidence of the same state
of feeling:"An idea which pursues me and pains me is the fear
of breaking down on the journey of life before having
seen all I want to see, and especially before having made
use of my materials. I am wretched not to be able to
see into the future, and not to be sure that time will not
be wanting for the accomplishment of what I desire to
do. If I could but say to myself: 'In two or three
years, you will come back laden with materials; you will
know a good deal, and you will have twenty-five years
to express what you know.' Oh, then all would go well;
but the notion of dying on the road,-it is that which
crumples me up."
A little later, being still pursued by the apprehension
of not having time enough in his life to do what he
wanted to do, he wrote the following remarkable sentences:"I have but a single thought now, and that is to make
up for lost time. Oh, if I could but make the years of
six hundred days, and the days of forty-eight hours!
Life is short." And then he adds, " Perhaps it will be
shorter for me than for others."  Then he takes a firm
resolution to live more seriously in future: there is to
be no more idle gayety, no more riding of horses, no
more gymnastics, no more music, -he is to be dedicated
exclusively to his art!




Henri Regnaull.


38


He was at Granada in September; and in December
we find him at Gibraltar, greatly enjoying the society of
British officers there, especially of some Scottish officers,
who were very hospitable to him, as they probably soon
found out that he was a manly fellow, and a gentleman.
Perhaps his horsemanship won their hearts, for he hunted
with them.
English hospitality seemed to him "charming, but
too feeding; one has to be always eating and drinking."
He bathed every day in the sea, and wondered how he
would endure a Parisian winter after that.
He chose Granada rather than Seville for his headquarters, because in the first place there was the Alhambra,-an inexhaustible mine of treasure, and also
because his friend Clairin and he could live in the most
undisturbed solitude, "in an excellent hotel, where we
shall see nobody during the winter, and where we are
separated from the town by magnificent trees, which
cover the hill on which the Alhambra is built. Here we
feel far from mankind; for one has few opportunities for
seeing humanity up there, above the noise of the streets,
and one is sure to enjoy that peace which is necessary
to the regular pursuit of work."
I like these two opposite qualities in Regnault's character, - his appreciation of the value of solitude, and his
hearty interest in human life. At Madrid, instead of
shunning the crowd, he had sought it on every possible
occasion, and observed life in all classes of society, from
the drawing-rooms of duchesses to the miserable hovel
of the gitano. At the Alhambra, he is happy to be alone




382


Modern Frenchmen.


with his friend Clairin, that he may work on undisturbed.
His appreciation of the value of solitude was simply that
of the worker who knows that results are always greater
when the hours of labor are unbroken.
Much as Regnault loved Spain, he had looked beyond
it from Gibraltar to the African shores of the Mediterranean; and the passion for light-intense, regular,
splendid light-which was in his nature, and which
made him prefer Italy to France, and Spain to Italy,
disposed him also to prefer some city of Morocco even
to his enchanting Granada. The gradation is clearly
marked in a letter to M. Montfort:
" I confess that Italy, after Spain, seems to me very
dull, too well known, and used up. The Italians, both
men and women, weary me: their costumes seem to me
black, dull, or glaring, without harmony. What a difference from Spain, which nevertheless is but a steppingstone  It is the East which I call for, which I desire,
and will have! It is there only, I believe, that I shall
really feel my own powers."  Even in April, I869, he
writes to M. Duparc, "I wish I were already in
Morocco!"
He visited Tangier for the first time in December,
I869, to make arrangements for a long stay. His servant, Lagraine, was to have arrived at Gibraltar from
Rome in the beginning of December, but there was no
news of him, nor could any news be obtained, with all
the facilities of the telegraph. He ascertained that the
boat which left Marseilles at the time when Lagraine
would be ready to leave, according to the programme




Hclzri Regnault.


383


of his voyage, was the " Sonerah;" and, as the sea had
been rough, it was thought probable that this vessel had
taken shelter somewhere on the coast of Spain. Regnault accordingly left for Tangier by himself, after
waiting two days at Gibraltar for the missing steamer.
At Tangier, he got a telegram announcing that the
"Sonerah " had gone to the bottom without leaving a
single survivor to tell the tale or send a message. The
effect of this news may be best described in his own
words:"I passed a terrible, agitated night. I felt remorse
for having caused the poor young fellow to leave Rome
to make him perish so miserably. I thought of the last
moments of this creature, who loved me so much, and
who must have so much suffered from the thought that
he would never see me again, and that all the things
which I had intrusted to him and recommended to his
care would go down with him and be lost.  Perhaps
it was in the endeavor to save the case which contained
my picture that he had missed the opportunity of saving
his own life. I made to myself a horrible drama in my
brain."
These words convey something; but I have no doubt
they fall far short of the truth. We must remember
that Regnault's memory and imagination were far more
powerful than those of ordinary humanity, and that his
power of realizing scenes and absent persons as if he
saw them, already remarkable by nature, had been enormously increased and intensified by his studies as a
painter. He would, therefore, during that terrible night




384


Modern Frenchmen.


at Tangier, as he lay sleepless on his bed, not imagine
vaguely, as less gifted and cultivated persons might
imagine, but actually see the shipwreck and his good
servant's struggles and death with the vividness which
belongs to the eye of the painter only.
Regnault went back to Gibraltar by the next steamer,
and there beheld on the beach a tall man, who gesticulated violently as soon as he recognized him. This man
was the interpreter at the Club House Hotel, who knew
Regnault; and, as soon as the steamer was near enough
for a human voice to reach it, the good, kind-hearted
fellow shouted with all his might, " He is not lost: he
is gone to Tangier this morning!" - for everybody at
Gibraltar had heard of Regnault's supposed misfortune.
He could not believe the good news; but, when he landed,
other witnesses confirmed it. The explanation was, that
although the " Sonerah " had, unhappily, really foundered,
Lagraine was not on board. He had had the good luck
to take another boat, which had missed the correspondence at Oran for Tangier; and this had caused a week's
delay, besides four days at Malaga.
When Regnault got back to Tangier, behold, Lagraine
and his dog were waiting for him on the shore! The
dog nearly devoured him in its joy (the poor creature
had not seen its master since he left Italy, and dogs have
not the consolation of letters), whilst Lagraine seized
Regnault's hand, and shook it so that he said, " I1 me
brisa la main d'amitie."
The joy at the recovery of his servant, his dog, his
picture, and all the belongings of his studio, added to




Henri Regsnazll.


