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CHAPTER XXXI

THE AUTHOR'S DUTIES AS CONSUL – ASPECT OF THINGS IN PARIS – LOUIS NAPOLEON'S DESIGNS – THE 2ND OF DECEMBER, 1852 – THE NEW REIGN OF TERROR COMPLETE – LOUIS NAPOLEON AS EMPEROR – OUT OF OFFICE – RETURN TO NEW YORK – CONCLUSION.

I now come to the period of 1851, when I entered upon the consulate. Of the space during which I was permitted to hold this office I have no very remarkable personal incidents to relate. The certifying of invoices, and the legalizing of deeds and powers of attorney, are the chief technical duties of the American Consul at Paris. If he desires to enlarge the circle of his operations, however, he can find various ways of doing it. As, for instance, in supplying the wants of distressed Poles, Hungarians, Italians, and others, who are martyrs to liberty, and suppose the American heart and purse always open to those who are thus afflicted; in answering questions from notaries, merchants, lawyers, as to the laws of the different American States upon marriage, inheritance, and the like; in advising emigrants whether to settle in Iowa, or Illinois, or Missouri, or Texas; in listening to inquiries made by deserted wives as to where their errant husbands may be found, who left France ten, or twenty, or thirty years ago, and went to America, by which is generally understood St. Domingo or Martinique. A considerable business may be done in lending money to foreigners, who pretend to have been naturalized in the United States, and are, therefore, entitled to consideration and sympathy: it being, of course, well understood that money lent to such persons will never be repaid. Some time and cash may also be invested in listening to the stories and contributing to the wants of promising young American artists, who are striving to get to Italy to pursue their studies – such persons usually being graduates of the London school of artful dodgers. Some waste leisure and a good deal of postage may be disposed of in correspondence with ingenious Americans, inventors and discoverers: as, for instance, with a man in Arkansas or Minnesota, who informs you that he has contrived a new and infallible method of heating and ventilating European cities, and wishes it brought to the notice of the authorities there, it being deemed the duty of the American Consul to give attention to such matters. These monotonies are occasionally diversified by a letter from some unfortunate fellow-countryman who is detained at Mazas or Clichy, and begs to be extricated; or some couple who wish to be put under the bonds of wedlock; or some enterprising wife, all the way from Tennessee, in chase of a runaway husband; or some inexperienced but indignant youth who has been fleeced by his landlord.

Such are the duties which devolve upon the American Consul at Paris, the incidents alluded to having come under my notice while I was there in that capacity. I must now speak of certain public events which transpired at that period, and which will ever be regarded as among the most remarkable in modern history.

I have told you how Louis Napoleon, in consequence of the Revolution of 1848, became President of the Republic. When I arrived in Paris, in April, 1851, he was officiating in that capacity, his residence being the little palace of the Elysée Bourbon, situated between the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Champs Elysées. The National Assembly, consisting of seven hundred and fifty members, held their sessions at the building called the Chamber of Deputies. The Government had been in operation somewhat over two years.

To the casual observer, the external aspect of things was not very different from what it had been under the monarchy of Louis Philippe. It is true that the palace of the Tuileries was vacant; no royal coaches were seen dashing through the avenues; the public monuments everywhere proclaimed "liberty, equality, fraternity." But still, the streets were filled with soldiers as before. Armed sentinels were stationed at the entrances of all the public buildings. The barracks were, as usual, swarming with soldiers, and large masses of horse and foot were training at the Champ de Mars and at Satory. Martial reviews and exercises were, indeed, the chief amusement of the metropolis. The President's house was a palace, and all around it was bristling with bayonets. It was obvious that, whatever name the Government might bear, military force lay at the bottom of it; and if to-day this might be its defence, to-morrow it might also be its overthrow.

It is now ascertained that Louis Napoleon, from the beginning, had his mind fixed upon the restoration of the Empire. In accepting the presidency of the Republic, and even in swearing fidelity to the Constitution, he considered himself only as mounting the steps of the Imperial throne.

