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 “Whenever Thérèse loves,—and I think I can trust her to commit
no folly with that sound heart of hers,—she shall marry; and she
shall enter upon her new state as I entered upon mine, with the view
of being all and doing all for society of which that state admits. This
may best be done by being wholly her husband’s, and a fixture in his
home. I shall surrender my part in her on her marriage day.”
“By which, I suppose, you hope to retain at least half her heart, if
none of her services. But, my dear, what a prospect for you!”
“A goodly prospect indeed, either way. Either a friend at hand, and
a fit guardian of my children in my absence; or a successful
experiment in happiness-making, ever before my eyes. I hope ever
to rejoice in Thérèse.”
Lady Frances sighed, and began to ponder whether, even if she
could learn to live without Philips, she could make to herself a maid
in whom she might rejoice.
Not only from her husband did Letitia learn how welcome she was
back to Weston. The days of her absence had passed like other
days, when people who prefer the town, and whose lives are formed
for that destination, are thrown together in the country. There were
means of enjoyment in abundance; but not of a kind to be
permanently relished by those before whom they lay. Letitia’s music
was wanted in the evenings; Letitia’s conversation, artless and
sprightly as a girl’s, rich as a matured woman’s, and entertaining
enough to suit everybody, was sighed for at table, and when it
rained, and especially when the ladies were called upon to amuse
each other in the absence of the gentlemen. It was only on rare
occasions, however, that she relinquished her privilege of reserving
several hours of the morning for herself and her husband. On one
desperately rainy day, she was found ready for chess or music
before dinner; and at another time, when all the gentlemen were
absent for the whole day at a political meeting in the neighbouring
city, she did not leave her guests at all. But these occasions were
rare. On the last-mentioned one, she had some view to her own
interest as well as that of her guests. Lord F—— meant to speak at
the meeting; his speech must, from his office, be one of the most
important of the day; and he was doubtful both how he should acquit
himself, and how that which he had to say would be received. Letitia
was, of course, far from being at ease, and was glad to conceal, and
to carry off some of her anxiety at the same time by being “on
hospitable thoughts intent.” It was the last day of the last of her
visiters; the gentlemen having waited only for this meeting. Their
carriages were ordered for the next morning, and they did not return
till late at night.
They were nearly as eloquent in describing the effect of lord F
——’s speech, as, by their account, had been the speech itself.—
One swore by his soul that it was the most good-natured sort of thing
he had ever heard in his life: another, that the government and the
government candidate ought to feel themselves much obliged to him;
another, that lord F——’s constituents would be more proud of him
than ever; another, an M.P., a representative of the commercial
interest, that lord F—— had enlightened the people not a little on the
question when low profits were harmless, and when bad things, and
why; and all, with the earl among them, that this day might prove the
beginning of a new era in lord F——’s public life. He would now have
as potent a voice out of the house as his friends had ever hoped he
would in time have in it.
“How happens all this, Henry?” asked Letitia, aside, with a glowing
smile. “You gave me no expectation of anything like this.”
“Because I had none myself. The charm lay in the burden which I
adopted from our neighbours down in the village;—‘for each and for
all.’”
“I see; I understand. Now leave the rest till you can give it me all in
order.”
It was accordingly given, all in order, when the last carriage had
driven off, the next morning, and Henry and Letitia shut themselves
into the library, to enjoy the uninterruptedness of the first fall of snow.
This was no day for the approach of deputations, for the visits of
clergyman, lawyer, lady callers, gentleman loungers, or even
petitioners from the village. The guests had been urged to stay for
finer weather; but, as peremptory in their plans as people of real
business, provided change of place is the object, they could on no
account delay an hour; and, to be sure, the snow signified little to
any but the postilions and the horses.
“Well, now, the speech, the speech!” cried Letitia.
 “I told the people that nobody doubts that changes are wanted, in
order to remedy the evils so large a portion of society is justly
complaining of; and that the thing needed is a wider agreement as to
what those changes must be, and therefore a sounder and more
general knowledge of the causes of existing evils. I led them, as an
instance, into the consideration of the common complaint of low
profits and low wages, and showed them, I hope, that proportional
wages are much higher at present than some complainers suppose;
the fact being lost sight of from the enormous increase of those
among whom the wages-fund is divided. However little each labourer
may, from this cause, obtain for his own share, the division of
produce between capitalist and labourer,—that is, the proportion of
profits and wages, is more equable than is supposed by capitalists
who complain of their low profits, and labourers of their low wages.
Neither of them will gain by demanding a larger share of the other,
which neither can afford. They must look elsewhere for a remedy;
and I directed them where to look by giving them the example of
Holland and its commercial vicissitudes.”
“Rich to overflowing in the fifteenth century; since, well nigh
ruined. How was this? From too much capital leaving the country?”
“From the causes which led to such transfer of capital. While
Holland was accumulating its wealth, profits were first high, and then
gradually lowered in proportion to wages, though still increasing in
total amount. It was not till heavy taxation reduced the rate of profits
below that of other countries....”
“But does not taxation affect wages too?”
“Assuredly; but the labourer uses fewer commodities than the
capitalist, and therefore there is a limit to the labourer’s taxation,
beyond which taxes must fall on profits, and reduce them as
effectually as a deterioration of the land could do. Well; this being the
case in Holland, more than in the neighbouring countries, Dutch
capital flowed into those countries; and the Dutch have engaged
largely in the carrying trade, in foreign funds, and in loans to the
merchants of other countries, because all this capital could be less
advantageously employed at home. No country need or ought to
come to such a pass as this; for, where there is an economical
government, taxation may be a trifle compared with what it was in
Holland after the wars of the Republic; and where there is a liberal
commercial system,—that is, no unnecessary check upon the supply
of food, accumulation may proceed to an undefinable extent without
an injurious fall of wages and profits. Thus may the cultivation of
poor soils be rendered needless, the consequent rise of rent be
checked, and the fall of profits and wages obviated.”
“What we want then is, a regulation of the supply of the labour-