385


the delight of finding himself in the clear African sunshine, and surrounded by the sort of material for his art
which most interested him, made the time he spent at
Tangier the happiest of his brief existence. He wrote
to Clairin, who still remained at Granada, urging him to
come to Africa, as Granada was a cold place at that
season, whereas the temperature of Tangier was of a
delicious mildness.  "In the spring," says Regnault,
"I shall leave my establishment here to go and finish
at Granada what I have begun there. So my dream
will be realized! I shall sketch some scenes here, and
then go to the Alhambra to paint pieces of architecture
which belong to the subjects, after which I shall return
here to put the last touch to the figures. All will be
arranged for the best."
The two friends set up house at Tangier in rather
handsome style. They rented a delightful old Moorish house, which was already admirably adapted for a
painter's needs. It was very conveniently situated, and
had a patio or court, which they covered with a glass
roof, so that it made a splendid studio, and the glass
was so arranged that it could be removed at will. The
two artists permitted themselves some Oriental comforts
and splendors in their sufficiently spacious rooms; but
their good taste, and artistic dislike to the incongruous,
made them reject European furniture. "There are no
chairs in the establishment," says Regnault: "all European ugliness is prohibited." Their establishment of
servants was rather numerous for two devotees of a
25




386


M odern Frcizcznzcmz.


proverbially unremunerative art;* but Regnault had a
right to be hopeful now. There was Lagraine, to begin
with, too ingenious to be employed in merely menial
occupations, and "exclusively occupied with photography, joinering, care of stretching frames, canvases,
colors, and accounts." A man able to attend efficiently
to all these superior matters must have been a treasure
indeed. Then there was Nana, a Christian cook, the
wife of an ex-consul, who had fallen into poverty, a
youth called Khadder, who went on errands and kept
the house clean, a maid called Aischa Tchama, who was
laundress. Regnault had also a Master of the Horse in
the person of his groom, Ali Pata, "a little fellow fifty
years old, monstrously ugly, four feet high, a real Triboulet, gifted with a charming originality, with a great intelligence, and an elephantiasis into the bargain, which
makes one of his legs as big as his body, whilst the other
is shrivelled, and no bigger than a thzin lucifer match."
This grotesque personage comes in capitally in the description of an Oriental establishment, and I hope the
reader notices the exquisite exaggeration in the last
adjective. A common lucifer match is too thick to give
a just idea of the meagreness of poor Ali Pata's limb,
which is like a t/uin lucifer, no more. Ugly as Ali Pata
may have been, he was recommended to Regnault by
an ambassador as apearl. Let us remember there are
* In France, pauvre comme un peintre is a well-known proverb, and,
notwithstanding the large incomes made by a few, I fear that the proverb
is still too near the truth.




HeNri Regznazl.


387


ugly pearls as well as pretty ones.  He spoke Spanish
well, and was interpreter, besides which he had the reputation of being the best horseman in Tangier, notwithstanding his deformity.  It is scarcely necessary to say
that Regnault had a horse, and that the horse had the
most charming qualities in his eyes.   "I have a love
of a little horse, quiet, intelligent, and strong."  And,
besides his own dog, he has a leash of greyhounds.
With this establishment in the ancient Moorish dwelling,
the two young friends lived like princes, and had ideal
delights in the exercise of their talents and the passion
for their art which many a prince might envy. The
glory of the African sunshine made the place a paradise
to Regnault.
" Every time we go upon our terrace we are dazzled
by the brilliance of this City of Snow, which goes down
from our feet to the sea like a great staircase of white
marble, or a covey of white sea-gulls.* I do believe
that the sun which lights you is not the same as ours."
The reader is probably aware that the art students of
the French Academy at Rome have to send a picture
every year to the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris, as evidence of industry and progress, in return for their pension and the facilities for living and study afforded at
the Villa Medicis. This annual picture is always called
the Envoi, and it is supposed to be painted in Rome; but,
by the connivance of the Director, it may, of course, be
* Regnault's earnest desire to convey the idea of whiteness overpowers, in this instance, his literary judgment. Snow is too chilly to be
introduced here, and the sea-gulls too restless for houses to be compared
to them. The staircase of white marble would have been sufficient.




388


Modern Frencrhmez.


executed elsewhere, in which case, however, the student,
to keep up appearances, would add the finishing touches
in Rome itself, where the envois are exhibited before they
go to Paris. Regnault, by his residence in Spain and
Tangier, was in fact a sort of truant from the Academy,
to which he still belonged, and from which he drew an
annual allowance; but, to conciliate his taste for Africa
with the duties of his position, he wrote to M. Hebert,
the Director, begging him to permit the continuation of
his residence at Tangier, where he had every thing necessary for his work, and promising that, when his picture
was nearly finished, he would go with it to Rome. His
own private intention was to finish the picture as nearly
as possible at Tangier, and only to go to Rome in the
beginning of I87I. "The first necessity for working
well," he said, "is to like the place where one is at work,
and to feel sustained by the material that the eyes can
dwell upon. Now I feel myself well off here, and so I
remain."
He had some little commissions to execute at Tangier,
and when these were finished he started for the Alhambra at the end of March, but passed some time at Seville,
where he found a new pleasure in studying the Murillos,
which gave him a new and much higher idea of the
master. The two friends arrived at Granada on the
2Ist of April. After staying there till the 5th of May,
they rode to Guadix, on the other side of the Sierra
Nevada, being nine hours on horseback in hail, rain,
snow, and wind. All the landscapes in that part of
Spain excited Regnault's enthusiasm to a high degree,




Henzri Regnault.


389


for he was almost as much alive to the beauty and sublimity of landscape as he was to the strength and grace
of human beings and animals. Cular de Baza was one
of his favorite places in Spain for landscape, and it was
Regnault's intention to paint a great picture of its
scenery, a pure landscape. He drew many landscape
studies in a powerful and simple manner.
Leaving Spain at the end of May, I870, Regnault
returned to Tangier, where he bought some land and
erected upon it an immense studio, to paint a very big
picture in. He had quitted the Alhambra before quite
finishing his studies there, being full of ardor about the
magtnum opus, and anxious to begin. His anxiety to do
something of great size and fine quality was much increased in the present instance by the knowledge that
it was to be the last of his envois as Prix de Roime, and
was to be purchased by the Minister of Fine Arts for
the Luxembourg collection. "Je suis pris," he said, "de
la rage de mon tableau, il faut que je parte, il faut que
je commence."
His building scheme at Tangier included not only a
painting-room, but also a residence, which Regnault
playfully called a little palace. Its situation was outside
the city on the road to Fez, sufficiently near town for
convenience, and near the road, which Regnault found to
be an advantage artistically, as he could see the passersby, the groups of peasants, the caravans of camels, and
all the other elements of the picturesque Oriental life.
There was a fine view, too, of the citadel and across the
channel; and the situation was so much in the country




390


Modern. Frenchmen.


that there were no houses in the neighborhood. He
had unfailing water on his little property, with a few
fig-trees and pomegranate-trees. The painting-room was
of quite magnificent dimensions, being fifty-two feet long
by thirty-four wide; with a height of thirty-three feet.
This was the important building; for Regnault, like all
true painters, very wisely and properly thought of his
studio first and his home after. The "little palace" was
to be merely a cottage; but here again the decided personal tastes of the young gentleman display themselves,
for he carefully plans his stabling and dog-kennels.
All this may seem somewhat extravagant; but every
profession has its own kind of economy, and Regnault
understood a painter's economy very clearly. His intention was to keep this studio at Tangier all his life,
and return to it to paint all his large pictures. He would
thus have no need of a large studio at Paris, where the
rent of such a place amounts to at least 1I150. The
expense and loss of time occasioned by long journeys
from Paris to Tangier were to be, in Regnault's project,
more than compensated for by cheapness of living, in a
delightful climate, and by the regularity of the light,
which never fails in Morocco. Besides these considerations, there was the certainty of tranquillity favorable to
work, and all possible elements for the kind of pictures
which Regnault desired to paint. "Always fine forms,
fine tones, interesting groups before one's eyes! One
cannot open the door without seeing pictures readymade."
I have gone into the details of this scheme because




Henri Regnazlt.


