21. LETTER XXI.
DEPARTURE FROM PARIS — DESULTORY REMARKS.
I take my departure from Paris to-morrow. I have
just been making preparations to pack, and it has given
me a fit of bad spirits. I have been in France only
a few months, but if I had lived my life here, I could
not be more at home. In my almost universal acquaintance,
I have of course made pleasant friends,
and, however time and travel should make us indifferent
to such volant attachments, I can not now cast off
these threads of intimacy, without pulling a little upon
very sincere feelings. I have been burning the
mass of papers and cards that have accumulated in
my drawers; and the sight of these French invitations,
mementoes, as they are, of delightful and fascinating
hours, almost staggers my resolution of departure.
It has been an intoxicating time to me. Aside
from lighter attractions, this metropolis collects within
itself so much of the distinction and genius of the
world; and gifted men in Paris, coming here merely
for pleasure, are so peculiarly accessible, that one
looks upon them as friends to whom he has become
attached and accustomed, and leaves the sphere in
which he has met them, as if he had been a part of
it, and had a right to be regretted. I do not think I
shall ever spend so pleasant a winter again. And then
my local interest is not a light one. I am a great lover
of out-of-doors, and I have ransacked Paris thoroughly.
I know it all from its broad faubourgs to
its obscurest cul de sac. I have hunted with antiquaries
for coins and old armor; with lovers of adventure
for the amusing and odd; with the curious for
traces of history; with the romantic for the picturesque.
Paris is a world for research. It contains
more odd places, I believe, more odd people, and every
way more material for uncommon amusement,
than any other city in the universe. One might live
a life of novelty without crossing the barrier. All this
insensibly attaches one. My eye wanders at this moment
from my paper to these lovely gardens lying beneath
my window, and I could not feel more regret if
they were mine. Just over the long line of low clipped
trees, edging the fashionable terrace, I see the windows
of the king within half a stone's throw — the
windows at which Napoleon has stood, and the long
line of the monarchs of France, and it has become
to me so much a habit of thought, sitting here in the
twilight and musing on the thousand, thousand things
linked with the spot my eye embraces, that I feel as
if I had grown to it — as if Paris had become to me,
what it is proverbially and naturally enough to a
Frenchman — “the world.”
I have other associations which I part from less
painfully, because I hope at some future time to renew
them — those with my own countrymen. There
are few pleasanter circles than that of the Americans
in Paris. Lafayette and his numerous family make a
part of them. I could not learn to love this good
man more, but seeing him often brings one's reverence
more within the limits of the affections; and I
consider the little of his attention that has fallen to
my share the honored part of my life, and the part
best worth recording and remembering. He called
upon me a day or two ago, to leave with me some
copies of a translation of Mr. Cooper's letter on the
finances of our government, to be sent to my friend
Dr. Howe; but, to my regret, I did not see him. He
neglects no American, and is ever busied about some
project connected with their welfare. May God continue
to bless him!
And speaking of Mr. Cooper, no one who loves or
owns a pride in his native land, can live abroad without
feeling every day what we owe to the patriotism
as well as the genius of this gifted man. If there is an
individual who loves the soil that gave him birth, and so
shows it that we are more respected for it, it is he. Mr.
Cooper's position is a high one; he has great advantages,
and he improves them to the uttermost. His
benevolence and activity in all enterprises for the relief
of suffering, give him influence, and he employs
it like a true philanthropist and a real lover of his
country. I say this particularly, though it may look
like too personal a remark, because Americans abroad
are not always national. I am often mortified by reproaches
from foreigners, quoting admissions made by
my countrymen, which should be the last on their
lips. A very distinguished person told me a day or
two since, that “the Americans abroad were the worst
enemies we had in Europe. It is difficult to conceive
at home how such a remark stings. Proportionately,
one takes a true patriot to his heart, and I feel it right
to say here, that the love of country and active benevolence
of Mr. Cooper, distinguish him abroad,
even more than his genius. His house is one of the
most hospitable and agreeable in Paris; and with
Morse and the circle of artists and men of distinction
and worth about him, he is an acquaintance sincerely
to regret leaving.
From Mr. Rives, our minister, I have received every
possible kindness. He has attached me to his legation,
to facilitate my access to other courts and the
society of other cities, and to free me from all delays
and annoyances at frontiers and custom-houses. It
is a particular and valuable kindness, and I feel a pleasure
in acknowledging it. Then there is Dr. Bowring,
the lover and defender of the United States, who, as
the editor of the Westminster Review, should be well
remembered in America, and of him I have seen
much, and from him I have received great kindness.
Altogether, as I said before, Paris is a home to me,
and I leave it with a heavy heart.
I have taken a place on the top of the diligence for
a week. It is a long while to occupy one seat, but the
weather and the season are delicious; and in the covered
and roomy cabriolet, with the conducteur for a
living reference, and all the appliances for comfort, I
expect to live very pleasantly, night and day, till I
reach Marseilles. Vaucleuse is on the way, and I
shall visit it if I have time and good weather, perhaps.
At Marseilles I shall take the steamboat for Leghorn,
and thence get directly to Florence, where I shall remain
till I become familiar with the Italian, at least. I
lay down my pen till all this plan of travel is accomplished,
and so, for the present, adieu!