market, a lightening of taxation, and a liberal commercial system.
But, Henry, where is the eloquence of all this?—that which is
commonly called eloquence? It seems to me more like a lecture than
a speech.”
“And so it was; but these are days when, to the people, naked
truth is the best eloquence. They are sufferers; they look for a way
out of their sufferings; and the plainest way is to them the fairest.
However, I said to them much that there is no need to say to you,—
because you know it already,—of my views of what the spirit of
society ought to be, in contrast with what it is. I enlarged,—whether
eloquently I know not,—but I am sure fervently,—as fervently as ever
any advocate of co-operation spoke,—on the rule ‘for each and for
all;’ showing that there is actual co-operation wherever individual
interests are righteously pursued, since the general interest is made
up of individual interests. I showed that justice requires the individual
appropriation of the fruits of individual effort; that is, the maintenance
of the institution of property; and that producers do as much for all,
as well as for each, by carrying their produce to market themselves,
as by casting it into a common stock.”
“For instance, that A. does as great a public service by bringing a
hundred hats to exchange for tables and stockings, and whatever
else he may happen to want, as B. by letting the exchange be
conducted as an affair of partnership.”
“Yes. Let people have partnerships as large as they like, and make
savings thereby, if they find they can. But let them beware of the
notion that any competition but the struggle for food is the cause of
hardship; and that struggle must take place under both systems,
unless the same means are used by both to prevent it. As for the
question of time, the struggle will take place soonest under that
system which affords the least stimulus to productive industry. “And,
now, love, you have the pith of my speech, except of those best
parts which you have many a time rehearsed to me, and I to you. Of
the ‘hear, hears,’ and clappings, you learned enough last night.”
“I wish I could have been there,” sighed the wife.
“So do I. Well as you know the aspect of an attentive crowd, you
can have little idea of the stimulating excitement of political meetings
just now.”
“I can imagine it. The true romance of human life lies among the
poorer classes; the most rapid vicissitudes, the strongest passions,
the most undiluted emotions, the most eloquent deportment, the
truest experience are there. These things are marked on their
countenances, and displayed by their gestures; and yet these things
are almost untouched by our artists; be they dramatists, painters, or
novelists. The richest know best what is meant by the monotony of
existence, however little this may appear to their poor neighbours
who see them driving about as if life depended on their speed, and
traversing kingdoms and continents. Yet from the upper and middling
classes are the fine arts mainly furnished with their subjects. This is
wrong; for life in its reality cannot become known by hearsay; and by
hearsay only is there any notion of it among those who feel
themselves set above its struggles and its toils: that is, by the greater
part of the aristocracy.”
“Thank heaven! not by you or me,” replied her husband. “An
uninformed observer might think that there is monotony before us at
present, sitting as we are, watching the snow-flakes fall with the few
leaves which had lingered aloft till now,—with weeks of retirement in
prospect, and nothing apparent to wish or work for. Yet you have had
enough, love, of struggle and toil to know what real life is; and I
have, of late, begun to learn the same lesson. No fear of monotony
for us!”
“No fear; since there are all to live for as well as each, and each
other. But, Henry, how is it that there is so little made known where it
most wants to be known, of what real life is when trained by that best
of educations, vicissitude?”
“Because our painters of life do not take into the account,—in fact
know little of,—some of the most important circumstances which
constitute life, in the best sense of the word. They lay hold of the
great circumstances which happen to all, the landmarks of universal
human existence, and overlook those which are not less interesting,
though not universal. They take Love; and think it more becoming to
describe a Letitia going to the altar with a lord F——, than a weaver
and his thoughtful bride taking possession of their two rooms, after
long waiting and anxiety. They take Bereavement; and think it the
same thing whether they describe the manly grief of an Ormond for
his gallant Ossory, or the silent woe of a poverty-stricken widow for
her laborious and dutiful son. They take Birth; and would rather have
a lady F—— bending over the infant heir of a lordly house, with a
Thérèse in waiting ... (My dear, why not describe that which shall be
as well as that which has been?)—a lady F—— and her infant, I say,
than some rustic Mary holding up her boy to smile in father’s face
when he comes home from the plough. There is no harm in all this,
provided the mighty remainder is not overlooked, which is at the
bottom of the most portentous heavings of society,—which explains
all that is to many unaccountable in the doings of the world they live
in. If the aristocracy cannot, by their own experience, get to know all
that life is,—though they are born, love, marry, suffer, enjoy, and die,
let some idea be given them of it by true images held up in the mirror
of their studies.”
“Yes; let humble life be shown to them in all its strong and strange
varieties; not only in faithful butlers and housekeepers,—in pretty
dairy-maids and gossiping barbers. Let us have in books, in pictures,
and on the stage, working men and women, in the various periods of
their struggles through life. In the meanwhile, these people should in
fairness know that the aristocracy are less aware than is supposed,
—less than they will be,—of what is being done and suffered on
each side of their smooth and dull path.”
“Let the artists be compassionately considered too, I pray,” said
lord F——, smiling. “Granting all that can be urged about their
limiting their choice of objects, let us be considerate till they have
placed themselves at large. What, for instance, could a weaver of
fiction make of our present life?”
“Nothing of a story; only a picture; there being, as you said just
now, apparent monotony without, and deep stirrings within. Such a
writer, if wishing to make a narrative, must take either my former life,
—its perplexities, its poverty, its struggles under its first publicity, its
labours, its love, and migration into a new state;—or your future one,
—the statesman’s honourable toils, joined with the patriot’s conflicts
and consolations.”
“But if there was good reason for taking up precisely the interval,—
from our marriage till this hour;—what then?”
“Then writer and readers must be contented with little narrative;
contented to know what passes within us, since so little happens to
us. Would there be nothing to instruct and gratify in pictures of our
position, in revelations of our hearts, and records of our
conversations?”
“Let us comfort ourselves, Letitia, with deciding that it must be the
fault of the recorder if there were not.”
 Summary of Principles illustrated in this volume.