In order to prepare the nation for the revolution which he meditated, Louis Napoleon caused agitating and alarming rumors to be circulated of a terrible plot, planned by the Democrats, Republicans, and Socialists of France, the object of which was to overturn the whole fabric of society, to destroy religion, to sweep away the obligations of marriage, to strip the rich of their property, and make a general distribution of it among the masses. Other conspiracies, having similar designs, were said to exist in all the surrounding countries of Europe, and the time was now near at hand when the fearful explosion would take place. The police of France, subject to the control and direction of the President, were instructed to discover evidences of this infernal plot, and they were so successful, that the public mind was filled with a vague but anxious apprehension that society was reposing upon a volcano, which might soon burst forth and overwhelm the whole country in chaos.

The National Assembly acted in a manner to favor these schemes of the Presidents. They were divided into four or five factions, and spent their time chiefly in angry disputes and selfish intrigues. A portion of them were monarchists; and, though they had acquired their seats by pledges of devotion to the republic, they were now plotting its overthrow; a part being for the restoration of the Orleanists, and a part for the Bourbons. Another faction was for Louis Napoleon, and actively promoted his schemes. By the Constitution he was ineligible for a second term, and his friends were seeking the means of overcoming the difficulty, and giving him a re-election, by fair means or foul. The Liberals were divided into several shades of opinion – some being Republicans, after the model of General Cavaignac; some being Democrats, like Victor Hugo; and some Socialists, after the fashion of Pierre Leroux. In such a state of things there was a vast deal of idle debate, while the substantial interests of the country seemed, if not totally forgotten, at least secondary to the interests of parties, and the passions and prejudices of individuals.

I remember that on a certain Monday evening, the 1st of December, 1852, I was present at the Elysée, and was then first introduced to Louis Napoleon. I found him to be an ordinary-looking person, rather under size, but well formed, and with a dull expression of countenance. The room was tolerably full, the company consisting, as is usual in such cases, of diplomats, military officers, and court officials, with a sprinkling of citizens, in black coats. I was forcibly struck by the preponderance of soldiers in the assembly, and I said several times to my companions that it seemed more like a camp than a palace. The whole scene was dull; the President himself appeared preoccupied, and was not master of his usual urbanity; General Magnan walked from room to room with a ruminating air, occasionally sending his keen glances around, as if searching for something which he could not find. There was no music – no dancing. That gayety which almost always pervades a festive party in Paris was wholly wanting. There was no ringing laughter – no merry hum of conversation. I noticed all this, but I did not suspect the cause. At eleven o'clock the assembly broke up, and the guests departed. At twelve, the conspirators, gathered for their several tasks, commenced their operations.

About four in the morning the leading members of the Assembly were seized in their beds, and hurried to prison. Troops were distributed at various points, so as to secure the city. When the light of day came, proclamations were posted at the corners of the streets, announcing to the citizens that the National Assembly was dissolved; that universal suffrage was decreed; that the Republic was established! Such was the general unpopularity of the Assembly, that the first impression of the people was that of delight at its overthrow. Throughout the first day the streets of Paris were like a swarming hive, filled with masses of people, yet, for the most part, in good-humor. The second day they had reflected, and began to frown, but yet there was no general spirit of revolt. A few barricades were attempted, but the operators were easily dispersed. The third day came; and although there was some agitation among the masses, there was evidently no preparation, no combination for general resistance. As late as ten o'clock in the forenoon I met one of the Republicans whom I knew, and asked him what was to be done. His reply was, —

"We can do nothing; our leaders are in prison; we are bound hand and foot. I am ready to give my life at the barricades, if with the chance of benefit; but I do not like to throw it away. We can do nothing!"

Soon after this I perceived heavy columns of troops – some four thousand men – marching through the Rue de la Paix, and then proceeding along the Boulevards towards the Port St. Denis. These were soon followed by a body of about a thousand horse. I was told that similar bodies were moving to the same point through other avenues of the city. In a short time the whole Boulevard, from the Rue de la Paix to the Place de la Bastille, an extent of two miles, was filled with troops. My office was on the Boulevard des Italiens, and was now fronted by a dense body of lancers, each man with his cocked pistol in his hand. Except the murmur of the horses' hoofs, there was a general stillness over the city. The side-walks were filled with people; and though there was no visible cause for alarm, yet there was still a vague apprehension which cast pallor and gloom upon the faces of all.