39r


it throws a strong light on Regnault's character. The
reader may remember (for he is sure to have heard it)
the common assertion that Frenchmen love Paris more
than any other place, and are unhappy at a distance from
it. I know a good many quiet country folks in France
who find ample happiness in their own fields, and in
the nearest little country town, without ever thinking of
Paris, except to wish it would keep quiet and not trouble
them with explosive revolutions. Here you have a
brilliant young painter, the son of a man with a splendid
scientific reputation, with access to the society of the
capital and its pleasures, who tranquilly turns his back
on both, and builds a studio on the opposite shore of the
Mediterranean (not even in the French colony), that he
may be able to work in peace, and a good light. "J'aime
autant cela que vos revolutionnaires parisiens. Ici nous
ne faisons pas de politique."
There was one practical difficulty in living at such an
out-of-the-way place as Tangier, which Regnault had not
foreseen,- the distance from an artists' color-maker.
He ran short of white (painters always run short of
white), and wrote pressing notes to his father about
that and other materials. Meanwhile, he had to go on
working as he could, and said that his picture would
ha, e been " bien plus execute," if he had not been deprived of white so long.
The flight of time now brought Regnault to an epoch
in the history of his country when he and every Frenchman worthy of the name had other things to think about
than private inconveniences, be they even so irritating




392


Modern Frenchmen.


as the want of white to a painter. War was declared
whilst he was still at Tangier, and his distance from
France left him exposed to anxieties which sprang from
the imagination as well as to those which were only too
fully justified by facts. False news came to him from
all quarters, to be contradicted the next day by other
news which agitated him, although it might be equally
untrue.
" We have hardly the heart to paint," he wrote home
to his father: " we await the arrival of every steamer
from Gibraltar, and seize the newspapers and letters; we
hurry to the Embassy in the hope of a little news. We
consult maps, we discuss the probabilities of strategic
marches, we compare the different despatches."
At the outbreak of the war, Regnault's ezvoi picture,
a copy of the famous Lances of Velasquez, was exhibited
at Paris along with an original work of his which has
since become celebrated, the Exe'cztionl sanes yzgemenzt.
I shall not pause to speak of these at present, for
art was completely forgotten in those days of intense
national excitement. Who would care about pictures by
young Academy students in London, if a Russian army,
two or three hundred thousand strong, were advancing
on London through the green lanes of Kent?
When it became evident that Paris would be invested,
Regnault could bear his voluntary exile no longer, and
quitted the charming new studio, the bright atmosphere
of Tangier, the devoted servants, the picturesque people,
the animals that he loved, never to see them more.
Never more was he to work in the great studio, never




Henri Regzault.


393


again to sit in the shadow of his own fig-tree, near his
well, when the day's work was over, and watch as he
smoked his pipe of peace the last rays of splendid sunshine redden the rock of Gibraltar across the purple
waters.
His constitution delighted, as I have said, in heat, and
was so ill-adapted to the cold that he could not endure
it without much inconvenience, amounting, when it was
prolonged, to positive suffering. This tendency had been
greatly augmented by his residence in warm climates.
The mild winters of Tangier delighted him; but, whilst
they did not enervate, they certainly left him less than
ever adapted to the severity of a Parisian winter, and
that of I870-71 was of quite exceptional severity. He
accepted, nevertheless, all his military duties without a
murmur, only observing to one of his correspondents
that he was ill-prepared for the cold nights.
"We have slept under canvas at the foot of Mount
Valerien, at the Folie-Nanterre, exposed to the most icy
and violent wind during the three coldest nights of the
year. In those nights, many soldiers were frozen. It was
rather a hard trial for us, and especially for me, who had
passed four winters running in hot countries."
Scarcely expecting to get through the terrible campaign alive, he concerned himself about all his affairs,
writing to a friend at Tangier to see his servant Lagraine, and mind that he had money enough for the
current expenses. He added, "In case I should die
during the war, Clairin's father will have a paper on
which I have expressed my last wishes."




394


Modern Frezchzmezz.


A marriage of affection had been arranged since Regnault's return from Africa between him and a young
lady whom he greatly esteemed and had long thought
of seriously in his own mind. This engagement gave
him an additional reason, and a powerful one, for desiring
to live; yet he exposed himself as freely as if he had
been completely indifferent to existence. He saw the
young lady every day when his duties permitted a short
absence from the front, and returned to his post encouraged by the expression of an affection which in those
terrible times may have been more freely and unreservedly demonstrated than in the formality of ordinary
existence.
Regnault served as a private soldier. He had first
enrolled himself as afralnc-tircur, but afterwards yielded
to the solicitations of his friends, and entered the Garde
Nationale sedecltaire. This, however, was too quiet for
him, and he soon entered a marching battalion. It was
obvious that such a man as Regnault ought to have been
an officer; and this rank was offered to him, but he
simply declined it, both on the ground of his want of
military experience, and also because he thought his
example in the ranks might be of more use than his
command. "Being decided to undergo without flinching
the fatigues and disagreeables of the business, without
shirking any one of them, to be the first at fatigue duties
and the foremost under fire, I hope to induce others to
come with me who might be disposed to grumble and
hold back. There are a good many of us who are
animated by these sentiments, but they can never be




Henri Regnault.


395


sufficiently numerous.    You    have  a  good   common
soldier in me: do not lose him to make a mediocre
officer."
This is exactly the temper which I have been praising
in Rude, the sculptor, - the temper which is satisfied
with its rank, and has no desire to rise above it, yet has
the strongest possible desire to do what is most honorable, most worthy of a man, in the rank, however humble,
which he happens to occupy.
Meanwhile, in the meetings with his betrothed, Regnault indulged in dreams of future happiness and plans
of travel. They were to visit Spain together, of that we
may be quite sure, to stay at Granada and see the wonderful Alhambra. They were to cross the Narrow Sea
between the Pillars of Hercules and see the little property
on the road from   Tangier to Fez, where Lagraine was
thinking anxiously of his young master, and the dogs
were wearily awaiting his return.
He had need of all these hopes to comfort him a little
in the fearful reality of those nights of cold.* " Oh! I
can speak with full knowledge of the cold, and I know
this morning what it is to pass a night on the hard
* In connection with this subject, I give myself the pleasure of
relating a little anecdote. A young friend of mine who was in the
Mobiles was seized during one of those terrible nights in the outskirts
of Paris with an attack of illness brought on by the cold, so severe that
he thought himself dying, and would most probably have died before
morning, had not a man come to him with a large can of hot tea, which
he no more expected than he expected a supper from Vefour's. This
was due to the exquisitely thoughtful benevolence of Sir Richard
Wallace, who saved many a life in this and other ways during the siege.
All France honors his name, and all England ought to be proud of it.