The produce of labour and capital, after rent has been paid, is
divided between the labourer and the capitalist, under the names of
Wages and Profits.
Where there are two shares, each determines the other, provided
they press equally upon one another.
The increase of the supply of labour, claiming reward, makes the
pressure in the present case unequal, and renders wages the
regulator of profits.
The restriction of the supply of food causes the fall of both profits
and wages.
The increased expense of raising food enhances its price: labour,
both agricultural and manufacturing, becomes dearer, (without
advantage to the labourer:) this rise of wages causes profits to fall;
and this fall brings after it a reduction of the labourer’s share, or a fall
of wages.
The fall of profits and wages is thus referrible to the same cause
which raises rent;—to an inequality in the fertility of soils.

It is supposed by some that these tendencies to the fall of wages

and profits may be counteracted by abolishing the distinctions of
shares, and casting the whole produce of land, capital, and labour,
into a common stock. But this is a fallacy.
For, whatever may be the saving effected by an extensive
partnership, such partnership does not affect the natural laws by
which population increases faster than capital. The diminution of the
returns to capital must occasion poverty to a multiplying society,
whether those returns are appropriated by individuals under the
competitive system, or equally distributed among the members of a
co-operative community.
The same checks to the deterioration of the resources of society
are necessary under each system.
These are, (in addition to the agricultural improvements continually
taking place,)—
1. The due limitation of the number of consumers.
 2. The lightening of the public burdens, which at present abstract a
large proportion of profits and wages.
3. A liberal commercial system which shall obviate the necessity of
bringing poor soils into cultivation.
London: Printed by W. Clowes, Stamford-street.
 FRENCH WINES
AND
POLITICS.

A Tale.

BY

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

LONDON:
CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1833.
 CONTENTS.

FRENCH WINES AND POLITICS.

1. Vine Growing 1
2. Signs of the Time 9
3. The Temper of the Time 29
4. Deeds of the Time 50
5. The Philosophy of Bargaining 72
6. New Devices 82
7. Mob Sovereignty 99
8. Upshot of Feudalism 122
9. Adjustment 134
 FRENCH WINES AND POLITICS.

Chapter I.
VINE-GROWING.

