Olla Podrida

    Lausanne.

I recollect some one saying, that in walking out you should never look up in the air, but always on the ground, as, by the former practice, you were certain never to find any thing, although you might by the latter. So if you will not enter into conversation, you are not likely to obtain much information; whereas if you do, you will always chance to obtain some, even from the quarters the least promising. I was seated on the box of the carriage, with the Swiss voiturier—and asked him, “If it were not a lucrative profession?”

“It may appear so to you, sir,” replied he, “from the price paid for the horses, but it is not so. All we gain, is in five months in the year; the seven months of winter, we have to feed our horses without employment for them, that is, generally speaking.”

“But have you no employment for them in the winter?”

“Yes, we put them into the waggons and draw wood and stone, which about pays their expenses. If you are known and trusted, you will be employed to transport wine, which is more profitable; but that voiturier who can find sufficient employment for his horses during the winter to pay their keeping, considers himself very fortunate.”

“When you do make money, what do you do with it?”

“If we can buy a bit of land we do, but most people, if they can, buy a house, which pays better. I prefer land.”

“There is not much territory in Switzerland, and land is not often for sale. Everybody cannot buy land. What do the others do?”

“Lock the money up in their chests.”

“But do you never put your money in the foreign funds?”

“Yes, the rich do and those who understand it. We have a few very rich people in Switzerland, but, generally speaking, the people do not like to part with their money, and they keep it by them.”

“I was told by a Frenchman at Basle, that there was a great deal of bullion lying idle in Switzerland?”

“He told you very true, sir; there is an enormous quantity of it, if collected together. Those are Jews,” continued he, pointing to a char-à-banc passing.

“Have you many of those in Switzerland? I should think not.”

“No, sir, we do not allow them. One or two families are perhaps permitted in a large town, but no more. We are a small country, and if we were to allow the Jews to settle here, we should soon have too large a population to support. By their customs, they may marry at any age, and they never go into the field, and work at the plough.”

“But may not you marry at any age, and when you please?”

“No, sir; we have good laws in that respect, and it prevents the population increasing too fast. I belong to a commune (parish); if I wish to marry, I must first prove that all my debts are paid, and all my father’s debts, and then the commune will permit the Curé to marry me.”

“All your father’s debts as well as your own?”

“That is to say, all the debts he may have incurred to the commune. Suppose my father had been a poor man and unable to work, the commune would have let him want for nothing; but in supplying him they would have incurred an expense, that must be repaid by his family before any of the sons are allowed to marry. In the same way, when my father died, although he received no assistance from the commune, he left little or nothing. The commune clothed and educated me till I was able to gain my own livelihood. Since I have done well, I have repaid the debt; I now may marry if I choose.”

“But cannot you evade this law?”

“No, sir. Suppose I was at Berne, and wished to marry a woman who belonged to another commune as well as myself. The banns must be published three times in my parish, three times in her parish, and three times at Berne.”

“But suppose you married in a foreign country?”

“If a Swiss marries in a foreign country, and has no debts to prevent his marrying, he must write home to the heads of the commune, stating his intention, and his banns will then be published in the commune, and a license sent him to marry. But if, having debts of your own or your father’s, you marry without giving notice, you are then no longer belonging to the commune, and if you come back in distress, you will be conveyed to the confines of the republic, and advised to seek the parish of your wife in her country. If you are out of Switzerland with your wife, every child that you have born you must give notice of by letter to the commune, that it may be properly registered; and if you omit so doing, those children have no claim on their return.”

Such was the result of our conversation, and I repeat it for the benefit of those who occupy themselves with our internal legislation.

I have been searching a long while for liberty, but I can find her nowhere on this earth: let me be allegorical. If all the world are still in love with the name of Liberty, how much more were all the world in love with the nymph herself when she first made her appearance on earth. Every one would possess her, and every one made the attempt, but Liberty was not to be caught. How was it possible without her destruction? After being harassed all over the world, and finding that she never was allowed to take breath, she once more fled from her pursuers, and, as they seized her garments, with the spring of the chamois she burst away, and bounding from the world, saved herself in Ether, where she remains to this day. Her dress was, however, left behind, and was carried home in triumph. It is, however, composed of such slippery materials as its former owner, and it escapes as it pleases from one party to another. It is this dress of Liberty which we now reverence as the goddess herself, and whatever is clothed with it for the time receives the same adoration as would have been offered up to the true shrine. Even Despotism, when in a very modest mood, will clothe herself in the garb of Liberty.

Now there is really a sort of petty despotism in these free cantons, which would be considered very offensive in England. What would an English farmer say, if he was told that he could not commence his harvest without the permission of Government? Yet such is the case in Switzerland, where there is a heavy fine if any one commences his vintage before the time prescribed by the authorities. Your grapes may be ripe, and be spoiled; you have to choose between that alternative, or paying a fine, which reduces your profits to nil. The reason given for this is that there are so many petty proprietors holding half and quarter acres of vineyards mixed together and not separated by a wall or fence, that if one began first he would rob the vineyard of the other—not arguing much for the Swiss honesty, which has become so proverbial.

