LETTER XX.
I have
formerly censured the French for their extreme attachment to theatrical
exhibitions, because I thought that they tended to render them vain and
unnatural characters; but I must acknowledge, especially as women of the town
never appear in the Parisian as at our theatres, that the little saving of the
week is more usefully expended there every Sunday than in porter or brandy, to
intoxicate or stupify the mind. The common people of France have a great
superiority over that class in every other country on this very score. It
is merely the sobriety of the Parisians which renders their fêtes more
interesting, their gaiety never becoming disgusting or dangerous, as is always
the case when liquor circulates. Intoxication is the pleasure of savages,
and of all those whose employments rather exhaust their animal spirits than
exercise their faculties. Is not this, in fact, the vice, both in England
and the northern states of Europe, which appears to be the greatest impediment
to general improvement? Drinking is here the principal relaxation of the
men, including smoking, but the women are very abstemious, though they have no
public amusements as a substitute. I ought to except one theatre, which
appears more than is necessary; for when I was there it was not half full, and
neither the ladies nor actresses displayed much fancy in their dress.
The play was
founded on the story of the “Mock Doctor;” and, from the gestures of the
servants, who were the best actors, I should imagine contained some
humour. The farce, termed ballet, was a kind of pantomime, the childish
incidents of which were sufficient to show the state of the dramatic art in
Denmark, and the gross taste of the audience. A magician, in the disguise
of a tinker, enters a cottage where the women are all busy ironing, and rubs a
dirty frying-pan against the linen. The women raise a hue-and-cry, and
dance after him, rousing their husbands, who join in the dance, but get the start
of them in the pursuit. The tinker, with the frying-pan for a shield,
renders them immovable, and blacks their cheeks. Each laughs at the
other, unconscious of his own appearance; meanwhile the women enter to enjoy
the sport, “the rare fun,” with other incidents of the same species.
The singing
was much on a par with the dancing, the one as destitute of grace as the other
of expression; but the orchestra was well filled, the instrumental being far
superior to the vocal music.
I have
likewise visited the public library and museum, as well as the palace of
Rosembourg. This palace, now deserted, displays
a gloomy kind of grandeur throughout, for the silence of spacious apartments
always makes itself to be felt; I at least feel it, and I listen for the sound
of my footsteps as I have done at midnight to the ticking of the death-watch,
encouraging a kind of fanciful superstition. Every object carried me back
to past times, and impressed the manners of the age forcibly on my mind.
In this point of view the preservation of old palaces and their tarnished
furniture is useful, for they may be considered as historical documents.
The vacuum
left by departed greatness was everywhere observable, whilst the battles and
processions portrayed on the walls told you who had here excited revelry after
retiring from slaughter, or dismissed pageantry in search of pleasure. It
seemed a vast tomb full of the shadowy phantoms of those who had played or
toiled their hour out and sunk behind the tapestry which celebrated the
conquests of love or war. Could they be no more—to whom my imagination
thus gave life? Could the thoughts, of which there remained so many
vestiges, have vanished quite away? And these beings, composed of such
noble materials of thinking and feeling, have they only melted into the
elements to keep in motion the grand mass of life? It cannot be!—as
easily could I believe that the large silver lions at the top of the banqueting
room thought and reasoned. But avaunt! ye waking
dreams! yet I cannot describe the curiosities to you.
There were
cabinets full of baubles and gems, and swords which must have been wielded by
giant’s hand. The coronation ornaments wait quietly here till wanted, and
the wardrobe exhibits the vestments which formerly graced these shows. It
is a pity they do not lend them to the actors, instead of allowing them to
perish ingloriously.
I have not
visited any other palace, excepting Hirsholm, the gardens of which are laid out
with taste, and command the finest views the country affords. As they are
in the modern and English style, I thought I was following the footsteps of
Matilda, who wished to multiply around her the images of her beloved
country. I was also gratified by the sight of a Norwegian landscape in
miniature, which with great propriety makes a part of the Danish King’s
garden. The cottage is well imitated, and the whole has a pleasing
effect, particularly so to me who love Norway—its peaceful farms and spacious
wilds.