It was on a glorious afternoon in July, 1788, that an Englishman,

named Steele, landed on the banks of the Garonne, a few miles
south of Bordeaux, whence he had come up in a boat on an
excursion of part business, part pleasure. Steele was settled as a
factor at Bordeaux, and his business was to purchase wines from the
growers, and ship them to his employers in England. His occupation
had brought him acquainted with almost every vine-grower within
fifty leagues of Bordeaux; and in the case of one of these, Antoine
Luyon, the acquaintance had ripened into a friendship. Antoine was
part owner of some vineyards on the western bank of the Garonne,
one of which produced claret of a singularly fine quality,—too good to
command an advantageous sale at Paris, where second and third-
rate wines are in nearly equal esteem with the first. The produce of
this small and rich vineyard was therefore set apart for English sale,
and had been bargained for by the house which Steele represented,
and the terms agreed upon for the vintage of the five next seasons.
Other vineyards belonging to the same parties touched upon this
peculiarly favoured one; but not all the care and pains that could be
taken availed to make their produce better than second or third-rate.
Their aspect was a little more to the east and less to the south; they
were not so perfectly sheltered behind; and no art could temper their
soil to the exact point of perfection enjoyed by La Haute Favorite, as
this distinguished vineyard was called. Their produce was, however,
as valuable as that of most of the estates around, and was in good
esteem at Paris, where Antoine’s partner, his brother Charles, was
settled as a wine-merchant; and where he bestowed as much pains
on the maturing of the stock in his cellars as Antoine did on its first
ripening in the form of grapes, or their friend Steele on the processes
of fining, racking, and mixing, which were carried on at his
employers’ depôt at Bordeaux. Much care and skill were required in
all these departments of business; and the young men were
exemplary in both, pursuing their occupation as a matter of taste as
well as of necessity. Steele watched the thermometer in his cellars
as carefully as Antoine observed winds and clouds; and their
common interest in the welfare of Favorite quickened their
friendship, in one way among many, by occasioning more frequent
meetings than they would otherwise have thought practicable. Many
a trip to Bordeaux did Antoine contrive to ascertain the effects of
heat or cold on the wines in their third or fourth season; or to give the
alarm if he heard rumours of buildings being pulled down or erected
so near the premises as to have any influence over the temperature
within: and during the summer, Steele was wont to go up the river on
Saturdays, and spend the Sunday with his friend Antoine for the
avowed purpose of paying his devoirs to La Favorite.—There was
much to tempt him to these excursions, if wine had made no part of
his interest, for a fairer territory than that through which the Garonne
held its course was seldom seen. There were harvests of a more
picturesque growth than even those which embellished the
vineyards. Interspersed with the meadows which sloped down to the
river, were groves of olives and forests of chestnuts, and in due
season, the almond trees put forth their pink blossoms amidst the
dark shadows of the evergreen woods. Boats heavily laden with the
merchandise of the Levant, brought hither by means of the grand
Languedoc canal, passed down the blue and brimming river, or
returned, borne rapidly on the tide, and empty of all but the boatmen
in their red jackets, whose snatches of song reached the shore on
the fragrant breeze. The cottages of the peasantry were indeed few,
and comfortless in appearance; but the chateaux of the gentry arose
here and there, not half buried in woods, like English mansions, but
conspicuous on terraces, and rendered in some degree imposing by
the appliances of art, which did not, however, in the eye of the
Englishman, compensate for the natural attractions which a fine
taste would have gathered round them. Even stone balustrades and
fountains, and artificial terraces, however, as long as they were
intermixed with corn-fields and olive groves, had charms for one
whose residence was commonly in the city; and in process of time,
he began to contemplate the chateau of the marquis de Thou, which
commanded the vicinity of Antoine’s residence, with something of
the admiration, though with nothing of the awe, with which it was
regarded by the peasantry round.
Whether this admiration was increased or lessened by the
glimpses he occasionally obtained of its inhabitants, he could himself
have hardly determined. The first time he saw the marquis he was
moved to laughter; but then the marquis was alone (except the
laquais in his rear) sitting bolt upright on his horse, with his
enormous queue reaching down to the little skirts of his coat, and his
large light blue eyes and pursed-up mouth giving a ludicrous mixture
of vacancy and solemnity to his countenance. But when the marquis
de Thou was seen parading the terrace with his beautiful daughter,
the lady Alice, by his side, or following the sports of the field with a
train of the noblesse, assembled in all the grandeur of feudal array,
he who looked insignificant in his individuality gathered some
advantage from the grace or splendour around him. He was
regarded as the father and protector of the fair creature who seemed
to tread on air within the vast circumference of her hoop, and whose
eyes shone forth from beneath her enormous head-dress like glow-
worms in a thicket; and again, the marquis was the host of the
wealthy and the gay who held sway in the land which was for ever
boasting its own likeness to Paradise: so that, in time, the marquis
became mixed up with his connexions even in the mind of the
Englishman; and instead of laughing, Steele learned to uncover and
bow low at the approach of the great man, in the same manner as
Antoine. If he had known as much as the natives of the territory of
certain deeds which were done, and certain customs which were
prevalent there, his English heart might have forbidden his raising
his hand to his head in token of respect; but though he disliked the
French peasantry, he was not fully aware how many of their bad
qualities were directly attributable to the influence of the order of
which the marquis de Thou was one of the representatives.
On the present occasion, Antoine awaited on the bank the landing
of his friend.
“Ah ha!” cried the Frenchman, as soon as he could make himself
heard; “you look up into our blue sky with the same admiration as
when you first saw it, four seasons ago. Well; even Bordeaux has its
smoke, and now and then a sea haze.”
“So thick an one this morning,” replied Steele, “that I could have
fancied myself in an English port.”
“Do the captains foretell a change of wind?” inquired Antoine. “I
rather apprehend one; and it is a pity that Favorite should risk losing
a particle of her beauty. Come and see her,—as bright as a May
morning; as rich and mellow as an autumn noon. It would grieve my
soul if an unkind wind should hurt her; but there are signs of a
change.”
The young men turned their steps towards the vineyards, instead
of to Antoine’s dwelling, as Steele needed no refreshment but that of
seeing how his dearly-beloved vines flourished, and enjoying the
beautiful walk which led to the enclosures. On this occasion, he
looked about him more than usual as he passed, as the peasantry
were abroad, and evidently in a state of excitement and uneasiness.
One and another stopped the young men to ask if they knew what
direction the hunt had taken, and whether it could be conjectured
how long a chase the boar might cause the gentry. Steele now
learned for the first time, how eminently a boar hunt was an occasion
of terror and hardship to the country people. He saw them mount the
highest trees to look out, and lay their ears to the ground to detect
the distant tread of horses. He heard them mutter prayers that their
fences might remain unbroken, and their crops untrodden.
“I should not have thought your peasants could be so anxious
about their little harvests,” he observed to Antoine. “Judging from the
state of their plots of land, I should suppose them careless about
their tillage. How weedy this field is! And the hay in that meadow
was, as I remember, not cut for weeks after the proper time.”
“It is no fault of theirs,” replied Antoine. “The law forbids hoeing
and weeding, lest the young partridges should be hurt; and the hay