Suddenly a few shots were heard in the direction of the Boulevard Montmartre, and then a confused hum, and soon a furious clatter of hoofs. A moment after, the whole body of horse started into a gallop, and rushed by as if in flight; presently they halted, however, wheeled slowly, and gradually moved back, taking up their former position. The men looked keenly at the houses on either side, and pointed their pistols threateningly at all whom they saw at the windows. It afterward appeared, that when the troops had been drawn out in line and stationed along the Boulevard, some half-dozen shots were fired into them from the tops of buildings and from windows: this created a sudden panic; the troops ran, and, crowding upon others, caused the sudden movement I have described. In a few moments the heavy, sickening sound of muskets came from the Porte St. Denis. Volley succeeded volley, and after some time the people were seen rushing madly along the pavements of the Boulevard, as if to escape. The gate of our hôtel was now closed, and, at the earnest request of the throng that had gathered for shelter in the court of the hôtel, I put out the "Stars and Stripes" – the first and last time that I ever deemed it necessary. The dull roar of muskets, with the occasional boom of cannon, continued at intervals for nearly half-an-hour. Silence at last succeeded, and the people ventured into the streets.

About four in the afternoon I walked for a mile along the Boulevard. The pavements were strewn with the fragments of shattered windows, broken cornices, and shivered doorways. Many of the buildings, especially those on the southern side of the street, were thickly spattered with bullet-marks, especially around the windows. One edifice was riddled through and through with cannon-shot. Frequent spots of blood stained the sidewalk, and along the Boulevard Montmartre, particularly around the doorways, there were pools like those of the shambles; it being evident that the reckless soldiers had shot down in heaps the fugitives who, taken by surprise, strove to obtain shelter at the entrances of the hôtels upon the street.

The morning came, and the triumph of the Reign of Terror was complete. What was enacted in Paris was imitated all over France. Nearly every department was declared in a state of siege; revolt was punished with death, and doubt or hesitation with imprisonment. Forty thousand persons were hurried to the dungeons, without even the form or pretence of trial. All over the country the press was silenced, as it had been in Paris; save only a few obsequious prints, which published what was dictated to them. These declared that all this bloodshed and violence were the necessary result of the Socialist conspiracy, which threatened to overturn society; happily, as they contended, Louis Napoleon, like a beneficent Providence, had crushed the monster, and he now asked the people to ratify what he had done, by making him President for ten years. In the midst of agitation, delusion, and panic, the vote was taken, and Louis Napoleon was elected by a vote of eight millions of suffrages! The nominal Republic thus established soon gave way to the Empire; the President reached the Imperial throne, and now stands before the world as Napoleon III.!

Since his acquisition of a throne Louis Napoleon has conducted the government with ability, and he has certainly been seconded by fortune. He married a lady who has shed lustre upon her high position by her gentle virtues and gracious manners. He engaged in the Eastern War, and triumphed. He has greatly improved and embellished the capital, and made Paris the most charming city in the world: nowhere else does life seem to flow on so cheerfully and so tranquilly as here. He has gradually softened the rigors of his government; and though some noble spirits still pine in exile, he has taken frequent advantage of opportunity to diminish the number. The people of France, at the present time, appear to be satisfied with the government, and, no doubt, a large majority, could the question be proposed to them, would vote for its continuance.

In the summer of 1853, I was politely advised from the State Department that President Pierce had appointed my successor in the consulate. Thus, having held the place a little over two years, on the 1st of August, 1853, I was restored to the privileges of private-citizen life. As I had various engagements which forbade me immediately to leave France, I hired a small house at Courbevoie, which I made my residence till my departure for America.

In the autumn of 1854 I set out with my family for a short tour in Italy. In all my wanderings I had never visited this famous country; and as I was not likely ever to have another opportunity, I felt it to be a kind of duty to avail myself of a few unappropriated weeks to accomplish this object. After visiting Florence, Rome, and Naples, we returned to Paris. Tarrying there for a short time, for the purpose of seeing the International Exhibition of 1855, we finally left Europe in October, and in the next month found a new home in New York.