396


Modern Frenchmen.


ground, exposed to an icy wind. Four of our men are
frozen."
On Tuesday, the 17th of January, 1871, the battalion
was ordered to the outposts. About noon, Regnault
went to say good-bye to the family of his betrothed.
The parting was sad and ominous. He knew that he
was going to the combat, and took the precaution of
having the following words sewed on the lining of his
tunic: " Henri Regnault, painter, son of M. Victor Regnault, of the Institute," adding the address of the house
he had just left, and requesting that his body might be
brought back to it. He took with him a little packet of
letters and portraits, on which he had written, " For my
betrothed." The combat took place on the Thursday,
and his betrothed had news of him at noon that day by
a servant who had come for a horse, and who was in
good spirits, announcing that the redoubt of Montretout
had been carried. Clairin was with Regnault, by his
side. I now quote the account given by M. Cazalis:
"About four- night was falling- the fight raged
furiously in a wood near the park of Buzenval. In the
tumult of the engagement, the two friends, who had
hitherto kept near to each other, were separated. The
retreat was sounded.  Clairin sought Regnault, and
could not find him: he ran to the front, called, rejoined
his company, still could not find him, returned between
the trees which the dying were supporting their backs
against, went from one body to another, calling his
friend's name all through the gloomy wood, and hearing
no answering voice."




Henri Regnaolt.


397


Clairin sought anxiously the whole night through.
At last, he found a man who had seen Regnault, just
when the retreat was sounded, go near the wall behind
which the Prussians were hiding themselves. Regnault
had been called for at this moment, but he had answered,
" I shall fire my last shot, and come immediately." The
man believed that an instant after this he had seen
Regnault fall.
Clairin returned to Paris after a fruitless search, and
at six all his worst apprehensions were fully confirmed.
News was brought in by an ambulancier that Regnault
had been found, and in evidence he brought a little chain
with a silver tear. This tear had been given to him by
his betrothed; and when she gave it she had said, "Take
it, now that I am happy, but you must give it back to
me the first time you make me weep." And now the
tear was brought back to her, and she wept.
The ambulancier who brought this souvenir of the
dead had left the body, which was still not easy to find,
as it had been subsequently removed with about two
hundred others. This was on the Saturday, and on
Sunday morning the bodies were laid on the ground at
the cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise; and here Clairin found
what remained of his friend, and kissed the beloved face,
all soiled with the earth of the battle-field. There was
but one wound, in the left temple.  Death had been
instantaneous, and without pain.
When Regnault's betrothed heard where his body
lay, she went in person to pay it the last duty of her
love.




398


MIodernz Frenzchmenz.


She bore the trial with heroic fortitude.  Father
Gratry, who was to have married them, wrote a noble
letter to her, touching the right chord. "Lift up your
soul! " he said. "This world is not a cruel game nor a
vain appearance. To die for a sacred cause cannot be
nothingness and vanity. It is a great thing which has
results. Such an act, such a gift of self, has a reality
which subsists. No small thing is lost, still less any
thing great. Every martyr has his eternal life in full
and substantial truth."
What shall I say of this premature death, - this sacrifice of life just when it was promising all its richest
and fairest gifts: the joy of triumphant labor; the satisfaction of reputation won fairly and honorably, without
the slightest intrigue, without a moment's abandonment
of dignity; the enjoyment of all the innocent pleasures
which belong to a robust and vigorous manhood, joined
to an exquisite organization, - horsemanship, swimming,
music, travel in the noblest scenery, or tranquil residence
in the places that he loved best, -a life, too, already
brightened by a hope of that which in its quiet reality
is better than all else which this world has to give, - the
supreme felicity of a marriage neither arranged as a
matter of interest nor entered into from thoughtless
passion, but founded on clear knowledge and firm affection, - what shall I say of a death by which all these
fair possessions and still fairer anticipations were sacrificed, and sacrificed to a hopeless cause in the last
combat of a weary war, which from first to last had
been nothing but discouragement and disaster?




Heniri Regnaull.


399


Simply this, that such a death is better than the
happiest, the most prosperous life that the whole world
can offer. It is better to die like Regnault, slain in the
flower of manhood, than to live, like Titian, to one's
hundredth year.
I can imagine some cool person answering that this
is exaggerated, because, after all, there was nothing
exceptional in Regnault's conduct,-that when his body
was laid in Pere-la-Chaise two hundred others were laid
there with him, who died for their country as he did.
God forbid that I should undervalue the humblest of
these lives that were laid down for their country then!
I would not rate them the less because they had not
skill and genius, for the dullest and least gifted may
have been Regnault's equals in moral worth and virtue
and patriotism. But there are two or three things to be
specially considered in his case, and which account in
some degree for the exceptional fame which has followed
the death of Regnault, whilst others have passed into
oblivion.
In the first place, he was under no legal obligation to
serve in the army at all. As a Prix de Rome, he was
entirely exempt, that being one of the great privileges
of the Prix de Rome. People were sometimes sufficiently ill-advised to remind him of this, and say: " But
why risk yourself? You need not serve: don't you
know that your prize exempts you?" He used to answer such people with perfect silence and a look. What
the look expressed I leave the reader to imagine.
In the second place, whilst serving, he might easily




400


Modern Frenchmnen.


have avoided extraordinary risks, but incurred them voluntarily, as a hundred instances testify, for the express
purpose of keeping up the courage of less spirited comrades, his aim being to set an example as a model private
soldier.
In the third place, he was a Frenchman absent from
France when the war began, living in great ease and
comfort an ideally charming existence in a delightful
climate where he had established a home exactly suited
to his tastes. At a time when many other comfortable
people went away from Paris, as far as they could for
safety, he came to the city on purpose to be shut up
during the siege and suffer cold and hunger, and expose
his life day and night upon her ramparts.
Again, life offered far more alluring prospects to him
than it does to most men, far more of those attractions
which turn hefoism into prudence. The reader knows
this already, and I need not dwell upon it.
Since Henri Regnault's death, the merit of his heroism
has been greatly augmented in the eyes of thoughtful
people by the discovery from certain passages in his
papers that it was not mere animal courage, not merely
the instinct of combativeness, but that it sprang from
a firm though quiet conviction in his own breast, and as
deep a sense of duty as ever animated the most resolute
of patriots. Several such passages might be quoted. I
select one written upon a paper which was found on his
dead body:"We have lost many men, and must now endeavor
to replace them by others, stronger and better. The




HeZnri Regnault.