must not be cut before a certain day, let the season be what it will,
lest the game should be deprived of shelter. Many crops are thus
spoiled.”
“What tyranny!” exclaimed the Englishman. “But some fault seems
still to remain with the cultivators. They do not use half the manure at
their disposal, while their land evidently wants it much. Yonder field is
an instance.”
“Certain sorts of manure are thought to give an unpleasant flavour
to the birds which subsist on the grain which springs from them,”
replied Antoine. “Such manure is not allowed to be used.”
On Steele’s exclaiming again that such prohibitions were too
arbitrary to be endured, Antoine laughed, and wondered what he
would say to certain other regulations, in comparison with which
these were trifles. What did he think of the lot of those who were sent
to the galleys for having entered or approached the groves where
the wild pigeons of the marquis were appointed to breed
undisturbed; or of such as were ruined by being taken from their
tillage to make for him ornamental roads which led nowhere; or by
the fines which they had to pay in commutation of the service of
keeping the frogs quiet by night? On one side the chateau, a marsh
extended for some distance, and its frogs greatly annoyed a former
marquis by their croaking. His peasantry were employed to beat the
ponds. By degrees, as the nuisance decreased, this service was
commuted for a fine,—and a very oppressive one it was found at this
day. Antoine was proceeding to describe another grievance of great
magnitude, when his description was superseded by an example.
The young men were now in a chestnut grove, within which the
distant sounds of the hunt were beginning to be heard. A figure of a
peasant crossed the glades at intervals, and an occasional voice
hailed them from overhead, where lookers out were perched on the
loftiest trees to watch what course the devastation of the boar and its
hunters would take. After a few moments of quiet, a cry burst forth,
and was echoed from mouth to mouth through the wood, a heavy
plunging tread was heard, and a rushing and crashing in the thicket,
which warned Steele to fly to the protection of the largest trunk at
hand, while Antoine climbed a tree as nimbly as a squirrel. The
ferocious, clumsy animal immediately appeared, its small eyes red
and flaming, its coarse hide bristling, and its terrific tusks looking as
if they could plough up the very ground over which it rushed
headlong. The moment the danger was past, Antoine descended,
and followed at full speed to see the issue of the chase; Steele
keeping up with his companion as well as he could, but not without
some qualms lest the beast should be met at the extremity of the
wood, and driven back upon his steps. The hunt was a little too late,
however, to accomplish this manœuvre, and Steele began to feel
himself somewhat more comfortable, when a cry of horror from
Antoine, who was a little way in advance, renewed all his fears.
“O, Favorite! O La Haute Favorite!” cried he. “She is spoiled,—she
will be wholly desolated by the monster and the hunters!” And poor
Antoine threw himself down at the foot of a tree, and would look no
more. His companion saw one horseman after another leap the
fence which had been kept in such perfect repair, watched them
wheeling round and round among the choice vines, which they must
be treading like so much common grass, and finally follow the boar
out at the opposite side, while the servants who attended in the rear
wantonly rode over the same ground, when they might just as easily
have kept the road. In a great passion, Steele flew to warn, and
threaten, and scold; but before he had time to commit himself,
Antoine was at hand to interpose, and silence the indignant
Englishman.
 “I cannot conceive what you mean, Antoine,” cried Steele, the
moment they had the place to themselves. “You flung yourself upon
the ground in as great an agony as if your bride had been snatched
from you; and presently you come to speak these rascals as fair as if
they had done you a favour!”
“It is the only way to keep what we have left,” replied Antoine,
mournfully. “There is no use, but much peril, in complaint. Redress
there is none; and ill-will towards the lord’s pleasure is resented
more deeply and lastingly than injury to his property. You may rob his
chateau of its plate, and be more easily forgiven than for repining at
anything which happens in the course of his sports.”
Steele was ready to burst with indignation against the people
which permitted such usages to endure. He was answered by a
reference to the cruel old forest laws of England, and certain national
blemishes of an analogous character which still remained; and the
friends were in danger of quarrelling, for the first time, when they
remembered that it would be more to the purpose to contemplate the
present than the past and the absent, and to help one another under
the vexatious event which had befallen them.
It was mournful to look around, and see what had been done
within a few minutes;—the clean soil trodden and strewed, the props
thrown down, the laden branches snapped off, the ripening fruit
crushed and scattered, and the whole laid open to intruders; whether
men to steal, or troops of deer to browze. If, by any exertion, these
intruders could be kept out, there was hope that some, even a
considerable portion, of the expected vintage might be saved, as
some rows of vines had not been touched, and others had fallen
merely from their supports being removed. Antoine set off in search
of labourers. Not one would follow him till the issue of the hunt was
known, and it became certain whose fields would be devastated
before the sun went down, and whose not; but when the boar’s head
was at length carried towards the chateau, with the usual honours,
and the proud train returned to their stately festivities, a gang of
peasants, safe for this bout, set to work, under Antoine and Steele,
to stop up the fences till they could be properly repaired; while their
less fortunate neighbours hid themselves to groan over the
destroyed harvests which were their only hope;—hid themselves,
because if their own little children had spoken of their grief, the
galleys would infallibly be their destination ere long. Neither those
who chaunted over their work, however, nor those who brooded over
wrongs within, nor the two young men who toiled, went home, and
retired to rest in gloomy silence, anticipated what would be their
relative position at the same hour the next evening. Nothing could
now appear more certain to Antoine than that he and his brother had
sustained a great loss in the destruction of half the crop of their best
vineyard, or to Steele than that it would be a misfortune to his
employers to be disappointed of half the quantity of that superlative
wine which they were to have on favourable terms, and might sell at
almost any price they might choose to set upon it: yet another turn of
fortune happened within a few hours which promised to do more
than repair the pecuniary damage, though it still remained to be
lamented that La Haute Favorite should have been exposed to
wanton devastation.
The next day was the day of the extraordinary hurricane which
spread affright through various regions of France, where there was
want and woe enough before to shake the courage and perplex the
judgment of rulers, and to appal the hearts of the ruled. The timid
had long been inquiring how the national burdens were to be borne
for the future, and the popular discontents much longer soothed.
When this dreadful tempest came, extinguishing the light of day like
an eclipse, changing the aspect of the scenery like an earthquake,
and convulsing the atmosphere like a hurricane, mere timidity
became deepened into a superstitious horror, and the powers of hell
were thought to be let loose against the devoted land. Few could
wonder much at this who knew the people in their state of ignorance
and hardship, and who witnessed the ravages of the storm.
The morning had risen fair and bright, though cold, from the
change of wind which Antoine had predicted. The clouds soon began
to gather, with an appearance of unusual blackness; but this did not
prevent the country people from setting out for church, and making
their way thither in defiance of the rising blasts. When assembled,
however, they found it perilous to remain under the shelter of a roof
which threatened to fall in upon them; and they rushed out into the
road, where, carefully avoiding the neighbourhood of trees, they
supported one another during the dreadful hour that the storm