I have now come to my farewell. Leave-takings are in general somewhat melancholy, and it is best to make them as brief as possible. Mine shall consist of a single train of thought, and that suggestive of cheerful rather than mournful feelings. Like a traveller approaching the end of his journey, I naturally cast a look backward, and surveying the monuments which rise up in the distance, seek to estimate the nature and tendency of the march of events which I have witnessed, and in which I have participated.

One general remark appears to me applicable to the half century over which my observation has extended; which is, that everywhere there has been improvement. I know of no department of human knowledge, no sphere of human inquiry, no race of men, no region of the earth, where there has been retrogression. On the whole, the age has been alike fruitful in discovery, and in the practical, beneficial results of discovery. Science has advanced with giant strides; and it is the distinguishing characteristic of modern science that it is not the mere toy of the philosopher, nor the hidden mystery of the laboratory, but the hard-working servant of the manufactory, the workshop, and the kitchen.

On every hand are the evidences of improvement. What advances have been made in agriculture; in the analysis of soils, the preparation of manures, the improvement of implements, from the spade to the steam-reaper; in the manufacture of textile fabrics by the inventions of Jacquard and others in weaving, and innumerable devices in spinning; in the working of iron – cutting, melting, moulding, rolling, shaping it like dough, whereby it is applied to a thousand new uses; in commerce and navigation, by improved models of ships, improved chronometers, barometers, and quadrants – in chain-pumps and wheel-rudders; in printing, by the use of the steam-press, throwing off a hundred thousand impressions instead of two thousand in a day; in microscopes, which have revealed new worlds in the infinity of littleness, as well as in telescopes, which have unfolded immeasurable depths of space before hidden from the view. How has travelling been changed, from jolting along at the rate of six miles an hour over rough roads in a stage-coach, to putting one's self comfortably to bed in a steamboat and going fifteen miles an hour; or sitting down in a railway-carriage to read a novel, and before you have finished it to find yourself two hundred miles away!

And in the moral world, the last fifty years appear to me to have shown an improvement, if not as marked, yet as certain and positive, as in the material world. Everywhere, as I believe, the standard of humanity is more elevated than before. If in some things, with the increase of wealth and luxury, we have degenerated, on the whole there has been an immense advance, as well in technical morals as in those large humanities which aim at the good of all mankind.

In looking at the political condition of our country, there are no doubt threatening clouds in the sky and mutterings of ominous thunders in the distance. I have, however, known such things before; I have seen the country shaken to its centre by the fierce collision of parties, and the open assaults of the spirit of disunion. But these dangers passed away. Within my memory, the states of the Union have been doubled in number, and the territory of the Union has been trebled in extent. This I have seen; and as such has been the fact, so may be, and so I trust will be, the future. Farewell!

CHAPTER XXXII

THE DEATH OF PETER PARLEY

From the London Welcome Guest

Friend of my youth! Delightful instructor of my early days! Thou kindly soul, who labored so patiently to expand my unopened mind, and inspire it with a becoming interest in the world in which it had but lately awakened! Benevolent traveller, who led my innocence gently by the hand through all the countries of the earth, and chatted intelligibly with me of their strangely varying customs, their wonderful histories, their diverse climates, and productions, and capacities! Thou that, in the first budding of my young ideas, pointed out to me the glories of the starry night, and the marvels of the vasty deep; that couldst sympathize with my untaught childhood, and adapt thy immeasurable learning to its little wants, and powers, and likings, and intertwine thy omniscient narrative with absorbing adventures that enthralled its whole soul, and thrilled its wondering bosom, and upraised the hairs that as yet but thinly covered its tender pate! May my right hand forget its cunning, thou large-hearted benefactor, if I permit thee to pass away into Hades all unheralded! That stingy paragraph in a print that is read to-day and handed into oblivion to-morrow, is no meed worthy of thee, Peter Parley. Thou meritest a more bounteous memorial. Thy name is known far and wide; and countless eyes, as they read in these pages that thou hast entered the Land of Shadows, shall be dimmed with grateful recollection.