40I


lesson ought to be of use to us. Let us no longer soften
ourselves by the pleasures of ease. Life for one's self
alone is no longer allowable. Some time ago, it was. the
fashion to believe in nothing but enjoyment, and in all
vicious passions. Egotism should be put to flight, and
with it that fatal habit of glorying in the contempt for
all that is honorable and good. To-day, the Republic
commands to all of us a serious, pure, and honorable
life. We ought to pay to our country, and above our
country to free humanity, the tribute of our body and
our mind. We ought to give what these can effect
together. All our forces should work together for the
good of the great family, whilst we ourselves practise
and develop in others the sentiment of honor and the
love of work."
The reader will please to remember that this is not a
public speech, but a strictly private, sincere expression
of the writer's most intimate thought. He expected
the same patriotism in others, in those nearest to him,
and said, at the beginning of the war, " I shall be very
glad to know that Eugene (his brother) is in the camp,
-under fire, if necessary."
How true the metal rings! There is no base mixture
of self-interest or family interest here! The sound is
clear as the trumpet, pure as the melody "that's sweetly
sung in tune."
The Friday after Regnault's death, the very morning
when the capitulation of Paris became generally known,
a funeral service for the repose of his soul took place
*in that large new church of St. Augustine, which every
26




402


4Modern Frenchmen.


visitor to Paris will remember. It is one of the strangest
things in the history of that strange and terrible time
that, although Paris had lost its inhabitants by hundreds
and by thousands during the siege, and had become
deadened to the sense of calamity, a thrill of pain-pain
of a kind not felt before in all that miserable experience
- ran through the city when public rumor first told of
Regnault's death. Even the humiliating news of the
capitulation could not make Paris indifferent to the
mournful ceremony at the church of St. Augustine.
His own family, being absent, were still uninformed of
their loss; but every famous man then in the capital
came to mourn for him as for a younger brother. The
nave of the church was so thronged that it could not
hold the people. His comrades in arms were there en
tenue de campagne. Drums, muffled with crape, filled
the church with their lugubrious noise, and-sadder
than all the black hangings and the crape and the
chanting and the drumming- close by the bier lay one
little fragrant bouquet of white lilac, sent by his betrothed.
From that day, Regnault's name, partly from his own
indisputable merits as an artist, and partly from the
striking circumstances of his death, passed into the
rank of the immortals. His country had a real though
mournful satisfaction in the sacrifice of one of her
noblest and best. Popular feeling took Regnault's name,
and inscribed it in the national memory. Englishmen
may smile at this national idolatry of the brilliant young
artist, soldier, gentleman, and it may be conclusively




Henri Regnault.


4o03


proved that he was not the only patriot in France; but
England has Sir Philip Sidney, and there is this analogy
between the two,- that in both cases a man of genius,
adorned with all knightly and graceful accomplishments,
admirably fitted for the enjoyment of life, threw life
away for his country. I cannot blame the popular
tendency to select from the multitude of the slain a few
of the best and bravest to be remembered ever after as
examples. Many an English officer may have been
more thoughtful for his troops, because he remembered
the beautiful humanity of the dying Sidney, and many
a Frenchman, in times to come, may more willingly
accept hard months or years of military service when
he remembers the self-sacrifice of Regnault.
It would be somewhat out of place, in a volume of this
kind (which is not intended exclusively for readers who
take a lively interest in the fine arts), to develop at any
great length whatever estimate I may be able to form of
Regnault's capacity as an artist; but, on the other hand,
it is difficult for me to leave him with such scant notice
of his artistic powers as I have given in the course of
this biography. I will therefore say something about
his artistic abilities, though in a short space.
He was really a born painter: the evidence of this is
abundant. He had the natural instincts and enthusiasms of a painter, especially the intense enjoyment of
the sense of sight. Many of his letters, in which this
enjoyment is frankly expressed, will seem wildly exaggerated to those who have not, at least in some inferior




404


M/odern Frenchmen.


degree, a share of the same faculties; but many have
had something of this intense delight in seeing who were
unable to paint pictures. The delight of the eyes, before
passing into good artistic production, requires other faculties and some accomplishments: it requires memory,
invention, and technical skill.
Regnault's artistic memory was extraordinary, and the
strength of it was proved in his earliest youth. When
a child, he would not copy drawings or engravings, but
went to look at Nature (chiefly animals, at that time),
and then drew them, with striking fidelity, at home.
When he was twelve years old, his father had an accident; and the boy was troublesome in the house, so to
keep him quiet it was suggested that he should occupy
himself in art.  He accordingly modelled in clay the
portrait of a horse belonging to the Emperor. This
was done entirely from memory, the horse being at St.
Cloud and the young artist at Sevres. He went to see
the animal from time to time, but that was all. The
result astonished the artists, and some casts of Regnault's horse were taken for their gratification.  The
portrait of Prim was executed in the same way from
memory; for, although the artist had facilities for painting the horse in the royal stables at Madrid, the General
never once sat to him.
In Italy and Spain, Regnault would sketch in the evening, in his studio, the figures and groups which he had
particularly noticed during the day. Another decided
mark of artistic genius in Regnault was what people call
precocity. This word is often used by mediocrity to




Henri Regnault.


405


insinuate that the fruit is ripe before its time; the truth
being that, as genius is destined to a far grander development than mediocrity, it begins to develop soon, just
as a young giant who has a greal deal of growing to do
will generally shoot up pretty quickly from the first.
I may refer the reader to two drawings published by
L'Art in I876. One is a tiger drawn by Regnault at
eight. The beast is something like the groom at Tangier, Ali Pata, he has one leg thinner than the other;
but he is a real tiger nevertheless, stealthily moving
towards his prey, and right in local color with an approach to rightness in modelling.  The other sketch
was done at the age of thirteen, and represents a
French colonel on horseback with his soldiers on foot,
standing at ease, and wearily waiting for the arrival of
the Queen of England, that trying exercise of patience
which every middle-aged Parisian remembers to this
day. For delicate humor, close observation, and fairly
good drawing, this sketch might well be admitted as
an illustration to some popular'book or periodical, and
the boy could probably have earned his living already,
as a draughtsman, if he had not been occupied with
other studies.
From his earliest youth, he had the most ambitious
intentions as an artist; and, whilst his teachers were
giving him lessons in history, he would compose and
sketch historical pictures, intending to paint them some
day. When he had a little leisure, he amused himself by
composing on a more important scale, and there are still
in existence large battle-pieces in charcoal or chalk, such




406


Modern Frenchmen.


as the battles of Issus, Arbelles, and Rocroy, done with
great dash and energy, and not a little knowledge, considering the young artist's opportunities, between the
ages of eleven and thirteen.
All study requires some courage and determination,
but the studies of painters unquestionably require far
more than literary pursuits. If you want to read a poet,
however difficult, you may read him in your own library,
in an easy-chair; but, if you want to draw a landscape,
you must go out, and the study of men and animals will
take you into the street, the stable, and the menagerie.
It is always one sign of the true painter's temperament
to stick at no trouble or inconvenience where his studies
are concerned. Regnault had this kind of resolution
in the supreme degree: he shrank from nothing which
could give him the sort of knowledge that he wanted.
When a boy, he used to go to the Jardin des Plantes to
study the animals, and was well known to the keepers,
who let him do as he liked. On one occasion, he found
it inconvenient to draw a young lioness through the
bars, so to avoid the difficulty he went inside the cage,
and tranquilly completed his drawing there. The lioness
had a good reputation for mildness, and did not betray
his confidence.
He left a great number of sketches and studies, which
prove the incessant artistic activity of his mind. For
one picture, the "Entombment," there are sixty drawings. Wherever he happened to be, he observed and
watched, sometimes painting elaborate studies in oil or
water-colors, at others sketching swiftly with pen or




Henri Regnaull.