lasted. Cries of grief and despair broke from them at every step as
they returned homewards. Drifts of hail stopped up their path. The
corn-fields were one vast morass. The almond groves were level
with the ground; and of the chestnut woods nothing remained but an
assemblage of bare poles. The more exposed vineyards were so
many quagmires, and many dwellings were mere heaps of ruins. All
who witnessed were horror-struck at the conviction of general,
immediate, pressing want; and the more thoughtful glanced forwards
in idea to the number of seasons that must pass away before all this
damage could be repaired. Not a few, in the midst of their own
distress, however, jested on the fate of the marquis’s partridges, and
consoled one another with the certainty that it would be long before
the lord’s game could trouble them again.
As for Antoine, he hurried past his ruined garden to La Favorite,
gloomily followed by the Englishman, who could not be comforted by
his companion’s suggestion, that, at the worst, the soil would be
finely manured by its produce being beaten into it. This was not
exactly the object for which Steele had anticipated the fine crop
would be used, and he could not, so rapidly as a Frenchman,
acquiesce in so complete a change of purposes. It would be difficult
to say which was the most astonished and the most joyful when they
found their beloved Favorite smiling amidst the general devastation,
and scarcely more injured than when they had left her the night
before. Sheltered by the hill behind, and by a wood on the side
whence the hurricane approached, she had escaped its worst fury;
and a few torn branches, a few scattered hailstones, were the only
witnesses of the storm which had passed over her.
“My beauty! My beloved!” exclaimed Antoine; “though man and
beast have dared to insult thee, the elements have known how to
respect thy beauty. They just paid thee a gentle homage as they
passed, and left thee serene and verdant, while all besides is
prostrated before them. My homage shall restore the few charms
that have been defaced.”
And, somewhat to Steele’s surprise, Antoine began the homage
he spoke of, reverentially lifting the trailing branches, coaxing the
battered bunches of grapes, and restoring props with a sort of joyful
solemnity, as if rendering service to one who could appreciate his
devotion. The cooler Englishman meanwhile looked abroad into the
neighbouring vineyards, and saw with concern that the losses of
Antoine and his brother must be great. Antoine would scarcely allow
this, however, not only because the safety of Favorite had filled him
with joy, but because he believed that his fortunes would be rather
amended than the contrary by what had happened.
“How should that be?” inquired Steele. “The enormous rise in
value of the produce of this vineyard will not benefit you, but my
employers, as our terms are fixed for five years to come. How can
you gain by being deprived of the rest of your vintage?”
“We shall gain by others being deprived of theirs. Vast labour will
be required to render these lands productive once more, and the
price of wines will therefore be much raised.”
“But you will have to employ and pay for this labour as well as
others.”
“True; but meanwhile, we have a large stock of wine at Paris and
Bordeaux. For some little time there has been no demand; for the
country is troubled, and no one will buy more than cannot be
avoided. This has made Charles uneasy, and he has often lately
complained of the largeness of our stock. Now that there will be a
failure in the supply of wines, our stock will be in request, and at
such prices as shall pay all the labour of repairs in our vineyards,
and leave no small advantage besides. And then,—how our grounds
are manured! What crops they will yield!”
“Aye; but when?—You never will see the dark side of an affair,
Antoine. It will be three or four years before yon quagmires can
become a firm soil, full of well-settled and bearing vines.”
“Meantime, things will become more tranquil at Paris, perhaps, so
that people may enjoy their wine as formerly.”
“Some persons,” observed Steele, “would repine at the terms we
have fixed beyond recall for the produce of Favorite; but I hear no
complaints from you of the large profits which will be made by my
employers.”
“Where would be the use?” replied Antoine. “Since the bargain is,
as you say, beyond recall, it is no longer my affair. On the contrary, I
congratulate your gentlemen with all my heart.—There is but one
thing that I would suggest;—that if their gains prove great, they
should purchase the blessing of heaven on them by devoting some
small portion to the peasants here who are ruined by the same
cause which brings your friends prosperity.”
“There will no doubt be a general subscription,” observed Steele;
“and it is fitting that those foreigners should give who will profit by the
disasters of your country.”
“If your gentlemen,” replied Antoine, “will do it in the form of
remitting a portion of Favorite’s wealth, they will add grace to their
bounty. How graceful will it be in this, our beauty, to thank heaven for
having spared her charms by giving in alms a portion of her dowry!”
“Will your people distinguish, think you,” asked Steele, laughing,
“between alms issuing from an English merchant’s pocket, in his own
name and in the name of a personified vineyard?”
Antoine warmly replied that no people on earth had so nice a
sense of the morally graceful and sublime as the French; and offered
a wager that in the straightforward case, plain thanks in prose would
be all that Messrs. Mason and Co. would receive; while, if the moral
grace he recommended were put into the act, La Haute Favorite
would be celebrated in song under many a clump of elms.
“Meanwhile,” said Steele, “what measures will you take about your
private affairs, and how can I help you?”
“I will this day write to Charles tidings of what has happened. To-
morrow I will see what portion of the crops out of this enclosure can
be saved. The produce must be housed at Bordeaux, and no more
transported to Paris this year.—You can aid me no otherwise than in
the care of Favorite, and in soothing the poor whom I dread to meet
on my way home. Exhort them, as I ever do, to make the best of
inevitable evils.”
“Your example will do more than my exhortations. But what is left
to make the best of?”
“The marquis and his daughter. They can no longer be a torment,
and may be a help. The new works, for which he oppressed the
people, are destroyed. His pigeons are blown away, and his
partridges are drowned; and even the frogs may be found to be
eternally silenced by this excessive beating of their ponds: while still
the people have an equitable claim for food. Let us go and comfort
them thus.”
And the good-natured Antoine carried his cheerful countenance
among the shivering and dismayed peasantry who were waiting for
advice and guidance, and led them to the chateau to ask for relief.
The marquis laid his hand upon his heart, and the lady Alice took
trinkets from her hair to give to the hungry people before her, who
were loud in their praises of her condescension; though, to be sure,
as trinkets could not be eaten, and there was nothing eatable for
them to be exchanged against, they only served at present to hush
little crying babies for a minute or two. In time it was clearly
conveyed to the lady that a more effectual measure would be to
order the housekeeper to distribute the contents of the larder among
the hungry; and to the gentleman, that now was the occasion for his
steward to unlock the granary. These stores being soon exhausted,
and no more being at once procurable, from the whole neighbouring
country having been laid waste, the cottagers were obliged to subsist
themselves as well as they could on boiled acorns, stewed nettles,
and on the lord’s frogs; a race which seemed destined to
extermination, man and the elements having apparently combined
against them.
As many of the sufferers as yet survive look back upon that
dreadful time with a horror which is not lessened even by the political
horrors which ensued. Throughout Guienne, the Orleannois, and
other provinces, not a score of revolutions could efface the
recollections and traditions of the hurricane of July, 1788. Perhaps it
may be still a subject of dispute a century hence whether it was
charged, in addition to the natural agents of destruction, with a
special message to warn the French nation of their approaching
social convulsion. Superstition has not yet been abolished in France,
any more than in some other countries which have suffered less
deplorably from its sway.
 Chapter II.