The case of the vintage laws is peculiarly hard this season upon the small proprietors. The vintage has been late, and winter has now set in, all at once. After weather like summer, we are now deep in snow, and the thermometer below the freezing point. Few of the small proprietors have wine-presses; they have to wait until those who have them have got in their vintage, and then they borrow them. The consequence is, that the small proprietors are always the last to gather their grapes, and now they have been overtaken by the weather, and they will lose most of their harvest. Had they been permitted to pick their grapes at their own time, they might have used the presses, and have finished before the large vineyards had commenced.

From the inquiries I have made, it appears that the vineyards of Switzerland pay very badly. Land is at a very high price here, in the Canton de Vaud; 300 or 400 pounds per acre is not thought dear (600 pounds have been given); and in the best seasons a vineyard will not yield 10 pounds per acre. The wine is very indifferent, and requires to be kept for years to become tolerable.

But the Swiss are wedded to their vineyards; and although, if they laid down the land in pasture, they would gain twice as much, they prefer the speculation of the wine-press, which fails at least three times out of four.

The office of public executioner or Jack Ketch of a canton in Switzerland, as well as in many parts of Germany, is very appropriately endowed. He has a right to all animals who die a natural death, with their skins, hoofs, etcetera, and this, it is said, brings in a fair revenue, if attended to. Executions are so uncommon in Switzerland, that Jack Ketch would starve if he was not thus associated with death. When an execution does take place he is well paid; they say the sum he receives is upwards of twenty pounds; but it must be remembered that he does not hang, he decapitates, and this requires some address: the malefactor is seated in a chair, not laid down with his head on the block.

An execution took place at Berne when I was last in Switzerland; the criminal, after he was seated in the chair, was offered a cup of coffee, and as he was drinking it, the executioner, with one blow of his heavy sword, struck his head clear off; for a second or two the blood flew up like a fountain: the effect was horrid.

An Englishman at Lausanne had a very favourite Newfoundland dog, which died. He was about to bury it, when the executioner interfered and claimed the skin; and it was not until he had submitted to the demands of this official gentleman, that he was permitted to bury his favourite in a whole skin. Only imagine, half a dozen old dowagers of Park Lane, whose puffy lap-dogs were dead in their laps, bargaining for their darlings with Jack Ketch, because they wish to have them stuffed; and Jack’s extortion raising his demands, in proportion to the value apparently placed upon the defunct favourites. Talking about lap-dogs, one of the best stories relative to these creatures is to be found in Madame de Crequey’s Memoirs. A Madame de Blot, a French dandysette, if the term may be used, who considered her own sex as bound to be ethereal, and would pretend that the wing of a lark was more than sufficient for her sustenance during the twenty-four hours, had one of the smallest female spaniels that was ever known. She treated her like a human being, and when she went out to a party, used to desire her lady’s maid to read the animal a comedy in five acts, to amuse it during her absence. It so happened that a fat priest, who was anxious for the protection of Madame de Blot, called to pay his respects. Madame de Blot made a sign to him, without speaking, to take his seat upon a large fauteuil. No sooner had the priest lowered down his heavy carcass into the chair, than he felt something struggling under him, and a little recollection told him that it must be the little spaniel. That it was all over with the spaniel was clear, and that if her mistress had discovered his accident, it was equally clear that it was all over with him, as far as the patronage of Madame de Blot was concerned. The priest showed a remarkable degree of presence of mind upon this trying occasion. He rose himself up a little from his chair and plumped down, so as to give the poor little spaniel her coup de grâce, and then entered into conversation with Madame de Blot. During the conversation he contrived by degrees to cram the dog, tail and all, into his capacious coat pockets. As soon as it was fairly out of sight, he rose, bade adieu to Madame de Blot, and backed out of the room with as great respect as if he was in the presence of royalty, much to the satisfaction of Madame de Blot, who was delighted at such homage, and little thought why the good priest would not turn his back to her. The story says, that the Madame de Blot never could find out what had become of her little dog.

Chapter Forty

    Lausanne.

What a continual strife there is between literary men! I can only compare the world of authors to so many rats drowning in a tub, forcing each other down to raise themselves, and keep their own heads above water. And yet they are very respectable, and a very useful body of men, also, in a politico-economical sense of the word, independent of the advantages gained by their labours, by the present and the future; for their capital is nothing except brains, and yet they contrive to find support for themselves and thousands of others. It is strange when we consider how very few, comparatively speaking, are the number of authors, how many people are supported by them.

There are more than a thousand booksellers and publishers in the three kingdoms, all of whom rent more than a thousand houses, paying rent and taxes; support more than a thousand families, and many thousand clerks, as booksellers alone. Then we have to add the paper manufacturers, the varieties of bookbinders, printing-ink manufacturers, iron pens, and goose quills. All of which are subservient to and dependent upon these comparatively few heads.