If it may be allowed a copy of the Welcome Guest to journey beyond the postal arrangements of this world, and to meet the disembodied eyes of the other one, I wish that the concession may be made to this current number, and that it may be placed in Peter Parley's hands, as he sits in honor amid his new fellows. Then shall his gentle shade rejoice to know that we, his children, who used to gather around his knees, so to say, when he was still in the flesh, many long years since, are not ungrateful for his care of us, but cherish a most fond remembrance of it!

It was but last May the hand that had written so pleasantly and so usefully grew chill, and the pen fell from its unnerved grasp. No fresh travels of Peter Parley shall we have reported to us. Whatever his journeyings may not be – however weirdly novel, and thrilling, and strange – we cannot hope for any record of them. No sojourner in that land has ever yet returned to give us his account of it. No pencillings by the way, no fine descriptions of landscape or people, no notes of its ways and manners, ever reach us from the other side of the dividing river. So Peter Parley will observe and record for us never again.

Which of Peter Parley's numerous writings did you give the preference to, my reader? There was a capital story about a sailor boy in the Tales of the Sea, if you remember. To me that young Crusoe endeared the whole volume. I confess the facts with which every page was stored have escaped me somewhat; but oh! how well I recollect the sailor boy!

Do you remember that picture which served as the frontispiece of the Tales of the Stars? There was old Peter himself, with a crowd of us – his curly-headed darlings – all round him. The stars, if my memory serves me, are shining with unwonted brightness upon the interesting group, and upon a celestial globe which occupies the left side of the scene. If my memory serves me, I say; but ay me! the lapse of many years has much impaired it, I fear, and the vision I call before me of that primeval period, is somewhat a broken and fragmentary one.

I cannot stay to mention all the members of the library with which Peter Parley and our governess, acting with a sweet consent, supplied us. There were some pleasant passages in the Tales of Animals. I still vividly remember the panther and the lion, which appeared upon that stage. I cannot say why I remember them above all others, any more than I can say why many things connected with my early youth have remained in my memory, whilst a thousand other incidents of equal importance have vanished utterly from it. All I know is, that I especially remember the panther and the lion in Mr. Parley's famous zoological work.

But, in my opinion, Peter Parley's most triumphant effusion – his chef d'œuvre– the work on which his fame will undoubtedly rest in the judgment of an admiring posterity of infants – the ne plus ultra of his great powers, in which the astonishing grace of his style reaches its highest perfection, and his knowledge is surpassed only by the facility and the kindliness with which he imparts it – his crowning effort is – need I name it? Shall I not be accused of penning truisms? Of course I mean his Travels through Europe, Asia, Africa, and America.

Let that be a red-lettered day in my calendar when I entered upon those travels. Blessed be the dear maternal hand that gave them to me! Once more, standing by her side – the kind hand the while, I doubt not, smoothing my roughened locks, the gentle tongue patiently helping my tardy utterance – I spell out the opening chapters. Gather round me now, O pleasant company, into which I was then introduced. Be seated again at thy round table, O Parley! with those delightful guests around thee, and let me listen to thy wonderful stories. Be present with me, ye shades. If, O Pluto! thou hast them in thy keeping, I pray thee to grant them a brief furlough, that I may know them once more.

Come, O Jenkins! bravest of men; come in that pea-green jacket, in which thou presentest thyself to the astonished Parley at the end of the travels in Europe. 'Tis a bleak night, and Parley, resting by his blazing fire from all his Continental labors, thinks, good soul! of his absent friends, and of course of thee, Jenkins. Presently a knock is heard at the door, and Parley, answering it – he kept no lounging John Thomases in his unostentatious establishment – beholds a pea-green jacket. Enters the jacket, and shakes itself. Wonders the simple Parley, not having the remotest idea, you know, who this intruding garment is. Can it be? – yes of course, it is – Jenkins. Is not that a grand denouement? I say the recognition of Orestes by Electra, in the Greek play, so much bragged about by the Scholiasts and that lot, is not fit to hold a candle to it, to speak metaphorically. Is it not Jenkins that I see in Asia, defending himself stoutly, in the midst of an arid plain, against a mounted Arab? The child of the desert is urging his barb straight upon the brave fellow. Hard by may be seen a small fire of sticks, which our hungry but injudicious friend has kindled, with a view to cooking him a mutton chop, or some such dainty. My wishes are for thy welfare, Jenkins! My blessings on thy valor, incomparable man!