SIGNS OF THE TIME.

Charles Luyon was wont to hasten home at dinner-time with as

much cheerfulness in his countenance as alacrity in his gait. He
always had a smile ready when his timid wife looked anxiously in his
face, and generally some tidings which were not bad, when her aged
father, M. Raucourt, asked his invariable question,—“What news,
Charles?” Times were now, however, altering so speedily that it was
evident that Charles must vary his entré. His smile he was likely
enough to preserve, happen what might; but in the article of news he
began to be perplexed; for whatever was now stirring was of a kind
with which it was painful to confuse and trouble a very old man, who
never went abroad, but yet managed to know something of what was
going on by fixing his seat constantly at the window, and using his
eyes, which were less infirm than his understanding. The children
too, who were old enough to be inquisitive, began to be very
pertinacious in their questions why their walks were circumscribed,
and what was the meaning of various strange sights and sounds
which they met at every turn. In satisfying them why the drums beat,
and why orators talked so loud in the mobs, Charles never used the
word riot,—much less rebellion, or revolution, either of which might
have been fatal to his wife’s peace; for she had been bred a royalist
by her father, and had a perfect horror of even a disrespectful word
against the royal family or the noblesse. What Charles was in
politics, she could never tell. He seemed to adopt no party, to talk
sensibly on what took place before his eyes, and (judging by what
had already come to pass) to prophecy clearly respecting the future.
He pointed out to her that the people were starving, and of course
disaffected; but he did not say where the blame rested, contenting
himself with hoping the best, as he did on all occasions.
On the day that he received the tidings of the ravages of the storm
in Guienne, Marguerite did, for once, perceive a slight shade on her
husband’s brow. The family were standing at the window, beside the
old man’s easy chair, eagerly gazing into the street, which was filled
from end to end with a mob. The aspect of the people was terrific,
and their clamour, compounded of the shrill voices of the fishwomen
and the more deep-toned yells of haggard and half-famished men,
was deafening. The old gentleman looked full of glee, for he had
contrived to persuade himself that all this was rejoicing for some
royal festival. The wiser children looked in their mother’s face for an
explanation; but she could attend to nothing else when she saw her
husband enter.
“Thank God, Charles, you are home! How did you get in?”
“I have been in this half hour.”
“And shut up by yourself? There is something the matter, Charles.”
Charles gave in brief the story of the storm, which included the
tidings that certain olive and almond groves, her own property, were
utterly destroyed.
“Charles, Charles,” interrupted the old man, as soon as the mob
had passed; “what news to-day?”
“I am afraid what you have just seen tells only too plainly, sir. The
people are gone to the palace to vociferate for bread.”
“Well, well, fashions change,” observed M. Raucourt. “In my days
the king gave away wine instead of bread.”
“If he did so now, sir, it would be a good thing for my trade. It
would empty my cellars to supply such a crowd as has just gone by.”
“Does not your wine sell, this year?”
“Not very well, sir. People buy little of anything at present; but
better times will certainly come.”
“But, papa, why do not all these people buy bread, if they want it
so very much?” asked Julien.
“Because there is very little to be bought; and that little is too dear
for poor people to buy.”
“So they want the king to buy it for them?”
“Yes; but the king says he has no money. He is borrowing some,
however, and I hope the people will soon be relieved, somehow or
other.”
“Who lends the king money, papa?”
“I am going to lend him some; and so will everybody else that has
any.”
 Little Pauline thought it would be the better and quicker way for
her papa to buy the bread himself for the poor, instead of lending
money to the king to do so. She was told that perhaps the people
might begin to love the king again if he tried to relieve them; and that
his majesty would be much pleased at this, for they had not been at
all fond of him lately. This news set Marguerite sighing, and the
children thinking what they had that they could lend the king.
Grandpapa was consulted, while his son and daughter retired from
the window to read Antoine’s letter. M. Raucourt thought the king
would not wish for Julien’s bird-organ, as he often heard finer music
than it could make, and it would now buy very little bread; but why it
would buy so little, he could not tell. He recommended Pauline’s
making her offering to the queen;—that beautiful, graceful lady that
every Frenchman worshipped when she became his queen, and
whom every Frenchman would mourn in the dust when the time
must come for her to die. The old man was entering upon his
favourite long story of the queen’s entry into her capital, when
Pauline stopped him with an enquiry whether this beautiful lady
would like to have her silk-worms, and how much bread they would
buy. As soon as grandpapa could speak for laughing, he told the
child that the queen carried more silk on her head at that moment
than these worms would spin in a hundred years. The little dog Joli,
with his collar and silver bell, was next proposed, and thought more
eligible. Joli was called, and looked for in vain under sofa, and
chairs, and behind mamma’s harp. While Pauline went in search of
him, Julien interrupted papa to know why his bird-organ would buy
very little bread, when it had once cost so much money.
“Money enough, papa, to buy many loaves of bread.”
“Yes, my dear; because the men who made that organ ate up
several loaves of bread while they were at work upon it; and it was
necessary to pay themselves for that bread, as well as for the wood,
and the steel, and the brass, and the wear of their tools.”
“Then would not people eat as much bread if they made another
bird-organ to-day?”
“Yes; and such an organ would cost me twice as much money as I
gave for yours last year. It would buy only the same number of
loaves, however, because each loaf costs twice as much money as it
used to do.”
“But grandpapa says my organ will buy very little bread.”
“True; because it was made when bread was cheap; and an organ
made to-day would be made when bread is very dear. I gave the
organ-maker money enough to buy twelve loaves; and now the
same money would buy only six loaves.”
“And perhaps six loaves would not be enough for the people while
they were making the organ?”
“Certainly not. They must have twelve; and so I should have to pay
twice as much for another organ made to-day as you could sell yours
for, supposing it as good as new.”
“But why is not there more bread, papa? I should like that there
should be so much that I might give the people twenty-four loaves
when I give the king my organ.”
“When that time comes, my dear, the people will not want to beg
bread, and you shall have a better present to offer at court.—But, do
you know, Julien, there is going to be less bread than ever, I am
afraid.”
Marguerite drew her little son to her, and described to him the
state of the peasantry round uncle Antoine’s vineyards; and how