407


pencil. There are a hundred sketches by him done in
Normandy only. During the bombardment of Sevres,
no less than six hundred photographic negatives taken
from Regnault's paintings and drawings were entirely
broken to pieces.
With the pencil or chalk, he drew rapidly and decisively; but he had to fight a good deal with his pictures,
notwithstanding their appearance of ease. The portrait
of Madame Duparc occupied him from August to December, except three weeks of holiday in the country.
Regnault said, " Ah, if I could paint as I draw, I should
be really happy. Perhaps that may come to me by
hard work." He had endless difficulties with his picture of " Holofernes."  "I am trying," he said, "to
fill the immense void in the upper part of the picture
without arriving at any good result. I change its position, I raise and lower, I cut away canvas and add
fresh canvas, but have not yet made it answer."
There were times in his life when the desire for a more
complete and satisfactory expression of his genius made
him grave and taciturn. In 1865, he said that he had
become silent, and would willingly be invisible like
zEneas surrounded by his cloud; "nay, often it is
painful for me to speak. I like to listen and say nothing. I know not if it is from studying art, that rich
and infinite language, but I have taken a dislike to the
every-day language that all people speak and hear.
Artists and poets ought to have dwellings above the
clouds, noiseless, smokeless, where they might retreat
in their fits of madness, and lose themselves in the




408


8Modern Frenchmen.


purity above them. I would only allow the noise of
bells to rise in all but inaudible harmonies."
Every physician who reads this will at once see in
this desire for silence a result of too much effort.
Regnault's critics were always talking of his facility.
He really possessed facility, and executed quickly; but
his friend M. Duparc, who knew his ways of work, gives
the following explanation on this point:"Every piece of painting that. he worked upon was
executed at speed; but he was only the more severe
upon himself, and sacrificed without hesitation the result of considerable labors, if he perceived that a change
could produce a better effect. Each work of his was the
subject of long meditation and patient study before it
was given to the public, and he counted neither his
time nor his trouble." He gave concentrated expression
to this in a single sentence: " II faut chercher lentement,
longuement, puis produire vite."  But, notwithstanding
his love of rapidity in execution, he hated hurry, and
particularly disliked being obliged to send in a work at a
fixed time, when he would rather have improved himself
by study. When pressed in this way, he said, " There is
no good in working like an express train." His most
earnest longing was for such a degree of technical accomplishment, such mastery of matter in his own materials and the objects he painted, that he might begin to
express his thoughts. This beginning had been fairly
made at the time of his death; but it was only a beginning, and yet how unmistakably powerful! It is easy
to see that he worked with passionate inspiration, even




Henri Regnault.


409


if we had not the testimony of eye-witnesses to prove it.
"Indefatigable, seizing all things passionately, he almost
always worked with furious energy, forgetting all else,
unable to quit his canvas, leaving his meals, or eating
pieces of bread hastily, without interrupting his work."
He himself said that he considered painting to be a
decoration; and he sought decorative materials, such as
beautiful tissues, and decorative backgrounds, such as the
halls of the Alhambra. He had a passionate fondness
for all things which delight the eye by a play of color,
such as fish, for instance, which might often be seen on
the table of his painting-room.* Here is a description
of his studio at Paris, which exhibits this taste in its
intensity:" How can we give an idea of the disorder which
reigned in this atelier?  Precious stuffs, sumptuous
carpets, all sorts of curious objects, tables covered with
game and fish, waiting to be painted, all was confused
together in one indescribable chaos. Day by day the
strange collection was renewed. If the carp of the Seine
seemed too commonplace, and not brilliant enough,
splendid sea-fish replaced them, and the most different
kinds of game exhibited in turn their plumage or their
fur."
At Tangier, he and Clairin set to work to decorate the
patio which served them at first for a studio, in the style
of the Alhambra. The reader will remember that this
was before decoration became a fashion.
* This taste, however, is by no means confined to painters of decorative subjects. Theodore Rousseau, the landscape painter, used to keep
a stock of stuffed humming-birds in a drawer.




410


4Modern Frenchmen.


The decorative tendency may be noticed in most of
his pictures. In the " Salome," we have a scheme of
black and yellow, the black being repeated in the frame,
and all the details of costume and furniture are decorative. In the " Execution without Trial," the decorative
element is in the background, which is a study in the
Alhambra; in the water-color of "Hassan and Namouna," it is principally in the tapestry. I believe
there are a few paintings by Regnault in which this
decorative element is not to be found; but they are
exceptions, and certainly do not express his prevailing
taste. His fundamental tastes as a painter were expressed by him once very clearly in words when writing
to his friend, M. Cazalis, about a large picture which he
intended to compose. Here is an abridgment of it. I
have italicized the points which appear to me specially
characteristic: -
"The two immense blue and gold folding-doors of the
Hall of Ambassadors have just been opened.   The
Moorish king appears between them, armed, and covered
with his most delicate tissues, on a richly caparisoned
horse. At his horse's feet a hero, the general-in-chief
of the army, is humbly prostrated, and offers his sword.
He has conquered a province for his master, and offers
it to him whom none may look at but in trembling, and
on their knees.
"On the steps of white marble, on which sumptuous
carpets are thrown, warriors stand in order with fags
taken from the enemy. The steps go down to the water,
and two boats are moored to them. The general and




Henri Regnault.


4II


his suite have descended from one, in the other five
negroes guard a group of captive women. On the prow
of one of the boats, a severed head will be nailed, the
head of a Christian chief. All is gold, precious stuffs, all
is elegant and precious - architecture, arms, jewels - and
in the midst Mnahometan despotism and indifference."
The two notes struck upon here are evidently decorative elegance and a certain repulsive moral side of
Oriental civilization, which at once repelled and fascinated Regnault, as it did Byron. In two subsequent
sentences, the two notes were struck still more decidedly.
Regnault says:
"Their civilization is expressed by the artistic elegance of all that surrounds them. They have even more
beautiful and more elegant armor than that of the
Christians of those days, and all covered with precious
tissues."
"Their cruelty: a severed head is nailed as a trophy
on the boat, but the heads of obscure warriors have
been cut off and nailed on the walls and doors of the
captured city."
The reader will find these two elements in much of
Regnault's work. They were both present in the " Salome," both in the "Judith," both in the "Execution
without Trial."  When the last-named picture was
exhibited in London, English taste was shocked by the
dreadful severed head on the step, and the too successfully imitated trickling of the blood. I think much of
this feeling must have been due to the unaccustomed
nature of the subject; for there are crucifixions and




412


Modern Frenchmen.