That is Leo, I think, that I see in such a heartrending condition on board, or rather on the boards of yonder wreck, while the omnipresent genius of Peter Parley is being tossed in wave-blankets some little way off. Yes, I know him; that is Leo. Parley, the chivalrous Parley, saves his life upon that occasion, and earns his lasting gratitude. I doubt whether Leo's character will bear investigation; he comes to great grief in the end. But I like him for his grateful services to his deliverer; and I like him for the mysterious air there is about him, and for his thrilling adventures. He wanders all over the world in a black mantle, nobody knows why; at least I do not, and have no desire to know. I suppose he found a secret satisfaction in roaming everywhere inside that cloak, and that is enough for me. There are three pictures in the whole work that I feel an intense interest in; and one has to do with Leo. It is when he escapes from that prison built into the lake; just as the prisoner of Chillon would have been overjoyed to escape, had he had the knack and vigor of our hero. The particular scene of the act which the delightful artist (what was his name? which are his pictures in the National Gallery?) has been good enough to delineate, is our Jack Shepherd holding on to his prison-window by the only remaining bar. Of course he is accompanied by the cloak, which the breezes of the night are swelling into a globular form. Some dozen feet below the cloak, sparkles in the moonlight the water, into which the fugitive proposes to drop, as soon as the artist has done with him. 'Tis a dismal prospect for thee, Leo. May the daughters of the lake bear up thy chin! I have a fond belief that he is not to be drowned at present. We are only in Asia now, and we shall want him many a time yet in the other two quarters.

Who is that sailor I see crouching on that bank? Above his head is a most truculent-looking tiger; below him is an infuriated crocodile. Do you talk to me of dramatic effect, Aristarchus, in those tomes you are always maudling over? I defy you and your tribe, sirrah, to produce me a situation so breath-stopping, so blood-chilling, so every way effective, as the opening scene of Asia. That is a good hit in the Winter's Tale, by a play-wright called Shakspeare, when "exit Antigonus, pursued by a bear." But can it be compared – I appeal to all unprejudiced infants – with that first chapter of our Second Expedition? Was ever a mortal in so dire an extremity? Scylla and Charybdis, to my mind, are a joke to it. But Parley rescues him, and without any of your Dei ex machina; though, if there ever was a knot that seemed to require a Deity's fingers for its unravelling, this surely was it. Of course, he rescues him; for it is not Parley's way, whatever other people may do, to hurl his valiant souls prematurely into Hades, and make them a prey to dogs and vultures.

I have said that there were three pictures in the Travels that especially entranced me, and I have mentioned one of them. Now for the other two. The first represents the famous Parley himself, the English Herodotus, playing with a spider in that unwholesome dungeon at Tripoli. Poor Parley! He had his little troubles now and then. There can be no doubt that he is in a tremendous scrape at this time. But his genial temper is unruffled; he makes friends at once with his tiny fellow-tenant, and I dare say is, even now, meditating some Tales of Insects for your and my benefit. He reminds me rather of Goldsmith, making observations for his History of the Earth and Animated Nature. There is the same innocence, the same benignity, the same childish look of innocence about him. I have no doubt the spider is become much attached to him. I lisp out my good wishes for thee, thou even-minded captive. I place my small palm upon thy unkempt head, and bless thee. We are not kept long in suspense about him. A night soon arrives when Leo's cloak insinuates itself into his cell, and a voice is heard in its folds saying, "Follow me," and Parley follows, even as St. Peter followed the angel, and they reach a wharf, and fire a pistol, and a boat pulls in to the shore, and they embark in it, and Parley is once more a free man, and addresses himself afresh to his travels.