grandpapa’s olives were all blown down, and everything eatable
destroyed, except what had hitherto been considered food for swine.
“One woman,” she continued, “offered a comfortable coat of her
husband’s to several shivering people who would have liked it very
much; but they could not give so much as a single handful of barley
for it. There were some who would have given a whole field for a
sack of wheat; but they could not get it.”
“One miserly person,” observed Charles, “happened to save a
small stock of cabbages, of which he was willing to sell three. He
was offered a blanket, and would not take it; and then a pretty
crucifix; and then a clock——”
“But perhaps he did not want any of these things?”
“Neither could he be said to want what he took at last. When he
found that the highest price was offered that he was likely to get, he
accepted it; and it was a diamond pin, given by lady Alice de Thou to
a destitute family.”
 “Was it like the diamond in mamma’s watch?”
“Much larger. It was so valuable that, a month ago, it would have
bought uncle Antoine’s best vineyard.—It bought only three
cabbages now, because the people must have cabbages and did not
want diamonds.”
“Then the very poor people pay much more than the rich, I
suppose? The poorer they are, the more they pay?”
“Not when there is enough of what they want. The baker over the
way knows that if he charged a poor man too high, the man would go
to some other baker to buy; so they keep their prices pretty equal.
But as soon as there is too little of what everybody wants, every one
is eager to get his share, and promises more than his neighbour; till,
as we see, a diamond pin may be given for three cabbages. There is
too little corn in France now; and that is the reason why we give
more for it than will pay the baker, and the miller, and the farmer, and
his labourers for what it cost them to prepare it for us.”
“The same will be the case with your papa’s wine,” added
Marguerite. “He charged yesterday as much as it had cost him to
cultivate the ground, and ripen the wine, and pay for having it
brought here, and for the use of his cellars, and a certain sum over
for us to live upon. After to-day, everybody will know how the storm
has ruined the vineyards; every one will be afraid that there will not
be wine enough, and they will offer more and more for it, till—”
“Till papa is rich enough to take Pauline and me to Versailles, to
see the court.”
Charles told how much money he should want to get his vineyards
into repair again, and what high wages he must pay the country
people, while provisions continued as dear as at present.—
Marguerite meanwhile sighed, and observed that there was little
pleasure now in going to Versailles, to hear people, even of the
better classes, criticise the expensiveness of the queen’s dress, and
the haughtiness of her air, as often as she appeared.
Pauline now burst into the room in a state of wonder and
consternation. She had not been able to find Joli anywhere about the
house, and on employing the servants in the search, had recovered
her favourite in a somewhat different condition from that in which she
had last seen him. He was found crouching in the street, just outside
the door, no longer the beautiful animal, with a silky white coat,
enamelled collar and silver bell, but actually dyed, the hind part red,
the fore part blue, with a stripe of white left in the middle. Instead of
the collar, were bands of ribbon of the same three colours. The poor
animal and its mistress seemed equally terrified, and both perhaps
felt themselves insulted when everybody laughed. Pauline cried, and
Joli whined.
“Is he hurt, my love?” inquired mamma.
Julien waved his handkerchief, and Joli jumped and snapped at it
as usual; and even Pauline laughed through her tears, when she
saw the gaudy little creature frisking about in masquerade.
“Since he is safe,” said Charles, “never mind the collar and bell.
We will get another when times are better, and there are fewer
thieves about.”
“There is something worse than theft here,” observed Marguerite,
sadly. “I abhor those colours.”
“Then let us wash them off, if we can; and mind, Pauline, if you
wish your dog to be safe, you must keep him within doors till his coat
is perfectly white again.”
The washing availed little, as the dog was not besmeared but
dyed. To get rid of as much red and blue as possible, mamma cut off
the new collar, and gave Pauline a piece of white satin ribbon.
Grandpapa helped the child to tie it on, and sent her also for a white
lily,—his favourite flower,—and fastened it where the bell had been;
and then Joli looked something like a royalist dog again.
“I do wonder, Charles,” said his wife, while this was doing, “that
you go on always talking of better times coming, and of the fine
things that are to happen by and by. You have done so ever since I
knew you; ever since——”
“Yes, love, ever since the days when you were so very sure that
your father would never approve me; that my business would never
flourish; that, for one reason or another, we should never come
together.”
“Ah! I was not a cool judge in that case.”
“Nor I, I am sure, my dear.”
“You seldom are, if there is any room at all for hope. Plunge you
into an abyss of distress, and you are the calmest of judges. I would
trust you to find your way in utter darkness; but the least glimmering
you take for daylight. At this very moment, when you know that all
affairs have been looking more and more gloomy for these ten years
past; when the people are starving and rebellious, when your trade is
almost annihilated, and my dowry destroyed, with that of thousands
of your neighbours, you still talk of the good times that are coming.”
“You think this very senseless, my love, I dare say?”
“It is very provoking, Charles. At first it was always said in the
spring that things would be better in the autumn; and in the autumn,
that all would come right in the spring. Now, you have somewhat
extended your hope: it is either next year, or by and by, or hereafter;
but still you go on hoping, when everybody else is preparing.”
“Cannot one hope and prepare at the same time?” asked Charles.
“It seems to me that it is for want of this that so much evil now
threatens us. The court goes on hoping without making any
preparation; and the people, having no hope from the present
system, are preparing to overthrow it too completely and too
suddenly.”
“Mercy!” cried Marguerite; “what will become of us?”
“We shall live to grow wise in the experience of a state of
transition, or die, leaving this wisdom to be inherited by others. In
either case, the wisdom will remain; and the world (including our
children) will be the better for it. Meanwhile, there is dinner waiting
below for those who are hungry. Do not let the thoughts of to-morrow
spoil the comfort of to-day.”
Before the day was over, however, its comfort was spoiled, and
even Charles was compelled to look anxiously to the morrow. After
dinner, a shriek of anguish was heard from the children. They had
forgotten to secure Joli; and he was found hung up on the next lamp-
post, strangled in his new white collar, and the lily stuck insultingly in
his mouth. There was no use now in blaming the folly and
carelessness which had occasioned the catastrophe. The only thing
to be done was to impress upon the entire household the necessity
of parading no more lilies, and avoiding all ornaments of white, red,
or blue.