What a train an author has! unfortunately for him it is too long. There are too many dependent upon him, and, like some potentates, the support of his state eats his whole revenue, leaving him nothing but bread and cheese and fame. Some French writer has said, “La littérature est le plus noble des loisirs, mais le dernier de tous les métiers;” and so it is, for this one reason, that according as an author’s wants are cogent, so he is pressed down by the publisher. Authors and publishers are natural enemies, although they cannot live without each other. If an author is independent of literature, and has a reputation, he bullies the publisher: he is right; he is only revenging the insults contumely heaped upon those whom the publishers know to be in their power, and obliged to submit to them. Well, every dog has his day, and the time will come when I and others, having swam too long, shall find younger and fresher competitors, who will, like the rats, climb on our backs, and we shall sink to the bottom of the tub of oblivion. Now, we must drive on with the stream; the world moves on so fast, that there is no stopping. In these times, “Si on n’avance pas, on recule.”

How the style of literature changes! Even now I perceive an alteration creeping on, which will last for a time. We are descending to the homely truth of Tenier’s pictures.

Every work of fiction now is “sketched from nature;” the palaces, the saloon, all the elegancies of high life are eschewed, and the middle and vulgar classes are the subjects of the pencil. But this will not last long. It is the satiety of refinement on the part of the public which for a short time renders the change palatable.

I was yesterday informed that a celebrated author wished to be introduced to me. I was ashamed to say that I had never heard his name. The introduction took place, and there was a sort of patronising air on the gentleman’s part, which I did not approve of. I therefore told him very frankly that I was not aware of the nature of his literary labours, and requested to know what were his works. He had abridged something, and he had written a commentary upon another thing!—just the employment fit for some old gentleman who likes still to puddle a little with ink. One could write a commentary upon any thing. One of my children is singing a nursery song, now I’ll write a commentary on it in the shape of notes:—

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to see the new queen.
Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?
Hunted a titty mouse under the chair.

Now for a commentary:—

This simple nursery rhyme is in the familiar style of question and answer, which is always pleasing; and it is remarkable that two excellent moral lessons are to be found in so few words.

The child who sings it may be supposed to repeat the words without comprehending their full meaning; but although such may be the case, still it is most important that even the rhymes put into the infantine lips should afford an opportunity to those who watch over their welfare to point out to them on a proper occasion the instruction which they contain. In the first line, the term pussy cat may be considered tautological, as pussy and cat both refer to the same animal; but if so, it is allowable, as pussy may be considered as the christian name and cat as the surname of the animal. It is to be presumed that the cat addressed is young, for it evidently was at play, and old cats do not play. Otherwise it would not have been necessary to repeat her name, to call her attention to the question. The cat answers in few words, as if not wishing to be interrupted, that she has been to London to see the new queen. What queen of England may be referred to, it is impossible to positively ascertain; but as she says the new queen, we have a right to suppose that it must refer to the accession of a queen to the throne of England. We have here to choose between three,—Elizabeth, Mary, and Anne; and for many reasons, particularly as the two last were married, we are inclined to give the preference to the first, the word new having, for the sake of the metre, been substituted for virgin. Certain it is that a married woman cannot be considered as new, although she may not be old. We therefore adhere to our supposition that this rhyme was composed at the accession of the great Elizabeth. And here we may observe, that the old adage “that a cat may look at the king” is fully corroborated, for pussy says expressly that she has been to see the new queen, pointing out, that as the sun shines upon all alike, so the sun of royalty, in a well-administered government, will equally dispense its smiles upon all who approach to bask in them; and that even a cat is not considered as unworthy to look upon that gracious majesty who feels that it is called to rule over so many millions, for the purpose of making them happy.

It would appear as if the cat continued to play with her ball, or whatever else might have been its amusements, after having answered the first question; for, on the second question being put, her attention is obliged to be again roused by the repetition of her name. She is asked what she did there, and the reply is, that she hunted a titty mouse under the chair. There is a wonderful effect in this last line, which fully gives us at once the nature and disposition of the cat, and a very excellent moral lesson. The cat calls the mouse a titty mouse, a term of endearment applied to the very animal that she was putting in bodily fear. It is well known how cats will play with a mouse in the most graceful way; you would almost imagine, from the manner in which it is tossed so lightly and so elegantly, allowed to escape and then caught again, that it was playing with it in all amity, instead of prolonging its miseries and torturing it, previously to its ultimate destruction.

It is in reference to this peculiar character of the cat, that she is made to use the fond diminutive appellation of titty mouse.

The moral contained in this last line hardly needs to be pointed out to our intelligent readers. A cat goes to court, she enters the precincts of a palace, at last she is in the presence of royalty, not as usual in the kitchen, or the cellar, or the attics, or on the roofs, where cats do most congregate, but actually stands in the presence of royalty; and what does she do? Notwithstanding the awe which it may be naturally supposed she is inspired with, notwithstanding the probable presence of noble lords and ladies, forgetful of where she is, and in whose presence she stands, seeing a mouse under the chair, she can no longer control the powerful instincts of her nature; and forgetting that the object of her journey was to behold royalty, she no longer thinks of any thing but hunting the titty mouse under the chair. What a lesson is here taught to the juvenile sexes that we should never attempt to force ourselves above our proper situations in society, and that in so doing we soon prove how much we are out of our place, and how our former habits and pursuits will remain with us, and render us wholly unfit for a position to which we ought never to have aspired.

Chapter Forty One