martyrdoms in every public gallery in Europe, which
would be far more painful, if we were not so used to
them.   The death inflicted in Regnault's picture is
instantaneous, and probably painless: his real motive
was not so much the death itself as the irresponsible
despotism  of the tyrant who commanded it, and the
impassible coolness of the fearfully strong and skilful
swordsman who carried out the order. Why Regnault
liked dwelling upon despotism of this kind I do not
know, for it was repugnant to all his feelings, which were
tender and kind, and to all his principles, which were
those, not of a Saracen or Turk, but of a liberal European. I suppose that his early taste for tigers and
lionesses led him to a similar interest in man, considered as a strong and sanguinary animal.*
Though Regnault never succeeded in quite satisfying
himself with the technical quality of his work, he
reached an uncommon vigor of style, both in oil and in
water-color; whilst his power as a sketcher in black and
white has seldom been surpassed. He had a keen sense
of color, and might ultimately have become a really
great colorist: even the works he left behind him, immature as they all must be considered, are as strong and
original in color conception as they are in grasp of subject and power of manual execution.
There is a certain manner of translating nature into
art, which, although it varies infinitely with different
masters, is still always recognizable as the sign-manual
* In "Hassan and Namouna," Hassan is really nothing but the
human animal in repose.




Henri Regnault.


413


of the true painter, that manner which looks confused
and unmeaning when the spectator is too near, but
justifies itself by startling force and truth at the right
distance. Regnault fully possessed this power, as the
reader may judge for himself the next time he goes to
the Luxembourg. Let him examine too near and at the
right distance the painting of the magnificent Andalusian charger under General Prim, he will at once perceive that Regnault possessed already in full strength
the wonderful power of painting wrong to look right,
which is the evidence of accomplishment with the
brush.
He disliked reasoning about art, and said with perfect
truth: "If we were to reason about painting, we should
not dare to do any thing. If you reason before the works
of the masters, you will find plenty of things which have
no raison dWtre, and which are where they are because
they do well there. Voild tout!" This is excellent. We
begin to learn art criticism by reasoning about art; but
after infinite labor we come exactly to Regnault's conclusion, that the artist is always justified, if what he puts
in his picture does well in it.
Regnault was frank enough in the expression of his
opinion about the great masters.  For Raphael and
Michael Angelo his admiration was limited, attaching
itself to some of their works, and not to others. For
example, he considered the "David" of Michael Angelo
"atrocious," but was overwhelmed by the magnificence
of the Sistine Chapel. "That ceiling," he said, "is
unimaginably grand, it is the marvel of marvels, it




414


AModern Frenchmen.


strikes you like a thunderbolt. I came out from under
it half dead."
The pictures by Raphael at Madrid pleased Regnault
little, but he warmly admired the Raphael frescoes at
the Vatican. He did not at first like Murillo and Goya,
but came to them afterwards. The one great painter
for whom he had an unlimited and passionate admiration was the majestic, sober-minded Velasquez. "He
is the first painter in the world. His style is easy without negligence; strong without bombast; his language
is pure without pretension.  Ah! Velasquez, Velasquez! "
Again he writes, when at work copying his favorite
master: " It is very interesting to copy Velasquez.
What a master! what frankness in his execution! what
truth, what heart, what go! It is not precisely easy to
copy him, but it impassions one."
Notwithstanding this admiration for Velasquez, Regnault never allowed himself to become a mere follower
of a dead master. " All those geniuses," he said, " who
have exhausted a vein in art are like blind alleys (czusdc-sac). After them come their imitators, who go and
break their noses at the end of the said blind alley. To
do any thing in art, a man must imagine that he is going
to take a step in a new direction."
This may partly account for Regnault's wildly generous admiration of Fortuny, who had really taken a
step in a new direction.  "I have seen studies by
Fortuny which are prodigious in color and vigor of
execution. What a painter that fellow is! I have seen,




HeIzri Reginault.


4 I 5


too, some charming etchings by him. What skill! what
amusing color! What wit and accuracy in touch!"
Elsewhere he exclaims, "Ah, Fortuny, you disturb
my sleep."   "J'ai passe avant-hier la journee chez
Fortuny, et cela m'a casse bras et jambes. II est etonnant ce gaillard-la! II a des merveilles chez lui! C'est
notre maitre a tous."
Regnault was equally prepared to receive impressions
from all the arts. Architecture affected him  quite as
powerfully as painting, and music as powerfully as
architecture. In both, he liked the picturesque and the
original rather than the severe. At Genoa, he is struck
by the staircase in the courtyard of the University,
which has for its rails two lions of colossal proportions,
which descend the steps head downwards, meeting the
spectator "avec une hardiesse etonnante." In the cathedral there he admired the use of color in the marbles.
"Ses marbres blancs et noirs alternes lui donnent une
severite imposante dans une harmonie sombre ou la
plus petite note rouge ou violette prend une puissance
incroyable."
Regnault was so constituted that prettiness, or even
elegance and good taste, were insufficient for him. His
mind needed grandeur and sublimity in the objects of
its admiration. As he loved Beethoven in music, so
in architecture he sought an irregular vastness full
of fantastic and prodigal invention. A Greek temple,
however pure, would have left him cold: the prodigious
temples of India, with their shadowy vistas and infinite
mystery of sculptured ornamentation, would have driven




416


Modern Frenchmen.


him wild with delight. The ittlenzess of the Roman remains was a disappointment to him: the Arch of Titus
seemed a plaything; the Coliseum alone answered to
the needs of his imagination.
Before the smaller works of the Romans, he called to
mind the colossal magnificence of the Egyptian temples,
with their huge statues of granite, the vast courts and
broad flights of stairs: he remembered that twenty-five
chariots could be driven abreast on the tremendous
walls of Nineveh; he thought of the great terraces of
the many-storied Indian temples, with troops of priests
and multitudes of people; and then, with all these
recollections of the colossal in his mind magnified to
still greater immensity by the heat of his own imagination, he turned to the little Roman arches of triumph,
and wondered how the gigantic heroes who had conquered the world could walk under them without
knocking their heads!
Even St. Peter's was scarcely vast enough for him in
itself, but needed the fog of incense smoke to increase
its apparent size.  "I have seen marvellous effects
there," he says; "and at certain times the marvellous
basilica, which at first scarcely gives a religious impression, assumes a mysterious and imposing aspect still
further increased by the smoke of incense and the great
shadows of the vaults."
" It was wonderful on Easter day. I was in the vestibule when the great doors were opened, and the end of
the church became visible in a luminous mist, in which
rose the great baldachino with its tinted columns. Thanks




Hevzri Regiazilt.