The public
library consists of a collection much larger than I expected to see; and it is
well arranged. Of the value of the Icelandic manuscripts I could not form
a judgment, though the alphabet of some of them amused me, by showing what
immense labour men will submit to, in order to transmit their ideas to
posterity. I have sometimes thought it a great misfortune for individuals
to acquire a certain delicacy of sentiment, which often makes them weary of the
common occurrences of life; yet it is this very delicacy of feeling and
thinking which probably has produced most of the performances that have
benefited mankind. It might with propriety, perhaps, be termed the malady
of genius; the cause of that characteristic melancholy which “grows with its
growth, and strengthens with its strength.”
There are
some good pictures in the royal museum. Do not start, I am not going to
trouble you with a dull catalogue, or stupid criticisms on masters to whom time
has assigned their just niche in the temple of fame; had there been any by
living artists of this country, I should have noticed them, as making a part of
the sketches I am drawing of the present state of the place. The good
pictures were mixed indiscriminately with the bad ones, in order to assort the
frames. The same fault is conspicuous in the new splendid gallery forming
at Paris; though it seems an obvious thought that a school for artists ought to
be arranged in such a manner, as to show the progressive discoveries and
improvements in the art.
A collection
of the dresses, arms, and implements of the Laplanders attracted my attention,
displaying that first species of ingenuity which is rather a proof of patient
perseverance, than comprehension of mind. The specimens of natural
history, and curiosities of art, were likewise huddled together without that
scientific order which alone renders them useful; but this may partly have been
occasioned by the hasty manner in which they were removed from the palace when
in flames.
There are
some respectable men of science here, but few literary characters, and fewer
artists. They want encouragement, and will continue, I fear, from the
present appearance of things, to languish unnoticed a long time; for neither
the vanity of wealth, nor the enterprising spirit of commerce, has yet thrown a
glance that way.
Besides, the
Prince Royal, determined to be economical, almost descends to parsimony; and
perhaps depresses his subjects, by labouring not to oppress them; for his
intentions always seem to be good—yet nothing can give a more forcible idea of
the dulness which eats away all activity of mind, than the insipid routine of a
court, without magnificence or elegance.
The Prince,
from what I can now collect, has very moderate abilities; yet is so well
disposed, that Count Bernstorff finds him as tractable as he could wish; for I
consider the Count as the real sovereign, scarcely behind the curtain; the
Prince having none of that obstinate self-sufficiency of youth, so often the
forerunner of decision of character. He and the Princess his wife, dine
every day with the King, to save the expense of two tables. What a
mummery it must be to treat as a king a being who has
lost the majesty of man! But even Count Bernstorff’s morality submits to
this standing imposition; and he avails himself of it sometimes, to soften a
refusal of his own, by saying it is the will of the King, my master,
when everybody knows that he has neither will nor memory. Much the same
use is made of him as, I have observed, some termagant wives make of their
husbands; they would dwell on the necessity of obeying their husbands, poor
passive souls, who never were allowed to will, when they wanted to
conceal their own tyranny.
A story is
told here of the King’s formerly making a dog counsellor of state, because when
the dog, accustomed to eat at the royal table, snatched a piece of meat off an
old officer’s plate, he reproved him jocosely, saying that he, monsieur le
chien, had not the privilege of dining with his majesty, a privilege
annexed to this distinction.
The burning
of the palace was, in fact, a fortunate circumstance, as it afforded a pretext
for reducing the establishment of the household, which was far too great for
the revenue of the Crown. The Prince Royal, at present, runs into the
opposite extreme; and the formality, if not the parsimony, of the court, seems
to extend to all the other branches of society, which I had an opportunity of
observing; though hospitality still characterises their intercourse with
strangers.
But let me
now stop; I may be a little partial, and view everything with the jaundiced eye
of melancholy—for I am sad—and have cause.
God bless
you!