417


to the incense smoke, and to the rays of sunshine which
crossed it, the length of the cathedral was more than
tripled."
The strange mixtures in Spanish cathedral architecture were not offensive to Regnault, who found in it
much that delighted him in varied and picturesque
detail. But all this is as nothing in comparison with
his enthusiasm  for the Alhambra.  "How shall we
render," he says, "the rosy light which fills this enchanted palace and the golden reflections in the
shadows?  There can be nothing more exquisitely
strange."
Elsewhere he says, "Let the earth turn no more,
let the stars fall, let cities crumble, let the hills become
valleys: what matters it to us, if only the Alhambra be
spared for us and for our friends!"
"Every day we go to the Alcazar in the divine
Alhambra, where the walls are a lace of amethysts and
roses in the morning, of diamonds at noon, and of green
gold and ruddy copper at sunset. We stay there till
the moon comes to see us; and when she has kissed us,
and sent to rest the fairies and the genii.who chiselled
this marvellous palace, we depart, regretfully looking
back at every step, unable to turn our eyes from those
columns of rosy marble which take at times the hues of
mother of pearl."
Sometimes his language reaches the passionate utterance of truly Oriental hyperbole.  "When the sun
shines in the morning," he says, " my divine mistress,
the Alhambra, calls me: she has sent me one of her
27




418


M Aodern Frenchmzen.


lovers, the sun, to tell me that she is dressed and
beautiful. I love thee, O Mahomet, because thou art
the father of my fair and beloved Alhambra!"
He has the deepest sympathy with the last of the
Moorish kings, who wept when the fortune of war drove
him away from this palace of delight. "I understand
the tears of Abu Abdillah when he left his dear
Alhambra to fly before the armies of the Catholic
sovereigns."
For a while, Regnault and Clairin had this wondrous
place to themselves, and possessed it with the most
absolute of all possessions, that of perfect appreciation.
" In our beautiful palace of the Alhambra, where we
live so happy and at ease, we are not even troubled by
the noise of revolutions. Men may dispute about government, and strive together in civil conflict; but, as for
us, we admire the genius of the Moors: we daily discover new splendors, more incredible combinations, profounder design in the invention of doors and ceilings.
It is a labyrinth where we lose ourselves."
"And then the glimpses through every door and
window, and the panorama of splendid mountains all
around! And that immense plain of the Vega, which
stretches away to infinity; and those trees, as green as
if it were spring, and water everywhere, everywhere
plenteous springs! To the left, under the walls of the
Alhambra, the Darro with gold in its sands; to the right,
the silver-bearing Genil. What a land!" Regnault said
elsewhere that "a palace not surrounded with water was
not a palace for him."




Henri Regnault.


419


It would have been impossible for a nature so richly
and variously endowed to keep strictly to a single art,
or to a single branch of study.    Regnault loved music
scarcely less than painting, and had a fine voice. One
of his friends says that he would pass whole nights in
music. There was a piano in his studio at Paris, and
he knew some excellent musicians. When they came
to visit him, the palette was often laid aside, and all his
enthusiasm and energy were given to Beethoven, or
some other mighty "inventor of harmonies."
I have no doubt that Regnault might have won a
position in literature, if painting had   not been the
stronger attraction.   He wrote    both  gracefully and
powerfully, as the reader may have judged in some
degree from what has been quoted here; but there are
pages too long to quote, which prove a sustained energy,
an abundance of diction, far above ordinary letter-writing. There are, of course, the usual faults of untrained
literary energy, such as a multiplication of similes or an
occasional mixture of metaphors; but that is nothing.
He had an extensive literary education, having seriously
studied four languages besides his own; namely, Latin,
Italian, Spanish, and Arabic.    His bodily activity is
proved by a single detail: he could leap over two chairs,
a pieds joints,* and he could leap over five with a run.
* Leaping a pieds joints means not only leaping without a run, but
without the slight impetus gained by putting one foot before another.
A very intimate friend of mine, a French gentleman, now dead, would
stand quietly before a drawing room chimney-piece, his feet close together, and then suddenly spring up in the air and land with his feet on
the mantel-shelf without disturbing any of the ornaments. The reader
will probably find it difficult to do as much.




420


ilioderz     F-renca/ men.


Besifdes this, he was a first-rate horseman, ready to
mount any thing that came in his way.
Travelling, which exercises both body and mind,
seemed to Regnault an essential part of education. He
called it " the true school of the artist and the man,"
adding that, "if education were better understood, young
men would be more rapidly formed, and become serious
earlier in life."
In the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris, there are cloisters or loggie, of a simple but graceful character, decorated with a good sense suitable to the place; and at
the end of one of these arcades may now be seen a
monument erected to the memory of the pupils slain in
the Franco-German war. The principal object in this
monument is a bronze bust of Henri Regnault, by Degeorge; and an exquisitely beautiful female figure in
white marble, by Chapu, the idealization of La jeuznessc,
is holding a branch of golden bays up towards the honored head. The bronze features have something of the
energy and resolution, the artistic heat and fire, which
animated the young genius who fell at Buzenval. Thus,
ever young, with the thick hair and short crisp beard
of early manhood, the endjuring bronze will recall to
future generations on the threshold of manly life the
virile virtue which sacrificed both art and love to
patriotism.
And now the reader in some distant land, to whom
the incidents of the Parisian world are not of necessity
familiar, may remember Victor Regnault, and ask if he
lived long enough for these pains and pleasures to affect




Heunri Ric nazlzl.


42I


his declining years. Yes: he died in January, 1878,
saddened but not broken by a burden of many sorrows.
Not only had his son been killed in the war, but the
manufactory of Sevres, of which he was director, had
been sacked by the German soldiery, and all his instruments, the result of a life of labor, barbarously destroyed.
- When he returned to Sevres," says M. Berthelot, "he
found his apparatus broken with strokes of a hammer,
his thermometers methodically divided into fragments
of equal length, the registers of his experiments burnt
or torn with the precaution of a hatred which appeared
intentional. The results of six hundred experiments on
gases, executed with the precision of a master whose
skill increased with his years, are thus irrevocably lost."
What remains to be said reminds one of the terrible
conception of some imaginative poet, who closes his
tragedy by successive strokes of pitiless, implacable fate.
Victor Regnault's other son, Leon, had been attacked by
a mental malady, which appears to have in some measure
affected two others of his four children.* His wife was
dead, his daughter was dead, and he himself was stricken
by paralysis, so that he could not move. Still, he had
himself carried to the meetings at the Institute, and
placed in his chair by a lay brother of the order of St.
Jean de Dieu, who constantly accompanied him. At
length, feeling that life had little more usefulness in
reserve for him, he.quitted Paris to spend his last years
in a calm retreat near Bourg, the place where Andre
* Son fils Henri, le seul qui ezMt echappei la fztalite morale ac/tarne
stur ses auztres ejizfts.- M. Berthelot.




422


4Modern Frenczhmen.


Ampere lived when he was separated from Julie. Here
he may have thought that beyond his own death, which
he awaited with serene patience, no further trial was in
store for him; but one day his sister came to see him,
and, during her visit, she died before his eyes.
It is a custom of Henri Regnault's friends to meet at
Buzenval on the i9th of January, the day he fell, to
celebrate his memory. When they met in 1878, seven
years after the event their piety thus commemorates, I
say when they met, at the very hour, Victor Regnault
died suddenly from apoplexy, in his retreat near Bourgen-Bresse. It may be that the sadness of the anniversary, in addition to the accumulated weight of many
sorrows, had weakened the last poor thread of worn and
weary life, and prepared him for the final deliverance.
THE END.


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